Heather Grahm Pics

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Heather Grahm Pics
Some people don't care much for Heather Graham but I think that they are nuts!
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Cleavage, baby! All anybody wants is tits. Probably we went too far away from babes, until the Brits came and said enough p.c.--let's have fun. Isn't it fun? --E-mail from a veteran magazine editor (not at Esquire) answering a magazine journalist's recent question, "What happened to this racket?"
I get so angry when I can't find a magazine that Heather Graham has just appeared in. Why doesn't everyone agree with me on this. I agree with Heather Graham on so many different matters. I wonder where Heather Graham shops for clothes. Some people don't care much for Heather Graham but I think that they are nuts! ... I can't think of anyone more beautiful than Heather Graham. Everybody should be grateful to the parents of Heather Graham for bringing her into the world. I can't say this any louder. I don't see why everyone doesn't agree on this.... --From the Web site celebrity-fans.com/lylrrt.htm (essay entitled, "Here's places to get what you want about Heather Graham")
HERE IN THE NEW WORLD OF MAGAZINE MAKING, it is a distinct pleasure to give you precisely what you want. It is a pleasure most distinct. For instance, the various persons who nowadays frequently appear on our covers without wearing very many clothes appear there for you and for people just like you. They know that you want them to appear there as much as we want them to, especially because you want them to. Often, these cover persons are photographed weeks before a writer is dispatched to divine their inner truths and tender secrets--that which becomes the nutmeat of the text (this) that accompanies photographs like the ones you may be noticing at present (those). Such was the case with myself and the beautiful Miss Heather Graham (her)--or Heather Joan Graham, as her parents named her on January 29, 1970, when she arrived in life, about which you are, or should be, extremely grateful. I did not personally know Heather Joan Graham, the talented movie actress, at the time these photographs were taken (for you)--another fellow was in charge of capturing her fine ephemerality via expensive camera equipment and artful conceptualization--but she would later tell me (once we began to know each other) that she had "fun" making the pictures. (She spoke enthusiastically of posing with a "towel" and "phallic-looking bottles" and "fat women" and "dwarves.") Heather, as she let me call her (although a few times I wryly called her "Baby," as only an older man might when he pretends to be sort of worldly, and, anyway, it seemed to make her laugh), is herself nothing if not a shimmering human embodiment of "fun"--which her publicist had assured editors of this magazine during negotiations that led to Heather becoming our cover person (for you). I agree with her publicist on this. She is fun as well as five foot eight, blond, inquisitive, unaffected, sweet, compassionate, full-breasted, openhearted, accommodating, spirited, worried that cell phones cause brain cancer, leery of tap water (more cancer), willing to make out with her boyfriend in public places, fond of yoga, and very thin. If certain people think otherwise or don't care about such qualities, they are probably quite nuts.
HERE IN THE NEW WORLD of celebrity appraisal, this is how things have been working: A writer is first permitted to meet a famous subject someplace other than the subject's home (intrusive, presumptuous), and then they Go Do Things together (or Create Events) so that the writer can observe the subject attempt to Approximate Reality, whereupon the writer can then write about these experiences as though they were, in fact, actual unchoreographed happenstance, so that the reader will gain visceral glimpses of revelatory behavioral traits, or candor, thus rich insight. If this sounds like fun, it is. Publicists and editors generally broker the details of such staged assignations between client and writer, so that the initial meeting will often feel like a blind date--albeit one set up by other people whose judgment (both parties pray) will be trustworthy. If this sounds exciting, it is. (Unless the circumstance brings together two heterosexual men, in which case it is what it is, nothing more, thank you very much.) For instance, after much scheduling and many telephone calls, it was decreed that Heather Graham would enter my life--and I hers--one bleak winter afternoon in Venice, California, at a restaurant called Hal's on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, an odd thoroughfare dotted with eclectic home-furnishing stores, where she reportedly wished to seek out objects for her house, but this turned out not to be true, but she hadn't been able to come up with anything else for us To Do. (Subjects, more often than not, decide on activities. Example: Sharon Stone once decided that she and I would receive massages together, then bake cookies. Another example: Johnny Depp once decided that he and I would climb the ruins of Harry Houdini's mansion so that we could be angrily chased off the premises.) "See," Heather confided to me, "I don't really need to shop for anything." She is just that honest, by the way. She then asked me if I needed to shop for anything ("Maybe you need to furnish some place, huh?"), which I didn't, but I was touched that she had asked. (This, I soon understood, is part of her abundant charm; she is ever concerned about the needs of others; unlike many famous celebrities, she is unlike many famous celebrities; also, she is not too self-absorbed.) Anyway, she said: "My publicist was like, 'Can you think of a concept of something to do?' And I'm like, 'I don't really do things that are really that fun.' The ultimate fun is doing nothing. I like doing nothing with people I like--maybe just eating, hanging out and talking." In no time flat, it seemed, we were having fun doing nothing much of anything at all whatsoever really. I noticed many men notice her doing this with me. If she noticed any of this noticing, however, I didn't notice it.
HERE ARE SOME THINGS you will now learn (in the text) about Heather Graham (partially based on research) and about the first hour I spent observing her (for you), including various comments she made during that time: At Hal's restaurant, she offered me a taste of her tuna, which was grilled ("I wonder if my ordering is too healthy"), but kept lustfully eyeing my turkey burger, of which she took several bites (at my own invitation): "Could I cut off a piece?" she asked, then announced after swallowing, "This is much better than mine." We agreed that the special mayonnaise was the reason. In fact, I agreed with her on many different matters. "Aren't onions good?" she cheerfully asked at one point (re: turkey burger). Again, I agreed. Anecdote: Once, before engaging in a love scene with Mike Myers, the comic actor, for the popular 1999 film Austin Powers 2: The Spy Who Shagged Me, in which she portrayed the sprightly minx Felicity Shagwell, she ate some "really good tuna salad," made with a lot of onions and garlic that hung thick on her breath during the love scene, despite many spritzes of Binaca, causing Myers to utter amusing remarks to her off camera. (He apparently compared that kissing experience to "shitting up a pine tree"--which she thought funny at the time, although I cannot say that I understand what he might have meant. By the way, in the 1998 film Two Girls and a Guy, she was also seen kissing the actor Robert Downey Jr. for a very long period, during which they both utilized their tongues to prodigious effect before he seemed to burrow his face between her buttocks, whereupon she made loud moaning sounds. She has not seen nor spoken with Downey since he went to prison, in case you were wondering.) In case you wonder how she approached the role of pluckish Felicity Shagwell, who wielded guns and did other secret-agenty things, she told me this: "I pretended I was really confident." And then she laughed, as she will.
HERE IS WHERE IT WOULD BE GOOD to ponder the laugh of Heather Graham, and other sounds she makes, in some sentences. The New York Times recently characterized her laugh this way: "She has a laugh that contrasts with her Breyers vanilla ice cream complexion, a flat yet fluttery Phyllis Dillerish ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha." I do not agree with the Times on this. True, her skin is akin to some sort of dairy product (a pale kind, pick your brand), and, yes, she has a "fluttery" demeanor (although I would call it hyperblithe or hummingbirdesque or maybe preternaturally caffeinated, but not in a bad way), which can produce dizzying loops of rapid-exchange conversation which follow no discernible path (as is common among all lively minds). But there is nothing "flat" about this deservedly flowering film star, including her laugh, which, I will agree, usually begins with an ah, but is then followed by something closer to huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh --which is to say that the sound is not at all adenoidal but rather guttural, thus more insinuating, conspiratorial, and, frankly, quite alluring. (Further, I can see no reason to bring the great Phyllis Diller into this equation, if you don't mind.) What should also be noted (here) is that her every utterance and response belies a yearning to connect. For instance, whenever someone else (me) said things to her, she would concurrently say mm-hm-mm-hm-mm-hm or else right-right-right-right-right. Moreover, her habitual reply to any question will be to ask three or four pointed questions of her own. (Indeed, so unslakable is her sense of curiosity that she will also frequently add a question mark to any statement of personal fact--such as, "I wouldn't say that I have a bad temper? But I can get very angry? But I very, very rarely do it?") As a result, she tends to elicit more information than she dispenses--which, I am convinced, is not a calculated ploy, as she is the opposite of reticent. What this does mean, however, is that she now possesses a fairly comprehensive knowledge of my life (how I survived divorce, how I met my girlfriend, how I indulge my daughter, et cetera), although I safely believe that she wouldn't use the information to harm me in any way.
Anyway: While most writers cleverly share elements of their own lives in order to prompt the same from interview subjects, and while I was flattered by her genuine semi-unwavering interest, it would now seem appropriate to unobtrusively shift focus back to the luster and insouciance that is Heather Graham, who was born in Milwaukee and raised in the Los Angeles suburb of Agoura Hills (since the age of nine, after having spent five years also being raised somewhere in Virginia, following Wisconsin); whose father is a retired FBI agent (who specialized in terrorism) (professionally); whose school-teacher mother has written children's books; who no longer speaks to her mother or her father for reasons far too personal (for you) (and probably even for me) to fathom, although she has obliquely suggested (to several magazine writers who won't leave the topic alone) that her family's rigid and unyielding Irish Catholic piousness inflicted indeterminate damage upon her soul and psyche, wherein her pursuit of an acting career (in which blond girls sometimes have to take off their clothes on-camera and/or pretend to do sexual things to gain attention) made her constantly feel that her parents constantly felt that she was not theirs--she felt that they felt that she had chosen to go straight to Hell, when all she really did was go to Hollywood, less than an hour from home. (Here is where the obvious ironic aside--re: Hollywood--would appear, but we will skip that. The larger point, I believe, is that her laugh is not flat.) Anyway, she told me this about the family-estrangement thing: "I'm sick of hearing myself talk about it." Also: "I mean, it's a really hard thing, you know?" Then we talked for a while about why she shouldn't have to talk about it anymore ever again (unless in therapy), and we agreed that I agree with her on this matter.
CONVENTIONALLY, WHEN A COVER subject has breasts, sly mention of such will be inserted (in text). Any belaboring of this, however, would be considered inelegant. But still.
IT IS IT (AS IN THE PHENOMENON, or moment, of) that now bears acknowledgment, although this (It) has already been made implicit by the fact that Heather Graham is the person wearing nothing more than a pink towel on the cover of this magazine (for you). It is generally subliminally telegraphed in that way. It was in the 1999 Hollywood-satire film Bowfinger, in which she played an opportunistic ingenue who had sex with everyone, that the scoundrel movie producer played by Steve Martin said this about It (and, ultimately, about the Heather Graham character): " It is a special quality. No matter what's going on, you cannot take your eyes off that person. Every word they say, every gesture--you're interested in!" It, many people thought, was meant to commence for her upon the release of the 1989 film Drugstore Cowboy, in which she was seen dead of a Dilaudid overdose on the floor of a seedy motel room. (So believable was she in death, perhaps, that we forgot she was still alive?) It did not truly begin to take wing for another nine years, however--until she became the peripatetic porn nymphet Rollergirl in the esteemed 1997 film Boogie Nights, in which she was seen naked (except for roller skates) while guilelessly posing the question "Are we going to fuck?" (As noted above, she excels in the art of inquiry.) Key roles in films like Lost in Space (which she found "boring") and others (see above) soon followed, and now one (you) can find countless cyberclubs and Web sites that slavishly honor, and point up, her Itness (among them, Ohh, Heather; Heather Graham House of Worship; On the Heather Spot; Heather Graham Shag Pad; Abs of Steel: Heather Graham; and Undeniably Heather Graham). If you wonder what she thinks of this sort of online deification, she is conflicted. She told me that she logged on to one such H. G. site "like once, but it just freaked me out. It's flattering, but then you're like, Wait till I do something really good and then you can [build these pages]--you know what I mean?" (I believe I did, as the brackets indicate, but by this time I was well into my third hour with her and had grown fairly adept at knowing what she meant.) (We had meandered in and out of stores--"Do you want to go in here?"--and bought candles and looked at kitchen tiles and antique mirrors and things. When she walks, I noted, each foot seems uncertain where it will step next. Metaphor looms there, somewhere, probably, but not in a bad way.) "Usually," she said, "I hate [to watch] my work [in the movies in which I have appeared]." Certain people disagree with her on this. In something called Stuff magazine (whatever the hell that is), she has been declared the twenty-sixth Sexiest Woman in the World. That notwithstanding, she said, "It's still hard to get some jobs, though." And then, displaying inimitable grace and self-effacement, she laughed. (Remember-- huh-huh s not ha-ha s, okay?)
CERTAINLY, UNDENIABLY, the reason for this opportunity to examine the wiles of Heather Graham (here) is that she will soon be seen (starring) as a willful new wife comically stalking the idiot husband who bolts from their marriage in the very likable forthcoming independent film Committed. (Her publicist agrees on this.) There is, by the way, no sex or even partial nudity in the movie, which seems intentional since no scenes call for such and since Heather Graham, as a diligent actress, is wisely trying to get away from the sex thing, since she has other excellent qualities (poise, gumption, fragility, interesting teeth, ability to kick-box). Inadvertently, I tested her in this regard: On our second afternoon together (the next day), we were driving around Hollywood (in whose Hills she lives) in her new Toyota 4Runner, and she asked, as she will, very gamely, "Should we Create another Event?" So I suggested the colorful notion--because someone had suggested it to me--of paying a visit to a rather dilapidated nearby strip club called Jumbo's Clown Room, to which, it turned out, she is no stranger. (She researched stripping there for some short she once made in which she stripped.) "My publicist would be so not into it, I know," she told me, however, a bit apologetically. "She doesn't want me to be doing things that are real, like, sexual? She feels like I already have done a lot of stuff like that? I think it'd be kind of fun. But if I told her, she'd be like [ makes mortified gasping sound ]!"
Of course, I could appreciate this point and that sound, as might her boyfriend of two years, with whom she shares a birthday and her home and his New York apartment--the bright actor-writer-director Edward Burns, whom she calls Eddie and who has said that the only good thing about Los Angeles is Heather Graham and who later told me (on the phone), "I wouldn't spend one minute here if it wasn't for her." He also said that her performance in the new film "feels, for me, closer to who Heather really is than anything she's played before. You can tell she's a sexy woman, but she's not playing the sexpot." (Their own sexual chemistry, meanwhile, is such that they are frequently spotted at parties or restaurants obliviously locked in passionate throes. Not long ago, the sister of a friend of mine saw them repair to the first-class lavatory of an American Airlines jet for forty-five minutes. "You gotta live life, right?" Heather said to me, by way of explanation, and I could only agree.)
While searching for her next role--"You're like, Where is that script that expresses me, you know?"--she followed her boyfriend's lead and began writing a screenplay of her own, which deals with "very serious subject matter" that is "personal but not based on actual reality" and explores the quest of a woman "who's kind of trying to be happier and kind of achieves it in a way." Rather than show me pages, she described only one scene: "This actually did happen to me, it was kind of funny, but I don't know, I think this is funny, you may not think it's funny. But I was going out with this guy and sort of after we had sex he asked me to help him do his taxes. He's like, 'Will you help me organize my receipts? I need to organize them, and if you want to be my girlfriend, I need help in this.' And he basically gave me all the tax documents and receipts, but then I sort of realized that I really didn't want to."
I agreed on this being funny but kind of wished that we could have Created an Event at Jumbo's Clown Room, which also would have been funny. Instead, we went to a bookstore near her house, and she made me buy this book called Full-Frontal: Male Nudity Video Guide, which she thought was a funny thing for me To Do--probably not terribly unlike shitting up a pine tree, I suspect. I wonder if anyone will agree with me on this. Her sweater, meanwhile, was snug and pink. I forgot to ask where she bought it. About that (and much above), I'm sorry.
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