Archive for the ‘Basic Idiocy’ Category

August 17th, 2009

Alex Sanders: On Civilian Girls

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This one’s a winner, folks.

A paid meat stick from the mid-90’s, Alex Sanders is still hanging around - or, he was when I shot this, in late 2004 or early 2005, a period in which I was pretending I was going to be making the definitive groundbreaking documentary about the Porn Biz. Never finished that movie, or even got close; but I do have about a hundred hours of tape in the back of my closet here, which is good for you, and great for YouTube.

I remember being in Santa Cruz, winter 2000. A cold and lonely night during the February rains. My 40-year-old hippie roommate is smoking bowl after bowl from his wooden pipe and pressuring me - exhorting me - to have some. He is playing some Very Nice Music, and lord, I am tempted. But no: I have research to do. I throw on some heavy brown boots and exit the house, tramping across Water Street to Hoots, Yogurt, and Video, where, after about a half-hour’s thoughtful perusal, I will rent (and subsequently tape, for my home collection), a Misty Rain movie (nobody ever talks about Misty Rain anymore! Man, she was amazing, the pride of 96-97 Natural girls). Sanders was in the flick. Long-haired as ever.

Famous actors must get this all the time; you know - the reaction from normals on the street: Dude! I feel like I know you! But I did feel like I knew Sanders, when I met him and videotaped him, for the clip you see above. I’d seen the guy fuck. I’d seen him get naked and fuck Misty Rain. Outside the rain was pouring down, and I was in Santa Cruz - and then it wasn’t, and I was older, I was in graduate school, and I had a class that evening but it was morning I was on a set in some tweaker shack listening to a pontificiation on civilian girls and how they don’t suck dick right.

I feel like I know you!

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August 2nd, 2009

Eclipse Cigarettes.


Thanks to Hoebie, who hipped me to my new favorite website - Everything is Terrible.

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July 31st, 2009

Man and Wife: Skid Marks

Since it’s Friday, I’m taking the day off from posting my own source material.  Yes, I’m going to be content, lazily cherry-picking from the YouTube archives.

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Now then … How the hell did I not know about Man and Wife before yesterday? Have I been living under a rock? This is hilarious. More, it’s timely. Fat Man Scoop and Shanda are the Ricky Ricardo and Lucy of our generation. They are Clair and Cliff Huxtable, just with an extra 40 lbs of belly apiece and a light sprinkling of ass-sweat.

Clair and Cliff took us into their bedroom, too. But today’s environment is one of informality and crass authenticity, so instead of Coz’s full-on pajama gear (which was always vomit-worthy), we get Fat Man Scoop’s ratty tank top and boxer drawers. Beautiful. Also Shanda is talking about balls and shit-stains. Phylicia Rashad never did that.

No, the nastiest we ever got on network TV was a Coz foot rub. That was NBC’s shorthand for a Coz lick out.

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And they wonder why some of us children of the 1980’s turned to interracial porno. We were taunted.

No, what am I saying . . . Phylicia Rashad was not proposed to a children’s viewing audience as a sex object. . .  was she? Was she a Mom object, or a sex object? The worst thing about NBC is that they always try to have everything both ways. (”The Nanny” was a good example of this.) At least over at ABC, they let Roseanne Barr be a big, gross, piece of flabby ass that probably, now that I think about it, paved the way for Man and Wife a lot more than Clair and Cliff ever did.

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Where is Roseanne? Is she still alive and eating jelly donuts? I haven’t heard a single thing from her since the mid-90’s. (Wait, not true. I attended her talk show once by accident when I was strolling on Venice Beach and a tout pressed a ticket into my hand. I spent a lonely afternoon in the CBS studio watching her interview the bald-guy from Star Trek. Wow. I had repressed that memory until just now.) And Roseanne was a really, really odd show. A fat, white, working-class family with a boring, tough-love attitude toward child-rearing - what made people think I wanted to watch that? And DJ? Fucking DJ. Talk about shit in your drawers. This kid exemplified shit in your drawers.

I repeat: and they wonder why some of us turned to producing porn. The more I look back on terrible sitcom families of the 80’s and 90’s (especially the Seavers of “Growing Pains”!) the more it makes sense to me that the eroticized body and the eroticized family would become my central concern. Episode after episode, while “real life” and intra-familial relationships are portrayed “realistically,” and  every topic under the sun is explored - “Elvin” wants to marry “Sondra;” “Dan” loses his job down at the “Plant;” “Jackie” has a date with “Becky’s” “Subsitute Teacher” then Becomes a “Truck Driver”; “Mike” refused “cocaine” - there’s no real fucking. No awkward moments of someone shitting loudly in the bathroom. No close-ups of bowls of vomit. Little to no facial cum shots. To many of us, these remain gaping holes. Yearning to be filled in.

Thank goodness for Man and Wife TV. Like hardcore offensive pornography, these two pick up where network TV leaves off. I want to hear more about their huge asses. I want to see them grind. That much is true.

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July 24th, 2009

Summer Festival Edition: The New Age of New Age Hippies

It’s summer, and when summer comes, the youth will organize. And when they do, it’s not just about fucking. No, the children of the sun and the dirt prefer to organize around music, and yummy drugs, and rank costumes. Nothing’s changed, and it never will. Yet even so, the trappings are unique, unique enough to inspire comment.

Look: Let me tell you about Emergnsee, a festival which takes place annually in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, a festival three hundred fifty strong, set on a farm near Salem, Oregon, about an hour outside of Portland, a bizarre and momentous event that took me back to my Santa Cruz hippie roots and made me feel at once an old troll, an outcast, a spiritualized dancehall follower, and an angry Jew who no one understands or worse, even notices.

I present my notes on the 2008 event to you, in their raw form – so you can feel like you were there too, at a toothless sort of Burning Man, deep in the dank Oregon hippie woods: stonerrific, bland, sweaty, vegetarianesque, and intensely cruel.

The patchwork pants are available . . .
The hemp hats are available . . .
The mohawks are available . . .
The faux-hawks are available . . .


Agave SYRUP. What is it? And why is it so prevalent? They’re selling Mate and Peanut Butter Bombs, rolled in nuts and dipped in chocolate and Jared, the kid in charge, has a card saying he sells “edible art” and he wants to have a show for his food. Let’s instead have some Organic Free Trade Coffee (sweetened by Agave) (there is no regular sugar anywhere at this festival)(put your coffee in your own Nalgene – please), then swim in a swimming hole in a common spiritual field solo-style praying to the sun, with holotropic breathing. Then it’s down to the “V-Spot” for a quick Organic salad (lettuce from Ralph’s will be summarily shot) and a quick 20 minute massage ($1 per min! Standard!) from “Celestial Bodywork,” which is being vended by a Callie, a curly-headed girl who loves FreqNasty who drove up here with 500 pills of “Molly” that she scored for $12 a pop (sell em for $20!) and what with the booth costing her $300, combined with the drug money that’s nine bills, a chunky chunk a’ change to lay down, but it’s okay because she works four days a week at the airport doing chair massage on tired stressed out Alaskan businessmen with a roll of tired flab coating their greater omentums and unerringly slim upper trapeziuses, twisted with flaring, persistent trigger points.


In between clients, Callie’s hula-hooping (they can be made collapsible! $15) (from Spinsterz!) (find them next to the Chakra-colored tapestry that’s orange and blue and says “Black Sheep” on it). Her athleticism consitutes an admirable feat considering that only last night she was roiling drunk, ecstatic, nearly falling down, on tins of cheap beer. But she is young, and she rebounds. Callie may be a talented massage therapist yet, though mildly egotistical about her own talents: “I wish I could massage myself. That would be, so cool.” Her giant purplized amethyst crystals surround a Fred Meyer-bought Buddha – they look like giant speakers, beautiful and stupid. And speaking of big-ass speakers, there are no less than three separate sound systems here (one is a geodesic dome, natch), all blaring their own agenda-laden music, music of the left, of the young, of the high, of the beautiful.


Those with good cheekbones and blonde-girl dreads and, on the male side, charisma, beards, small kicky hats (or fedoras that have been spraypainted, and adorned with feathers/bells). A good body is not all that necessary for the guys; yet, it doesn’t hurt and there’s a kid with his hair in one long pigtail braided like an Indian who has a flat sexual belly and his pants slung low on his ass who is getting major drool time from Lola, hailing from Seattle and knitting Red Riding Hood hats with plastic darning needles as she smokes a drum or occasionally mint tobacco from a hookah: “I just drooled . . . I think we all did . . . I’m so proud of us.”


The mildly rotund Lola is sexy (she’s 22 and eats only New Zealand butter, how could she not be) but she is basically below the bar for male worship; most of the girls here are instead highly fuckable and in fact truly beautiful girls, a bit dirty about the face and hairy about the underarm but that’s how we like them; at a festival, there are almost always a disproportionate number of absurdly gorgeous women, and it prompts this ex-pornographer to at least consider the parallels between here and San Fernando’s Valley . . . Callie again coming to mind (from a broken home, displaying an evident taste for cheap booze, plenty of “Molly,” being out of control, and, one might assume, a steady influx of male attention), but this observation is not limited to Callie. For a guy with a blazing hard-on, he’s seeing twins, body doubles: porn and the ultra-hippies, just that these women in the forest of Salem are dressed up in Elf Wear, big old boots (mocassin boots for Callie), knitted hats that come to a point and have long, long, long, long trails, halter tops betraying flat stomachs, nose rings, tribalesque tattoos, tattoos stolen from other traditions, bizarre coats that look medieval yet are made out of a flexible foam-like fabric, necklaces with burnished pendants that show engraved mandalas.


Mostly mandalas are circular, pointless, lovely things to look at while on drugs. Blown-glass earrings, giant holes in their ears, pieces of wood in their ears, clean dreadlocks, little tie-dyed batik shirts worn over tights worn over boots, babies with elfin eyes, babies that are good, babies wearing floppy pants with some shit in them, bell-bottoms, silver bracelets with emerald stones, tattoos of suns smiling, meaningless black arm circles (tribal), tats on the lower back, a tree blossoming into a field of raisins (that’s what it looks like!) , but the point is to look good while you’re getting fucked – even psychedelia bows to the lords of wanting to look good while naked and taking on an eleven-inch cock. But perhaps I am . . . cynical?


A suitcase full of glass-blown pipes. Swirling colors, lots of purples, pinks, orange pipes. They make clinking sounds as they are dropped by Samuel, a jeweler-glassblower from 82nd and Killingsworth, who’s got a brown hand-painted trucker cap with a peacock feather sticking out, he is shirtless and has a big cross tattoo that covers his entire back, slightly flabby belly, and a spooked, friendly, open eyed surprised smile, although nothing’s surprising or even really happening right now.

The vendors are sellling:
-Fake hair wraps (dreadlocks that look like moss)
-Peacock feathers/ tooth bling
-Hula-hooping (around your knees while wearing slave sandals)
-Elfin hats, fabric-like corsets, the sexual-medieval inside the forest, another time and an other culture
-The MACA – energy without caffeine! Hormone free Rejuvenating therapy (this is basically just chocolate), Adrenal Balance, Enhances Sexual Function, Super Food of the Inca, (er, they got killed by Pizarro, Maca or not) (And that reminds me, as I scrawl this on top of an open stump – the absurd fascination with the year 2012, an anti-intellectualism , the world as run by non-Jews, these are Christians gone Pagan . . this is the playground of the 20 year olds.)
    “Anti-Viral Honey”
−    All cigarettes are American Spirit. There are no Marlboros allowed.
−    Baton, ie, “Furry Staff”
−    “Heathen” is the name of one booth . . . more clothing . .
Basically, we have four categories:
−    Fashion
−    Food (Nori Veggie Wraps and the latest in pickled kraut)
−    Pipes (some made out of Quartz crystals)
−    Crystals themselves (gathered by Nepalis, bought by dreadie white people, in this particular case, from New Zealand.)

“I think in some simultaneous lifetime, I’m like a massive, like, amethyst geode - just, y’know, chillin.”

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June 24th, 2009

Corduroy Bop vs. Synthed-Out MIDI-DeathThrob: ’70’s Porn Music takes on its Reagan-Bush Counterpart

What follows is an adaptation of an interview I did recently with Mark Allen of - for the original, including hilarious pictures Mark found, as well as some amazing source sound files, go to .

So you think the opinion that 70’s porn music is the “peak” of the genre is a myth?

Yup. To me, 1970´s porn music is basically the cinematic incarnation of a nightmarish high-school band performing a soundtrack to a disco musical that never existed.

I think of ’70’s porn-fuck-funk as one of the best-known examples of the “it´s so bad, it´s badphenomenon. Fender Fuzz, wa-wa pedals, and toothpaste-bass somehow became the instruments of choice for expressing juvenile male wonder at the what had to have been some of the hairiest filmed pussies in the history of mankind. It´s like if you took the worst genre in the history of contemporary American music (disco, narrowly edging out big-pants trance for sheer lack of imagination and brazen reliance upon the fact that 90 percent of the audience is too busy engaging in an expensive urban mating ritual to complain how bad the melody sounds) and paid a group of mustachioed degenerates sixty bucks apiece to “jam” for a couple of hours so you could give your badly-lit, badly-shot, ill-conceived glorified stag film some non-diegetic musical punch it didn´t need in the first place.

How did this happen? Movie-music is all about establishing mood. Yet the mood that was established time and time again in your typical 1970´s porno, regardless of plot point, was what I like to call “corduroy bop”: a cheesy, sleazebag, cornball vintage that´s amusing once, but insufferable any more than that. (I particularly hate how the words “bow-chicka bow-bow” have become synonymous for “let´s get it on” in our contemporary culture.)

Yet 1970´s porn music isn´t a failure just because it´s bad. All aspects of porn, from the faked orgasms to the terrifically sub-literate scripts, have always been “bad.” (That’s what good about porn.) No, the music fails here because it doesn’t match up with the visual register of its movies. Directors were working with film in the 1970´s, occasionally 35 mm, but for the most part 16 mm reversal - blotchy, grainy, and orangey, shot by guys for whom keeping in focus and avoiding giant patches of shadow were massive accomplishments. The dialogue was often dubbed in later, like in a terrible Italian horror movie, or just tossed off in a “one take is for damn sure all you get, Johnny!” way.

Porn, the myopic, mysterious, bastard child borne of the 1970´s, wanted equally strange sonic accompaniment. A truly ideal porno soundtrack would have been one part Frank Zappa at his most satirical, two parts Jello Biafra at his most nasal, three parts Stevie Wonder at his most seductively braided, and twelve parts Gil-Scott Heron taking a naked black power shower with R. Crumb and Al Goldstein at the same time.


“…Whitey on the Moon”

But Porn-disco failed to rise to the occasion. It failed to ironicize - or even complement - the first acts of public copulation broached on a grand scale in the history of American civilization. ‘70´s porn, given the right backbeat, could have invoked all that was dead and dying and wrong with the “Me” decade: the slow, stagnating crumble of the hippie movement, Kissinger´s violently engineered overthrow of Socialist Chile, the crushing depression that was Yankee baseball, the feathered weirdness of Joni Mitchell, Jimmie Walker’s methamphetamine-spiced exclamations on “Good Times,” DDT, Edsels, Charley Hustle, leisure suits, feminism, Dylan’s wacko Christian period, Billy Beer, O.J. Simpson running like a crazed gazelle through airports, bearded Scorcese running off a string of incredible movies, Kesey doing acid in Eugene all by himself and staring at his hands sadly, the ominous rise of the corporate Reich.

Instead, we just got the leisure suits.

So what do you like about 80´s porn music?

Nothing. That’s my whole point. 1980´s porn music reeks of repetition, stupidity, loneliness, unoriginality, and unrelenting sadness. Yet because of the instrumentation used, it works. ’80’s soundtracks actually speak to the visceral experience of masturbation itself: it´s like the dull, throbbing death-beat of your heart in your head as you forsake real life and real partners for yet another unhealthy, scared wank.

‘70´s porn music is busy; conversely, ‘80´s porn music is solitary. The advent of the analog-synth movement meant that one lonely loser could score your whole movie for you, and with the exception of anomalies like Greg Dark´s 1984 masterpiece “New Wave Hookers,” (the precursor to today’s alt-porn fad), that’s exactly what happened. By the middle of the decade, you had almost zero live accompaniment in porn. No hairy-forearmed California funk-rednecks getting together to polish off a rack of beers and “jam”; instead, you got the director’s sweaty cousin visiting Reseda on vacation from junior college sitting in a room with a carton of Virginia Slims and a giant MIDI hooked up to an Apple IIe hooked up to a Betamax mixing board hooked up to a Grass Valley switcher patching six-second compu-bonk-loops designed to make Randy Spears and Danielle Rogers’ urgent groanings and moanings a fundamental property of the score itself. And it worked, if for no other reason than butt-rock and “Press Your Luck” did: this was the Reagan ’80’s, and the collective appetite for mindless conspicuous consumption was well-nigh insatiable.


Just as importantly, ’80’s porn-tunes were kosher on the visual tip, complementing videotape’s bleary, vacant resolution to perfection. The one-two punch of synth and Super-VHS embodied all that was sad, plastic, and hopeless in our culture. And happily, the pumped-up physiques of the actors followed suit. The women, for the first time, bore false tiddy; many black men sported memorably immense, almost unusable members that took over half an hour to engorge. Does anyone besides Clarence Thomas remember “Long Dong Silver?” It was a decade of shiny ego, useless excess: Nancy Reagan on Diff’rent Strokes, death squads in Honduras, Q-bert-dominated Colecovision, Keith Hernandez hitting line-drive triples off the wall in right, Savings and Loan crises, and your dad trying to grow a moustache one summer that looked terrible. Porn, more than any other form of expression, reveled in the abject poverty of human connection - triumphant in the majestic cheapness of its medium.

So what’s the upshot of all this? Where do we stand today, at least in terms of porn-music?

Well, as is always the case with porno, it’s a question of technology. Nowadays, adult film´s got the stain of the internet all over it: the viewing process brings with it a tinge of computer-screen radiation, an insane amount of procrastination-guilt, and the taste for multifarious conquest (i.e., having three or four clips playing at the same time and having a wank to all of them simultaneously. Or maybe that´s just me.)

My sense is that the internet has both perfected and murdered the genre at the same time. It gets right to the point, like an efficient little monster, but there’s no chase left in it. No one makes films anymore; why should they? No one watches films. People watch scenes. There’s hardly even a star system to speak of - why would you bother to watch Jenna Jameson for the bazillionth time when there’s this random new hot girl from MoFo’s who’s right up in your face?

Likewise, the music’s lost its purpose. Oh, you can still find music in internet porn, at least some of the time - there will always be porn music, for people like to throw in a beat when the action devolves into pure, animal rutting - but it’s hardly the must-have that it once was. Scores on the internet are quite beside the point, and in their fragmentation and mismanaged authorship the music that does exist lacks the dumb grandeur of previous days. But let’s not weep for our fates, for nothing stays the same forever. Bonafide perfection is rarely achieved mulitple times in any one epoch.


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June 11th, 2009

An Open Note to Hollywood Producers: We Want a Lohan.

As Sasha Grey’s fifteen minutes of fame dilate to a good half-hour — mostly due to the massive exposure and largely favorable reviews garnered by Steven Soderbergh’s The Girlfriend Experience – porn producers the world over are pursing their lips in consternation. And with good reason: given one more “mainstream” success, one of the most remarkable smut stars in recent memory could conceivably vault over the fabled Maginot line that separates the wank leagues from Hollywood — and despite all declarations to the contrary on the part of Ms. Grey, there’s no guarantee she’s coming back.

Thus we — the disgruntled directors, flustered fans, and irate woodsmen of the adult film industry — are banding together as one, swollen member to clamor for our retribution. Which is to say: it’s time to play tit-for-tat.

1. If you get Sasha, We Get a Lohan.


This is just patently fair. Dina Lohan would be fine for a start: she’s half-crazy anyway, and this one-time Rockette is fairly screaming for the chance to “go public” with her brand of rangy, cougarish cum-lust. While it’s easy to imagine Dina stringing together an exceptional run of MILFin’ for Brazzers or some cheap, garden-variety equivalent, she’d also make a fine rum-fueled dominatrix, face-sitting and pee-taunting aging deviant losers in San Francisco fetish films that you used to have to hide from everyone you know except this time you don’t, because it’s Dina!

The big prize, of course, would be Lindsay herself. No one knows better than we - the general internet-addicted public, who, amongst other things, comprise a massive, loosely-organized band of internet pussy inspectors — that Lindsay Lohan posesses all the natural exhibitionistic tendencies that a girl needs to score big in porn, and then some. Her string of 1,956 bare-snatched nights out in paparazziville has established an international record yet unequaled even by the likes of selfish hag Paris Hilton. Yet anyone who’s been watching Lohan scrupulously for the last couple of years has begun to detect a glimmer of boredom in her taunting displays. It’s just gotten too easy for her — both manipulating the media to further her own weird legend and opening up her incredible legs to show just the right amount of cooter. She needs an outlet: I’m saying it could be porn.

2. Consolation Package

If for some reason LiLo is unavailable (read: she dies of alcohol poisoning) we’ll settle for Lauren Pope (model-DJ who Lohan employed at a recent birthday bash to make Samantha Ronson jealous — ooh!), Ronson herself (or J.T. LeRoy, whoever comes first; and neither if they happen to be the same person), and the No. 2 pick in the fall 2010 American Idol draft. This is not negotiable. And don’t try to sweeten the pot with some lame celebrity sex tape. I can’t and won’t sit through another two-hour night-vision fiasco like the P. Hilton/Rick Salomon “shocker” without a massive snifter of peach-flavored LSD to splash into my eyeballs. We want real meat on the bone: and yes, I’m talking Scarlett Johannsen, in a full-color, hi-definition, two-camera shoot, with good background music and a non-disgusting guy. Period. (Note: does anyone besides me remember Rick Salomon simpering “I got the prettiest girlfriend in the world,” when he’s first filming Paris in her hotel bathroom? Good stuff, Ricky! Apparently, that’s the kind of snappy line that lands you marriages with Elizabeth Daily, Shannon Doherty, and Pamela Anderson. Go, boy, GO!)

And please don’t tell me that Scarlett doesn’t want to show the world how she has sex - of course she does. Hell, that’s what that awful Woody Allen film was about, wasn’t it? Yet Woodster, at the last possible moment, pulled back from what could have been a very entertaining and fully pornographic ménage à trois between Penelope Cruz, Johannsen, and weird Spaniard Javier Bardiem and chose to give us nothing. Look, guys: it’s not a big deal. Marilyn Monroe did it. Marilyn Monroe absolutely made a sex tape. She also posed nude for Playboy and about a million cool calendars that 50’s guys used to keep nailed to clubhouse walls. And it was all very relaxed. She got buck naked, showed her amazing tits, and then nobody cared and she went on to become a national icon, mostly for her acting and then later for fucking the president.


Scarlett, a child star, never got the same chance. I’m giving that to her now.

3. Oh, You Wanna Play Hardball? I can Play Hardball.

Okay: so you won’t send over LiLo, or DiLo, or ScarJo, or even Anne Freakin Hathaway (who would be really, really cool in porn, by the way). I guess we’re gonna have to get rough: we’re taking the boys. Yep: the A-List. Damon, Pitt, Cruise, and Depp. Can’t happen, you say? Hell it can’t.

No, we’re not offering $20 million a movie ($300 and all the Cool Ranch Doritos you can eat is more like it; plus, you should bring your own towel if you want to use one that’s free of dried, matted cum) - but goddamn, man, those kids don’t need more money! In fact, that’s the last thing on their minds. No, what Depp and his ilk need more than anything else is variety. (Counter-point: Cruise, well-supplied with adequate flat-chested bisexual blood-drinking Scientological concubine action, is probably pretty safe here.)

Let’s look at Brad Pitt for a closer examination. Why did he break up with Jennifer Aniston? Here’s a legitimately funny, great-looking woman who doesn’t carry a vial of blood around her neck and happens to have the body of a twenty-year old dancer at Jumbo’s Clown Room. The answer, of course, is variety. Monogamy, pretty much the shittiest plan drawn up in the history of modern humanity, with the exception of the Magic playing J.J. Redick serious minutes at the end of game 2 of the NBA Finals, is a Puritan scourge of the highest order and guys cannot deal with it. They do, because they want to fit in, but I’ll tell you what, they sure don’t like it.

Consider Pitt’s situation. He’s basically been given every power a mortal man could want. He earns an insane amount of money, he’s doing fun, engaging work that basically anyone and everyone would die to do, and he has the ear of most Democratic politicians at a moment’s notice. He’s what you call empowered. Were he single, he could quite literally have any woman in the world at the snap of his fingers; yet due to some rather questionable decision-making, he’s been with Angelina and Angelina alone for more than four years. Sure, the sex was smokin’ the first 700 times or so; but by now, he’s got to have porked Mrs. Smith upside down, backwards, and every way he can think of. Yet he’s in way too deep to back out. For Christ’s sake, he’s got three biological kids with her, not to mention about twelve adopted children and a non-binding agreement to take Anderson Cooper to the park for ice cream cones every other Sunday. He can’t fuck and run, like he did to Aniston.

My sense? 2009 Brad Pitt’s sweating. But if someone were to come to him and suggest that he take on the thespian’s challenge of porn-fuckery — more to challenge the ideals of middle-class American culture than anything else (he can crib this speech from Soderbergh if need be) — then perhaps, just perhaps, he could have his cake, and eat it too.

Oh, you fucked up, Hollywood. You fucked up big-time. And you know what? You brought this on yourself. You shouldn’t have gone sniffin’ where you didn’t belong.

You took Sasha Grey.  Now we’re going to steal something of equal value from you - something that you used to love.


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June 10th, 2009

The Gregory Brothers.

This has absolutely nothing to do with porn, but it’s incredible.

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May 26th, 2009

So You Really, Really Want to Get Into Porn, But You Have a Really, Really Small Cock. Great. Where do we go from here?

You’re in a bit of a pinch, I won’t lie to you. Since the beginning of time (1971), the porn industry has been ruled by schlongs the size of Carmelo Anthony’s forearm and grapefruit-sized testicles that could be used as speed bags by a young Leon Spinks. But don’t despair, small-cocked-man: there’s always room for one more freak at the circus. If you’re willing to consign yourself to years of hard work and unrelenting dedication, there could be a slot for you, too. Let’s take a look.

Ed Powers. The most famous baby-dicked pornstar of all time, Powers made a name for himself in the late 1980’s as a producer of a series of gonzo-based vignettes, Bus Stop Tales, which featured him as a roving cameraman bent on seducing sweet young things in West LA. He took the charade one step further when he created the now-famous Dirty Debutantes series, where he made a habit of filming rising stars’ first scenes. By plying the actresses with double-portions of his own brand of avuncular schmaltz, the small-balled Jew with a ponytail soon nailed over a thousand beautiful 18-year-olds, reaping untold millions in the process.

The lesson here? If Ed, who no one in the entire universe really wants to watch fuck, can make it in porn, well, so can you - probably. The truth is, Ed’s got a certain magic about him, which maybe you don’t. Don’t start getting all cocky and think you’re Ed Powers, okay? Because that’ll ruin it.

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May 19th, 2009

So You’re a Porn Addict: here’s the good news.

You spend hours of each day in your darkened, carpeted, suburban basement, hovering in front of a grimy PC with a handful of lemon-scented Jergen’s in one palm and a wadded lump of damp Kleenex in the other. Your neck’s tense and your eyes don’t blink - you’re a porn addict, hard-core, and there’s no changing you. But don’t despair, cousin; things have been worse! Here’s what’s AWESOME about your porn-drenched lifestyle:

- Thanks to recent developments in modern technology, your addiction costs a lot less than it did ten years ago, and is far easier to hide. Guys like you used to shell out $47.99 in “Sex Shoppes” for one measly, oversized, mammoth VHS copy of “Cheatin’ Hearts.” (Where do you put that so your wife doesn’t find it? In a drum of motor oil?) But now, unless you’re a total idiot, or hate having money, your entire collection’s probably built around mpegs and websites. The biggest problem you’ve got now is making sure your keyboard’s free of wayward shots of stringy, aged, yellowing jism. But that’s your deal and I can’t help you with that.

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