Archive for July, 2009

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 30th, 2009

Skip Arnold: Girls in Bikinies (Sic) … and Two More

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We break temporarily from porn (the video vault contains more than just porn, you see) to bring you three short pieces by Skip Arnold, a Los Angeles-based performance artist whom I had the pleasure to befriend in 2002.

These pieces are funny, arresting, powerful, memorable. It’s interesting to me that with the proliferation of video and the far wider availability of the tools of creation, editing, and publication, we haven’t really been able to improve upon the original video performance works of the 1970’s and 1980’s.

Maybe it’s as simple as the visual register. These works look “different.” There’s a kind of power in that: absorbing works in the here and now that were made 25 years earlier almost always imbues the original pieces with a kind of mystery and magic. It’s the contrast, dredging up both personal nostalgia and a collective technological unconscious that, despite being partially or totally unbeknowst to you, has its own kind of originary sinew.

In a piece I wrote here one month earlier about the music of 1980’s pornography, I posited that 80’s smut music was “better” than 70’s because it not only successfully aped the the visual tone of the movies it accompanied (the blurry low-res Betacam of the moment), but the contemporaneous political climate as well. That was probably bullshit. I said it tongue-in-cheek, regardless. But I’m glad to have Skip’s example of 1980’s video art to lay out alongside the wet laundry of the pornography of the same time. After all, video performance art and pornography are brothers and sisters in degraded composition - are they not?

Both mangle the grammar of film unintentionally (and yet in doing so, they break out of what is often a limiting, confining syntax, with the resulting power and efficacy of a wild knuckleballer). With their minor command (or often, total ignorance) of traditional Hollywood storytelling, to which most viewers are accustomed, the creators of both video art and pornography at once alienate and empower the viewer - alienate because they confuse, and empower because they demand a kind of rigor in watching that your normal soap opera or action movie does not.

Shitty sound; non-actors acting; weird time formats; untraditional ways of according value; odd motives for publication; non-traditional audiences; non-movie theater, non-televised contexts of reception; “outsider” creators; taboo subjects brought to the table — there’s a lot of similarities there. And Skip Arnold in particular is an artist who brings persona, sexuality, exhibitionism, and The Body to the forefront of his work. My god - I just realized this - Youtube may censor me due to his cock and balls - fuck it - I’ll roll with it . . .

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July 29th, 2009

Genevieve DeKay: Goth Porn Girl

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The onslaught of the video vault continues.

Genevieve DeKay was one of about thirty girls I shot doing interracial semi-pro porn in Long Beach in  fall of 2001 - summer of 2002. Amongst her contemporaries are forgotten luminaries like Cherie (a Jewish girl who was kinda thick, had hebrew tatted onto her back, and appeared in Ice-T’s porn movie, in the hot muggy summer ‘02), Buffy Sinclair, Cindy Pink (aka Felecia), Alana Evans (where is she now?), “Honey” (I saw her again in late 2004 at an all-female bukkake; never mind), Bree Brooks (a tall Scandinavian who once starred in Thom Zupko’s Ass Clowns 3), Venus (former Penthouse Pet with an adorable bi-racial toddler and a Baby Daddy who stalked her - well - she was stalkable), and a few actresses who probably never even got names, they were so temporary. DK - Derrick King - supplied many of the actresses, though in the case of Genevieve, I got her from Reb’s Pretty Girl, International, home of Reb Sawitz, one and only.

Genevieve is notable mostly because she represented the beginning of a trend: the Suicide Girl, or the alt-porn star. I don’t know what became of Genevieve in the end - she was very nice - and whether she did in fact become a Suicide Girl - I suppose a simple internet search would tell me, but I just don’t have the patience - but she was about as close to the stereotype as you could get without having an eyebrow piercing.

I really have no stance on the whole SG/Eon McKai/Alt-porn trend - I like to mention it every so often, because I’m interested in fashion and trends as they pertain to porn - whatever people like to masturbate to, I’ll happily salute. I for one didn’t find Genevieve’s style overwhelmingly attractive - maybe that’s why I was able to conduct this interview with her with a minimum of sleaze. It really made things easier when I would shoot actresses for whom I had no desire, in fact. I would ruin everything by panting all over their aroma like a sick dog. But I was very horny throughout my career as a young pornographer. It was hard not to desire these young girls with near perfect bodies and the willingness to expose them. Really, things got simpler when I shot gay porn (04-05). I was so much more of an ethical person about the workplace. Perhaps I should be castrated. It would solve so many problems. Went to a Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson/ John Mellencamp concert last night at a minor-league ballpark and just walked around the track endlessly, glooming over girls and their bodies. My jaw hanging open. Things would be so much more simple in a world where I had no testicles. I can’t wait to get old.

Oh, and here’s a minor point of trivia in the case of Genevieve: she said during this interview that this was her first video shoot, and later I found out that she was lying. I have no idea why she fibbed - was she attempting to get a better paycheck? I paid her what I paid everybody else, $800. I never paid anybody more or less if this was their first time on camera or first anal or first interracial or anything. Why did she feel the need to lie to me? It’s such an unimportant question but I pose it anyway. The stakes are low, in blogville - I can pose anything I want.

Will I ever find out? Will Genevieve herself eventually find this post or perhaps more likely, the video of her interview on YouTube - and contact me to clear up this little mystery? The power of the internet: reuniting me with a pre-Suicide Girls goth porn actress ten years after the fact, to explain why she lied. You have to love it.

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July 28th, 2009

Wesley Pipes: Penitentiary

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And here I present the final entry in my crowdpleasing Wesley Pipes marathon. Oh, I might have another clip or two knocking around somewhere, and you might see it before I am done, but tomorrow I will move on to a different porno subject, if only for the freeform fun of it.

But I’m curious to see what kind of response the ol’ Pipes brings from porno fans. Does he have his own base, who rabidly follow his every porno move? I would imagine that he does - in my mind, it would make perfect sense that Wesley has some hard-core devoteés. But you can never really tell with porn. That’s the beauty of porn and the curse of porn: it’s such an anonymous venture. Kids all across the land have pictures of Kobe Bryant up on their bedroom walls (mildly homoerotic, wouldn’t you say? Little suburban white kid having this picture of a half-naked black man with a perfect body, sweating and victorious, with the look of a hired killer in his eyes, perched above his four-poster suburban bed, probably keeping that poster up there from the age of 10 to 13 until he gets sick of the poster and tries marijuana for the first time and then crumples Kobe and puts up a framed Lynyrd Skynyrd black light number in its place?) No kid, teenager, or grown man in the entire universe has a Wesley Pipes poster up in his room. They simply don’t exist. And in any case, porn owns a different kind of fan action, is what I’m saying - though the athletic and charismatic principle is the same, and if Kobe doesn’t know Wesley’s body of work, then I think he should be introduced to it.

Really: who does Kobe watch, when he watches porn? You know that Kobe watches porn, cuz he’s sure as shit not fucking around behind his wife’s back again, if only for the simple reason that he doesn’t want to part with another six point five million dollar rock, which is what he bribed her with the last time around, Colorado Springs style. He’s not hammering random room service pussy anymore, we assume that - but a man’s a man, and Kobe’s as much of a man as the rest of us (except he’s part reptilian and his blood temperature is a chilly 6 degrees celcius). He has a laptop all his own; and he has some sort of privacy, I assume: my man’s watching porn.

Now, would Kobe watch an Eon McKai movie? I hate to be dismissive, but I don’t fucking think so. Maybe he’d watch a Brandon Iron venture, or a Khan Tusion piece of work, but I sorely doubt it and would in fact first wager on Tyler Hansborough making the NBA all-rookie team next year. Nope, Kobe’s more likely watching the kind of porn that I used to proudly produce: black-on-white, interracial slambangs starring men with whom he can identify and sympathize. Kobe’s watching Lexington Steele, Justin Slayer (does he still exist?), Brian Pumper, and Mr. Marcus. And he would have been watching Wesley Pipes - had Wesley Pipes not been doing two and a half year recently for carrying a pistol.

Isn’t that ironic? Pipes goes to jail - for a ridiculously long stretch - for carrying a firearm, in violation of his parole (initial sentence explicated by Pipes in the above video), while K. Bryant is free to roam the streets of Los Angeles despite doing vaginal damage to one Colorado Springs debutante. He dogged her worse’n’ he did Dwight Howard; and yet because of his superior lawyer, he’s absolutely free.

But then there was Michael Vick, who basically was in jail for the exact same amount of time as Wesley and in the precise same time period. (Though I think Vick served in Atlanta - am I wrong? - while Pipes was in California). No amount of good lawyering could save Vick from the rabid claws and teeth of the ASPCA, who wanted him behind bars for dogfighting. Um. Kay. Vick does two years for dogfighting, Pipes does two years for carrying a firearm, and Bryant gets off scott-free. I don’t hold judgements for any of this behavior - more, I just wonder whether Vick and Bryant - the best in their fields - even know about Pipes, who was the best in his field too, particularly around the time that I was shooting these interviews, which was summer 2002. In fact, he was nominated for AVN’s “Performer of the Year” that January 2003 - but Lexington Steele won it for the third time in a row and no one was suprised.

Ricky Henderson and Jim Rice were inducted to the baseball Hall of Fame yesterday. Did either of them tune in to YouTube to catch the latest installment of the Wesley Pipes anthology? Of course they didn’t - they were too busy reliving 1,026 stolen bases and 81 lead-off home runs (both major league records, set by Henderson, a jheri-curled madman who reminds everyone of Terrell Owens, just with more jheris.) They were too busy sniffing about the years 1977-1979, when Rice became the only player in major league history to notch more than 35 home runs and 200 hits in the same season three consecutive times. Did they watch out for their neglected brothers-in-porn? Did they mention them even ONCE in their acceptance speeches? No. Of course they didn’t. Because the connection is tangential at best, and I’m just breaking balls here.

In fact, what the hell am I talking about? I’m blathering on here. But I’m allowed to - I’ve done my job for the blog today, and that’s supplying you with indisputably valuable content. Wesley Pipes. Goddamn, I love having access to my video vault. It makes the job of blogging hardly a job at all.

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July 27th, 2009

Wesley Pipes: His First Scene

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July 26th, 2009

Wesley Pipes: Europe Girls

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I’m gonna hit you with so much Wesley Pipes that you won’t know what the hell happened to you.

Seriously, I feel semi-honored to be able to supply the world with some footage for Wesley (and several other porno peoples - you’ll see in the coming weeks) who have to this point been woefully under-represented. We’re hit over the head with all the Ashton Kutcher we can freakin’ handle, but there are many worthy minor celebrities - particularly from the adult film world - for whom no reliable and representative documentary materials exist.

I have the privilege of being the owner of a hell of a lot of unrelated yet undeniably fascinating interviews, compiled over the years 2000 to 2005, when I was shooting my ass off and, at times, attempting to create a feature documentary which was never born. The fact that this documentary never really took shape used to cause me some pain; but then my close friend Isaac reminded me that, perhaps, the footage I’d collected could still have use in the world, if only to serve as a great, unorganized, yet useful record of a period of time that God forgot and the American people never realized.

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July 25th, 2009

Wesley Pipes: On White Girls

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Finding myself back at home in North Carolina means, among other things, that I am reunited with my gigantic video library, from which a magical treasure trove of informational documentary footage concerning the Los Angeles porno industry is just waiting to be liberated.

My interviews with Wesley Pipes, taken during the summer of 2002, are a great place to start. Wesley Pipes (neé Wesley Lawrence) was by far the most charismatic and articulate member of a proud gang of ladysmashers that I had the pleasure of videotaping for delirious fun and extensive profit. To this day I feel that Wesley existed somewhat “under the radar;” for, in a perfect universe, he would be more famous than Perez Hilton and at least as highly lauded as Ron Artest. But because he worked in a degraded industry with poor PR, he was never considered “mainstream material.” Regardless, I find him as funny as Dave Chappelle; and I suspect that even Dave Chappelle would find him as funny as Dave Chappelle, had he had the pleasure of meeting him and understanding the Pipes mystique.

As is probably evident in the video, I clearly idolized Wesley for being everything I could never be: honest, open, effortlessly hilarious, and even compassionate in his own way. He was a huge part of a definitive chapter of my porno life, and I’m so pleased that some of the footage from that bizarre summer of love still exists. Here the young white director and the all-star black performer discuss the vicissitudes of the porno experience.

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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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July 22nd, 2009

Good-bye, Peru.

I get on the plane tonight, at precisely 11:30 PM.

But right now my soul is sitting in an internet cafe in Miraflores, the posh part of Lima, listening to a Grateful Dead show from 1984 on a crystalline soundsystem, my ears hurting from the tight metal of the headphones, Incan businessmen all around me but the show is spectacular and I´m marveling at its spectacularness, drinking a take-out coffee, running my tongue over my teeth, staring at the glowing radiation of a ViewSonic screen, trying to figure out how to best waste the rest of this long, bleak day, trying to figure out how to best waste the rest of my long, strong life…

My life will soon be one of North Carolinian texture. I´m going to have a couple of weeks in New York in August, but that´s just a reprieve … no, Sam is going home and he will be commenting upon the progresses of his book and the progresses of his life from within the confines of a room he used to inhabit while twelve years old - surely a plan that cannot withstand more than a month or so before crackling and exploding like a damned heathen in the fiery bowels of everlasting hell — yet just as surely a plan that cannot be avoided, and so must be undertaken, because this is what happens when you work without a net.

I am actually thinking of going back to school. I´ve been a diehard short-term man more or less my entire adult life. I got extremely lucky right out of college and something that I thought a rather far-fetched dream - to create my own independent movies and produce, edit, and distribute them myself for profit and for adventure - actually materialized, seemingly without any effort on my part, and despite an admitted lack of understanding in regards to the business side of things. That kind of thing simply doesn´t happen often, yet the stars aligned and for better and for worse it did, for me, in the very first business venture of my life. And of course that convinced me that all of the other far-fetched dreams and experiments would too blossom and burst open, simply because I desired them to. This was not exactly the case.

And so now I am recognizing the need to get real. Will I continue to publicize my book and work like hell to get it out to an adoring public who wants nothing more than to read about modern-day pornography, the cultural artifact that resides alongside minor-league baseball as one of the more amusing tragicomic industries of our time? Clearly, I will. I love writing and I love blogging. I particularly like writing about sex, and I particularly love blogging about my lack of ever having sex. There´s just something satisfying about it. Is it because the act of writing about sex allows me to recall a time during which I partook of the pastime? Or is it because writing in general allows me to in some sense avoid or at least transmute many of the basic characteristics of life, which can often be painful, and, especially in North Carolina, excruciatingly boring? I´m not sure. But I do know that my writing path, pursuant to sex or no, can and in fact must be joined by a get-real path, which is to say, a man can go to school. And pursue a degree. Which will eventually lead to a job for which he is paid a grown-up salary.

I can´t go into my 40´s forever financially unstable, jaunting off to Lima at a moment´s notice because the road is paved with gold therein, and then panicking because my bank account has dropped into double-digits again. It´s not a good look, it´s not becoming. Not for me or for any man. I have much to offer the world. I need to figure out what that is.

In the meantime, I will continue to write about ten-inch penises, because That is What I Do.

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July 12th, 2009

Looks Like I’m Going Home.

My grandfather is a man from another era.

An ex-communist who went to hundreds of Yankee games in the Ruth-Gehrig era (including a good handful in the 1927 “Murderer’s Row” season), he was married to my grandmother for more than 50 years and spent most of his adult life as a purveyor of kosher chickens, selling Southern Fried rotissieres to the Jewish people of Queens and Astoria. He put three sons through medical school on chickens, sent me and my sister to camp on chickens.

I don’t suppose he especially wanted to be a chicken man when he was growing up. Or maybe he did want to be - I never asked him, really.

South America’s been an adventure, but I guess this one’s over. My grandfather’s sick, and I’m going to try to go see him before he dies. He’s paralyzed, has cancer, is 94 years old…it doesn’t look great.

The only question is when. As always, it’s hard to know when people are going to die. Part of me is saying go back right away. Part of me says wait till the beginning of August when I can stay in New York for a couple of solid weeks. If his condition remains stable, I think I’m going to wait.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that I’m going back. And since I don’t have any money anyway, I figure I might as well stay in the United States for a while - kick it in North Carolina, maybe get a job. Make some cash and stack my chips. Feel real old and kinda weird, living with my folks. A man at home with his folks. A scary sight at age 32. It sure is.

But who the hell cares? I mean at this point… really? You still give a fuck about how people see you … really? I don’t know when I started being self-conscious, but it’s a habit I’m pretty keen to kick. I mean, I’m not proud, exactly, of being a major-league fuck up, but the fact is, everybody and his brother is out of work, changing their careers, “re-tooling” … I’m not the only one struggling, am I? If California can’t pay its bills, why should I be able to?

My grandfather was more than a chicken man. He was an electrician for a while, worked in the shipyards. He was well-read, a funny public speaker, and a fervent spokesman for his political ideals (which he remains, to this day). Nonetheless, he did chickens. To a certain extent, I don’t think it much mattered to him how he made his money. I gather he never thought of using his profession to fulfill some noble desire; rather, the goal was to be able to survive, and provide well for your family. Your family bestowed meaning upon your life. Not your job.

When my grandfather was my age, the year was 1946. My father was four and my uncle had just been born. The family was living in Brooklyn, he’d been married for more than five years, owned a house, had been through the Great Depression, was surrounded by a family of Orthodox Jews who were more observant than him. When he drove around on the Sabbath to deliver chickens, in the early days of his business, he used to crouch low in the seat to avoid being spotted …

And me? The only job I’ve ever held down for longer than six months is shooting large groups of black dudes overpowering a tiny little sex object, film it wrap it up and send it off. I’ve got nothing to show for my work but thousands of dollars of debt, a haphazard map of short-sighted international travels, complemented by a handful of broken-spoken languages, a massive supply of off-color stories, a small cluster of old girlfriends who must automatically shake their heads ruefully whenever they hear my name, barrels of thrift store clothing, ten million journals, 250 hours of carefully labeled Grateful Dead bootlegs, an unfinished documentary film, an unfinished comic book, an unfinished novel.

They bestowed upon me freedom and opportunity.

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