APRIL 10, 2006

LISTENING TO: “A Love Supreme” over & over, Coltrane ad infinitum, God bless, amen …

WATCHING: Those wacky, hilarious sociopaths on THE SOPRANOS. I love ‘em – from a distance. Funny how nobody ever really even thinks it’s worth asking me – among the million & one questions they often do – why the heck I ever would’ve wanted to move out of a nurturing intellectual environment like New Jersey …

READING: Tea leaves. Some good shit there.

It is nigh unto Spring time, that short era of renewal & hope eternal, when everybody’s upbeat & there’s enough work in Porn Valley for all the drones, me Dalek self included.

Tease up above of AZN POP 2! moments, which features real-life Valley high-school classmates TIA TANAKA (the uberAzn starlet of the new mil, blah blah yeah!) & the Indorable, long-nippled SCARLETT VENTURA doin’ lots of stuff that you just don’t expect wholesome, smart lil good students like these to be doing a year after graduation … Hey, I’m not complaining! They’ve got great heads on their shoulders, they quite like sex, & they make me feel like my task equals more than “trained gonzo monkey” when they’re on the otherside of the ol’ handicam … Am editing this one now, it is, as effendi say, “a real scorcher.”

Everything else is too busy for me to tip my hand on much more right now, expect that plans proceed apace for the biggest, best ASIA NOIR installment yet, set to film @ the end of the month in some quite interesting locations the other porn hacks haven’t stumbled over & shot at yet …

& for those keeping stalker notes, Destiny – she of AZN SUPER IDOLS 3 noteriety – has clawed her way out of that sack & is threatening to start shooting again … details as they occur, APH fans ….

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MARCH 28, 2006




A NEU AZN "IT" GURL? Tia Tanaka from AZN POP 2! (photos by John Nystrom)


LISTENING TO: “Axis, Bold As Love,” Jimi Hendrix. “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” Johnny Cash & Willie Nelson. “Pretty in Pink,” Psychedelic Furs. Further thumbs up to ye olde iPod!

WATCHING: THE FAMILY GUY season finale. “Are those my breasts or yours I’m groping?” Dood, “fat sex” rools! I’m skipping THE SOPRANOS to put it on in the background, cuz the increasingly seductive Comcast corporation puts up each new ep the next day on In Demand anyway, where you can even find vintage Betty Page excerpts, SATAN IN HIGH HEELS & a great gout of anime, some of it actually good … Also, watching THE SHIELD season finale over & over again, where all the street-cowboy bullshit of the nominal heroes tragically & heartbreakingly comes home to roost … this maybe the most morally complex & best written TV series EVER …

READING: ADT, XXXPT, AsianPornoHotties.com. God help me. Won’t one of my friends or investors perform an intervention???

Though certainly the so-called “counterculture” has always had its share of manipulative, careerist scum who would & do sell out the moment they’re offered fame or creature comforts, it seems the situation has degenerated to new lows with this new century.

Take rap & hip-hop -- not as the disease, as thinly-veiled racist philosophy might insist, but instead merely one of the symptoms. Once an “underground” culture, its worst aspects have proven the most easily lionized & imitated by the always sly gatekeepers of the uberculture -- & how can it be a surprise that those aspects, celebrated in Hummer limos, diamond “grilles” & tough-guy rants about might making right & getting over on the bitches before they get over on you – are nothing but the same empty, selfish values espoused & sold to us by the same capitalist cabal ever since they discovered around the middle of the last century that consumerism is as easily peddled & as addictive as any poppy-derived opiate?

(Forget the momentary, experimental burp of “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing,” which really did always translate as “I’d Like to Hook the World on Coke.” In, of course, more ways than one. Which is indeed a slightly subtle swipe @ whatever Reaganites still stalk the dark American night ...)

What makes a real revolutionary? Wearing sneakers – SNEAKERS, for Christ’s sake -- that retail for as much as single mother with two kids gets in food stamps, sneakers made by dark-skinned children callously exploited by multinational corporations who will happily spend millions on advertising but not a sou on employee health-care or a salary that equals anything we would consider quality-of-life?

Or is it having one’s choppers bonded with enough precious stones that translated into cash might send any given dozen kids stuck in downtown L.A.’s hellpit of homelessness to a decent educational program?

Wait, I know, here’s the definition of a revolutionary -- idiotically shooting each other down in the streets over platinum-selling versions of the schoolyard dozens while the still-rich, still-safe politicians laugh behind their hands & vote each other further tax cuts, all the while proceeding largely unchallenged in their campaigns to disembowel the social programs instituted by predecessors who still had some vague idea of what their duty towards the society they live off of might be?

Sure, there are those Billboard-friendly rappers that toss in a little empty “us & them” simple-minded political rhymes to leaven the mix, but that’s not what’s at the top of iTunes, baby, or in heavy rotation on MTV. The days of a genre with thoughtful & committed visionaries like Chuck D, Melle Mel & KRS-One at its forefront have been squelched by the art form’s early absorption into the Body Capitalist. Let’s face it, Rap never had the chance to come into its own. Twenty years later, Chuck D is relegated – by his own implacable integrity – to Air America, while crackhead clown Flavor Flav is the darling of VH1, endlessly opining how his white woman just don’t understand him.

Get Rich or Die Trying,” yeah, there’s a message for the masses. “Fidy” is hardly the first street hustler in human history redrawn in heroic terms by a legend-hungry proletariat, but – just like our Richie Rich-kid, combat-dodging, inept business manager of a President – he’s certainly emblematic of a new breed of “heroism” based not on courage (as opposed to bravado or bullying) or any hint of altruistic accomplishment, but on nothing but a greed for wealth & power more consuming than the next parasite’s.

So what brings on today’s rant, besides everything? Well, I was made to ponder the newjack truism that the Revolution shall not be televised except as interpreted by Nike & IBM commercials after seeing the Wachowski Brothers’ clumsy skim across the surface of Alan Moore’s V FOR VENDETTA, certainly one of the most powerful & thoughtful graphic novels to grace the relatively nascent form thus far.

That the film is intermittently entertaining & inspirational speaks more to its source material than the notoriously derivative pair’s oft-sodden interpretation. Yes, it LOOKS like the book – a not entirely insignificant pleasure, though when one has a ready-made 300-page storyboard as well as a budget that exceeds that of many third-world countries to realize it with, not quite as impressive an artistic achievement.

What I found most affecting – and illuminating – in the narrative was how “timely” the 9/11 parallels were in the convoluted conspiracy that brings a truly fascist British government to power in the wake of a staged “terrorist attack,” replete with pseudo-populist attacks on any who might dare question the “facts” as they’ve been spoon-fed them. Film reviewers not comics-friendly enough to be familiar with Moore’s book seem to think these allusions were grafted to the bones of the Anarchy-friendly source material by those “thoughtful” Wachowskis. In reality, the coincidence indeed confirms the prescient Moore’s status as a real visionary, however dark, as opposed to facile purveyor of timely pop culture diversion.

One must note that in the Wachowski vision of fascist England there’s no explanation that all the wogs & such have been successfully exterminated or Sent Back Where They Came From. Instead the “us,” as shown in the various cut-aways to the mass populace in pubs, middle-class homes, hospitals, etc, are almost entirely the visages of doughy, Caucasian British character actors (Even the kids are doughy, except for of course Natalie Portman, who grants concentration-camp chic a new level of erotic glamour).

Which if one were to credit the producers with a level of reflection probably beyond their ken, might have been a deliberate attempt to signify that revolution only succeeds once the middle-class is either made extinct or recruited to the cause by an oppressive regime developing a tin ear in regards to the song of seduction that keeps the well-fed -- & well-shod – comfortable & complacent. But I think they were just reading too fast when they typed their adaptation.

From the evidence at hand, I can’t parse the makers of this film as being that thoughtful, much less subtle. Not when they muck up the finale by having the assembled masses march on Parliament hidden behind the well-marketed “V” Guy Fawkes mask & cloak ensembles – a particularly tone-deaf variation on the finale Moore envisioned, where the moment of truth was when a crowd made up of individuals whose minds had been freed from fad & status quo each stood up for their rights, making not a mob but an – excuse the expression -- united front.

The Wachowskis decided instead that a more feel-good climax might be achieved by letting all the V clones doff their masks once the army stood down, which , I don’t know, was supposed to signify either that the population felt safe enough to be individuals again or else perhaps illustrated how we all indeed have an angry, masked victim of hideous government biological warfare experiments inside of us.

(“Well, not yet, at least!” one imagines the rude spirit of Alan Moore’s original “V” interjecting in response to the latter possibility.)

That this mass gesture might be considered a bit of insult to any real-life hero who marched besides & behind Gandhi or Martin Luther King seems to have escaped our socially-conscious auteurs. & speaking of tone-deaf: Moments later they serve up the now-embarrassing “Street-Fighting Man” as a curtain call theme. Fellows, you would be better served to listen to John Lennon’s wise words from the same era on the same topic, & continue to listen as many times as it takes until you understand it better than you evidently did Alan Moore’s angry masterpiece.

Okay, to boil it all down: V FOR VENDETTA is Haggis’s CRASH for the comic-book set. & don’t get me started on Haggis’s announced plans to take on, like, y’know, the whole 9/11 thing in one of his upcoming narcissistic bourgeois apologies.

So, how does this all relate to porn, you might understandably demand? Certainly, the same behaviors & hypocrisies replicate themselves down to the insect level of porn culture, with false revolutionaries looking to cash in on their manufactured “rebellion” &/or imaginary altruism. But I’ll leave it to the reader to trace over the lines I’ve already drawn more than once, to the relief of any gutter capitalist unconsciously echoing the McDonald’s Corp. boast of “Over 1 Billion Sold!”

(Bad idea for new Big Mac slogan: “Over 10 billion cases of Type II Diabetes & morbid obesity cultivated!”)

Or to put it this way:

I don't know, it's probably just my tastes. But one end of it seems adolescent in its brutality and in its inexperienced adolescent approach to violence and sex. And at the other end, at the more supposedly intellectual end I see an awful lot of angst, and adolescent breast-beating. This is not a complete blanket condemnation by any means, there's people … who do wonderful work that is not mainly concerned with them, and their fears of mortality or whatever it is. Or feelings of emptiness. This is not really what I wanted for the … medium. That's fair enough. There's no reason why it should be the kind of medium that I wanted. But at the same time—I don't know. I think that my, kind of, contempt for the way that the major companies have handled things since their inception, they've only ever changed when there've been absolutely forced to at gunpoint. Otherwise the industry for all of the great claims it makes for itself these days—we're kind of post modern, we're hip, you know, we're sort of a major star accessory—the industry still seems to be based upon a gangster ethic that was around when it was founded. It's been modified slightly to sort of super times. But it's nothing I'm happy with.”

No, that wasn’t a reprint from one of my earlier rants about the porn industry. It’s a summation of the current state of the American comic book industry from a recent Alan Moore interview after his experiences with DC Comics & Hollywood concerning V FOR VENDETTA.

Read the whole thing here

Cheers, y’all. I’m off in search of more freshly expired equines to thrash. & oh yeah, to direct a few porn movies. Which I’m looking forward to for the first time in a long time, believe it or don’t! This week is AZN POP 2, starring TIA TANAKA, who’s simply amazing – she looks like a J-porn idol. Her shy girlishness belays a nymphomaniac nymph with tastes her body barely contains. Youse guys will love her! Hey Tony – just so youse knows, I’m savin’ you a spot as major investor in my film – out of respect, of course!

(Yeah, got to that SOPRANOS ep before I finished the entry. Hey, would YOU feel secure going into the white light if YOUR spirit guide was Steve Buscemi?)

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MARCH 22, 2006.





READING: VANILLA SLIM: by Bob Armstrong (Carrol & Graf). The story of a genteel middle-aged Vietnam Vet Caucasian would-be pimp & his rather touching misadventures trying to hustle pussy in turn-of-the-millennium SF. Also: CONTEMPORARY FILM DIRECTORS SERIES: WONG KAR WAI, by Peter Brunette, University of Illinois Press. All of a sudden there's something like five books out on my favorite film director. This is one of the better ones, & goes all the way through the already-legendary Cannes screening of "2046."

LISTENING TO: BoA, “Guerilla Concert,” Dir En Gray, “Obscured.” Dir En Gray, the Japanese equivalent of System of A Down, are playing @ the Wiltern next week, & if you've got a ticket -- or even two -- for me @ face value, you're my new best friend! Check out their outrageous new video HERE on the beta version of Google Video.

WATCHING: FUTUREWORLD on cable. COWBOY YUL with his red lariat IS the dream lover of every middle-aged whitechick’s dreams! Also, the rousing conclusion of FULL METAL ALCHEMIST. Elric Bros 4 Life!

Actually allowed myself to be dragged out of the hovel on Saturday night to a couple of porn-related parties by my buddy NYSTROM, though they weren’t those ultra-yeechy HOLLYWOOD BLVD. sort of affairs, full of dumb homeboys who are all claiming to be starting either porn agencies or sweatshirt lines or both … the affairs in question each aspired to actual hipness of a kind; one sorta achieved it, the other, well …

See, there’s this self-consciously Lynchian bar in wretched ol’ Silver Lake called THE BIGFOOT LOUNGE, where yet another ambiguously gay L.A. photographer of chicks in kitschy/fetishy situations was busily flogging his new $40 book & being fabulous, just fabulous … didn’t really wanna go because I figured it’d be an ALT-PORN/METROSEXUAL group grope, but when our dates arrived at the same moment as our old partner in crime O.G. fetish photog ERIC KROLL & nobody could get in the place because it was stuffed too full of little dorksters with golf-jackets & CAPTAIN KIRK sideburns, the whole bunch of us headed over to the DRAGONFLY, where there was an art show featuring genius-child comics/cartoon artist MICHAEL MANNING, frilled-up with entertainment provided by some fearsomely old-lady burlesque dancers who, I'm sorry all you empowered, sex-positive knitting circle habitues, really need to start price-checking rocking chairs – Kitten, we’ve lurved ya since shortly after RUSS MEYER immortalized those once-proud howitzers but isn’t there … something ELSE to do on a Saturday night @ your age??? I guess it is as the guy who walks behind the elephant once said, “What, & give up show business???”

Also filling the stage was a standard-issue fetish fashion show full of strippers not getting nude, blah-blah blah, it looked the same but lame as every other off-the-cuff fetish fashion show we’ve stumbled into during the last 16 years or so … don’t think we’re really complaining here, though. After the prefab “punk” mix the DJ was subjecting us to at the Bigfoot, as well as the surfeit of plastic L.A. retro-rock hipsters who look like actual sex would make them cry for mommy, the Dragonfly was pleasantly familiar if not exactly bracing territory. There were actually some people spanking & teasing in the corners, kudos to the BLACK SEX MAFIA for ownin’ da haus … Props for the nice Scary Leather Masks -- The Gimp ain’t got nuthin’ on youse guys …

(Speaking of “haus,” is it some buried racism or merely pride in my heritage that makes me adore those V-dub ads? I snickered the first ten times I was subjected to each … they were almost cool enough to download! Er, ah, V-2 rockets & meth, in da haus, untermensch!)

Kroll seemed in good spirits, we had no idea he had moved to L.A. to edit for Taschen Books – he’s currently working on a MAN RAY volume, having burnt out on fetish photography after the generation he sired turned it into ineffectual, boring cliché trumped by advertising photography in terms of both glamour & energy … was still toting around a youngster half his age, though, as is his wont … Hey, at least he’s a self-aware M.C. PIG! Two of the personality-free photogs who have copped his riffs & added nothing showed at both joints, two anonymously-clad matching long drink of waters with the same FORREST GUMP expressions plastered on their whiteboy mugs, though I think they thought they were channeling Warhol …

The pint-size passel of sex appeal domme who has provided wardrobe as well as locations for my best-looking VidTeam titles, including AZN POP! And ASIA NOIR 4, was keeping me smiling with a killer b&w dress & an even more dangerous sense of humor – soon enough, I remembered why one always has to be careful about monitoring the alcohol intake of girls 5 foot tall & under …

A few hours later, I was pleased to discover that “Suffragette City” is on the juke at ASTRO BURGER. Who else among us first heard the saying “Wham Bam, Thank You. M’am” when Bowie gleefully shouted it right before that two-chord vamp into rock history?

Anyhoo, plug time: (ahem) "Speaking of AZN POP!," we’re about to embark on Volume Two under the proud banner of the newly revitalized Video Team.

At the top of this entry are some truly lovely images from the first one, which delved deeply into the magnetic attraction of YUMY & DESTINY. For those who are wondering where Yumy’s gone, she’s been having some paperwork issues that have prevented a lot of producers from shooting her in these sunny HOMELAND SECURITY-protected times. Sob. For those curious as to whassup w/Destiny … well, our crystal ball has a crack in it, so we are at this time unable to predict where Destiny lies … or lays, at the moment. But we’ll keep you updated.

We’re not gonna announce the two starlets chosen for the sophomore entry into this spotlight series just yet, much less the unique location we’re closing in on nailing down, because if you’ve bothered to read this far you’re probably aware that ideas are in such short supply in the adult industry that even the most passing ones are quickly drowned in a writhing mass of clueless, aesthetically stricken DWCs (that would be “Dopes With Cameras,” son) looking to pile on like they pile on facials unto the mugs of their hapless models in hopes the hoi-po will mistake it for heat… Hey, it’s all about the MOPE SQUAD, maaaan …. Right? Chortle.

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MARCH 8, 2006



When I first attempted this entry I went on one of my all-too-typical (for me) auto-pilot post-McLuhan, Cronenberg, Gibson & Masamune rants about how the techno-media has usurped my soul, but fuck, fuck, fuck it. Just more mental masturbation, right? We all get the point, & those of us who don’t will need more sage souls than me to zip their flies & yank their eyelids up.

Instead, let’s wander in a less erudite direction:

(ahem)

Hey, I see where the BBC reports that German researchers are claiming that blondes could very well be extinct within two-hundred years. Thank the Melting Pot, one supposes. Guess those Aryan Nation fools had at least one point right, but really, who cares? Good riddance, I say. The world will not miss blondes in any significant way. & of course, there’s always peroxide.”

(How’s that for neo-hardboiled I-don’t-give-a-shit wry prose? Hang on, we’re not finished…)

One might view such a development as de-evolution, but me, I think it’s great. I’m pretty damn sick of the tyranny of physical appearance, considering how along with the “us & them” parochialism of just about all organized religion, it has effectively fucked up so much of our world history. I just can’t see that much of a tragedy in ridding ourselves of at least part of the Blonde Question. Though I do suggest some forward-thinking entrepreneur get his ass on the details of conniving an efficient controlled-breeding program so that at least Hollywood & the porn industry still has access to blondes. For the sake of our legacy, y’know? For the children.

(Full disclosure: when I had hair, it was blonde, & my now-squinty lil eyes are blue. If you look at my childhood pictures, in fact, I looked amazingly & creepily like the brat harmonizing “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” in CABARET)

Just imagine, 200 years from now: Blonde snuff porn. It’ll be the shit. Unless, of course, snuff porn is passÈ by then. Which, considering the prevalent course of commercial pornography these days, is hardly impossible …

Fascinating to watch the current phenomenon of diffident hate-mongers basking in their “cool-guy” personas by setting up bully pulpits on the internet where clearly unhappy yet often exceedingly bright misfits can find some desperately-needed validation & sense of community by participating in message boards designed to encourage the kind of narcissistic, self-aggrandizing misogyny that historically has made unhappy males feel better about themselves – & gee, what a surprise, perhaps sell several hundred more copies of THROAT GAGGERS in the process. Quack, quack, quack, etc etc, Jeff … when are you going to include images or even the corpus delectable of your wife & children in the merry, wank-fodder fun? Or am I crossing your “invisible line”?

Assisting in the further degradation & mental damage of souls unfortunate enough to have been born into female bodies & then subjected to enough abuse &/or neglect in their early years to be ripe enough for casual abuse & thoughtless contempt for commercial gain is okay as long as it pays for private school for the daughters & SUVs for the wife, but when we make it personal for YOU, why, them’s FIGHTIN’ words, right? Blah blah blah …

Or as that cowardly, troubled little gonzo director who harassed me for a couple of years at the behest of his real-estate magnate/pornographer-hobbyist master used to like to say, “They’re all cartoons, man! Why the hassle?” I love that one. Quoted it a million times. Look for it a million more. Paul “CRASH” Haggis couldn’t come up with a more blunt caricature of what society in general regards as the pornographer’s mindset.

Trouble is, the stereotype has been taking over, for real. My eight years here, I’ve seen the admired model for porn “directors” devolve into this pseudo-macho fraternity of would-be tough guys. We worship free-style, blood-letting, steroid-poisoned street fighters because when they grunt & accept our backslaps we feel more like “men” (& we can feed them enough meth & pussy to threaten anybody who doesn’t like us!).

We religiously disdain any of our supposed fellows still stuck with a conscience with epithets like “Captain Save-A-Ho.” Because, as the hype that’s written by would-be literati porn-pr asswipes with lowered expectations after discovering their mediocre college degrees don’t guarantee fiscal rewards reads, these bitches are nothing but (meat) holes anyway, & if you dare think even a little differently, you weak-willed, sob-sister … you must be a SMALL-DICKED FAGGOT. Not one of the BROS. The COOL GUYS. Ze DUDES who after busting a nut in some come-&-go ho’s ass religiously gather @ Jerry’s Deli to load up on protein & carbs while lolling in the warm, comforting comradeship of that oh-so sacred ALL-MALE COMPANY.

Cuz, of course, what quality could possibly make you less germane to the basic quality of human life than coming up with an average or less-sized dick in the genetic lottery, or even worse to be cursed with an innate sexual/romantic preference for members of your own gender? Hey, that’s MUCH more fucked-up than spending one’s life as a giggling, post-adolescent mediocrity who willfully fucks up other human’s hearts & minds for profit, innit?

Because as anybody who’s Really Cool knows, any intellectual, artistic or humanitarian achievements you may have attained in our short turn on this planet are thoroughly negated if you’re male & you happen to dig smoking cock. That makes you no more than the subhuman, weak femmes in whose direction we toss the toilet paper of Mammon towards in order to have the means to purchase gas-guzzlingers, obscenely over-priced McMansions &/or satisfy our dulled nerve endings, jaded egos & stunted imaginations.

Of course if you’re a reasonably attractive genetic female who for whatever reason is INTO the abuse & willing to happily participate without inadvertently letting your prior damages hang out for all to lampoon, then you’re no less than a “goddess,” & can do no wrong in our eyes (as long as you don’t crack & start being, like, vulnerable or something). PLEASE come post on our internet boards so we can claim to actually have some female acquaintances that don’t have to be reimbursed in cold, hard cash for their pained company. We’ll hype your websites! & even hire you for our bukakke series! C’mon, it pays $800!

Wow, did I go off or what? Blondes must piss me off.

Anyway, this blather is nothing but me stalling from my overdue duties … I am quite skilled (when my instinct demands it) at procrastination, not to mention convenient rationalization … though I’m not as good at the latter as many of my “colleagues,” ‘tis true, &, having once been a writer for a living, the messy spillage regularly finds its way into the public discourse … a fault that perpetually enrages the likes of the “I’m holding this chess piece in a trade-magazine ad I paid beaucoup bucks for, so I MUST be king, see?” porn auteur du jour … I think if there’s one thing about L.A. that makes me honestly laugh the hardest, it’s the acute belief that the might of a fat bank account makes right. You know what, you empty vessels? All the money in the world doesn’t make you a bit better-looking, better-educated, soulful or talented. It just makes you an excellent whore. & capable of affording the services of the same. At which point you’re just another trick -- just one with a fat wallet.

Anyway, time to go. I should be recording the director’s commentary track for DREAMING OF SNOW, the upcoming Ethnicity Films/Video Team collection of some of the best of my gonzo work for them. Of course, since this is not Hollywood (or even the ritzy feature companies), I’m forced to do it sitting in front of my TV & using my camcorder to tape my semi-worthless remarks instead of falling off the stool in a recording studio or hunching in front of one of those sleek lil digital tape recorders like Ron Moore does when he records his podcasts for BATTLESTAR GALACTICA …

(That’s my abrupt way to muscle in a plug for the season finale of one of the most thoughtful, smart TV shows out there at the moment, a credit to the pre-STAR WARS theorem that the best science-fiction is both acute commentary on the human condition & visionary at the same time … Friday night, 10 pm PST on Sci-Fi Network. Or download it on Saturday from iTunes.)

Anyway, once more, unless anybody’s either forgotten or somehow been so asleep at the wheel as to be taken in by the parade of illiterate press releases on the industry web sites, here’s the REAL economics of porn: We’ll offer no more than the bare minimum of what we have to in order to get the passing-through lowlife hos to risk their health & minds being the sin-eaters for our troubled audience, & as little as possible to the “shooters” that we pay to stand between us & the carnage. As many will no doubt point out, “That’s the American dough-re-mi WAY … FAGGOT. If you don’t like unfettered free-market capitalism, then go hang out with gay communists, or union shills!”

Ah well, as we all must agree: Blah blah blah. Those seeking to prove that I am somehow “no better than us” & therefore not qualified to embark on this rant are welcome to pick up DREAMING OF SNOW & make themselves feel better watching a moment or two that they can pick apart where I succumbed to the hormone-rush & opportunism of the moment, & participated in, if not the murder of a soul or two, at least the drubbing thereof. & it was HAUGHT. Proof that none of our hands are clean. Wank at your own discretion.

Because it’s all about our own instant gratification. & blondes. Is there really anything else?

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FRIDAY, FEB. 17

LISTENING TO: My iTUNES ® anime opening/closing themes playlist.

WATCHING: My iTUNES® download of last night’s LOST.

CONTEMPLATING: a frontal lobotomy.

NEXT UPCOMING RELEASE:

AZN SUPER IDOLS Vol. 3: MANIFEST DESTINY. In which I get the bitch out of my system, for real. & aloha, campers, it also peeks & peeps & slavers over an adorable All-American hapa chick who used to work @ Disneyland before getting the bright idea to make relative bank with her fabulously full teenage ass, Ashley Marie to you, chump. Oh, & also that Mayalasian tomboy chick who used to manage the Fatburger’s on Ventura.

The time has come to exit the Videodrome but it’s no simple thing, instead to be patiently planned & gingerly executed, considering that the only path out of here first leads deeper & with an even more profound commitment than before into the noxious heart of the mundane hallucinations that the pornographer-bot must transmit on the appropriate channels in order to maintain his place on the carnivore free-market capitalist food chain, perfecting the practice of insinuating into the pleasure centers of the masses a lazy vice in slow motion that’s as brusque & malevolent as any opiate, philosophical or botanical.

Towards that endeavor we resume transmission from this picaresque limbo of a city, in this haunted old hotel a few miles inland of the coastline where all the trash gets swept towards, & still buried in an industry that curtain drawn aside really is nothing but a full-blown parasite feeding on that biological imperative burnt so deep into the chromosomes of the male DNA. More simply: right down in the fucking muck where the hostility born of skepticism towards any possibility of true submission/acceptance by the female spirit ore redemption thereby is pantomimed in how passively orifices are handed over; these days, of course, the more abjectly the better.

There are those buddhas who went on missions in such places, but they were divine & we’re not. Besides, those blessed bastards did indeed not have to deal with the ocularly-delivered brainwave-control device affectionately dubbed “Videodrome.” Digital hypnosis, uh-uh, uh-uh, that’s the way we like it.

Having identified for so many years as a writer, a priest of the imagination, I wake up to the first personal definition of this new century & epoch’s brand of anomie by realizing I have cancerously evolved into my own worst enemy, instead of a lamp-holder or sometimes even shaman, now beaten down into a canny purveyor of disposable visual nuance that at best bears a mild flirtation with some faint illumination of the soul. Content to shit out what is ultimately just a celebration of the morbidity of the flesh, & the spirits trapped within it. With a whiff of autopsy to tickle your taint with the ghost tongues of its whorish avatars.

Well hey, you might say, that’s just pornography, buddy! & indeed it has been.

Working on the two-volume collection of my best Video Team work has been a fruitful exercise while waiting for the universe to kick my butt in whatever the way home base is. From mere color correction & tightened edits to out-&-out auto-reappropriation resulting in some sleek remixes not just codifying what I have done but speaking clearly by what perimeters are drawn illustrating the tasks I still have left to accomplish before completing this long, long assignment out in the field, sucked in by my own deep cover. & before you can ask, why, yes, of course I am the seduced sleeper agent, always lonely but never alone.

DREAMING OF SNOW, the gonzo volume, knit/gathers a shambling metaporn narrative drawn out to epic length as it’s constantly (& one hopes fruitfully) derailed by a hypnotic fascination with Der Process & the greater cosmic fuck behind it that stridently speaks out in favor of the vagrant theory that being constantly bathed in the crass omnipresence of commercialized sexuality & forced intimacy can become its own legitimate altered state & therefore path to some Truth or other, however primal.

& what being two discs & all, it’s got lots of hot bitches, too! Really, everybody! YEZ CAN WAAAAACK TO IT!!!!!!!! (Christ, if it had ever dawned on me that becoming the moral & aesthetic equivalent of a carnival barker would be the most necessary skill to becoming a successful porn director …)

Speaking of which, I guess Eon & his “alt” crowd aren't as stupid as they look. They have learned the neu century lesson: Better to buy into this zeitgeist however empty, & make your religion the pose & the packaging; it's much easier to sell the act of the selling itself as opposed to a message. Or, um, “content,” as the porno merchants infesting the temple of orgasm have come to call it in its most reductive appellation yet.

In fact, such prefixes as "meta" have been devalued to laud such cynicism! In this Brave New Altworld, whether or not you’re really delivering on your promises is moot. Because hey, nobody else does, right? Not the President, not the medical establishment, certainly not the media … the only ones delivering on their promises are fanatic Muslims & look at all the issues that’s caused ….

Regardless, while still roaming this Island of Lost Souls & Stretched Holes I buck conventional wisdom by continuing in my attempts to deliver the goods. Whatever the fuck they are. Still figuring that one out, too ...

LOL, as the juveniles say. LOL.

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1/19/05

Everyone who knows me knows that despite my public persona I am a very private person and would normally never take a matter like this so public, but this married pair of wannabes have a grudge seemingly against the entire industry because very few thought Jade worthy of shooting, and evidently have rationalized major and minor theft from anyone in the industry who they have tried to associate themselves with.

This image is of the entire female cast of the show so that any who might be offered the stolen camera master tapes for sale may recognize it -- they have digital stills as well, many that I burned for them, another disc's worth not featuring Jade that was also stolen.

JADE LIEU, one of the two thieves, is on the far left. She is Northern Chinese, with extremely heavy Chinese-British accent, 32 years old, and I think around 5'3". Her husband, STEVEN LEEDS, is an inch or two shorter, with dark hair and dark eyes, clean-shaven, average build, and complains about the U.S. and the porn industry all the time. When they shoot for you Jade will try to "forget" to sign the release, having been coached by her husband.

He's a former cattle breeder who, as I learned, decided to push his wife into porn "to spice up our boring marriage." They reside in Manchester, England, where he restores stain-glass windows but they visit the states, both in SoCal and Florida, Dade County area, fairly frequently. I am not the only one they have ripped off -- I'm just the one they did it to most spectacularly, showing a completely sociopathic response to the generosity and kindness shown them by Brian Surewood and myself.

6/10/04

Oh god, reeling in the early morning hours once more, just too much to do -- the release of AZN SUPER IDOLS VOLUME ONE has been something of a breech birth, and the surreal turns of bad luck continue -- are all these obstacles karma raising objections, the curse of some part-time witch, or just typical Hotel California "bad breaks, man"?

No use to ponder now. Must forge ahead. Much shooting going on. Amazing actresses. Erotic alchemy. Dusky golden orifices. Nyomi Marcella, Veronica Lynn. Training Day at the Upscale Hotel Lesbian Corral. Some Lynch, some Newton -- if I could afford it I'd score it with vintage Bryan Ferry. Here's a few peeks I think you are perhaps bound to treasure, and in the afterglow maybe you won't notice that I've slipped away to get some sleep so I can jump right back on the fuck or be fucked train to the molten heart of Fuckworld, USA ...

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6/02/04

It can be a very narrow line to balance on, trying to be both a decent human being and a successful pornographer – quite a lot of humanity believes the two states cannot co-exist within the same soul … my belief that they can has been sorely tested by the last couple of months here in Fuckworld … but as they say, it’s not how men act in times of peace that determine their character, but in times of crisis…

Though the controversy over the state that this overcrowded industry has devolved to continues to be batted about, it seems all the strong emotions are dying down, as everyone hunkers back down to making a living. It’s been a bit harder for me, since as those without the capacity to do so enjoy noting, I tend to “think too much.” What those who simply take my public persona at its aggressive face value fail to see is that as much as I question the intentions and ends of those around me, I question myself twice as mercilessly.

For me, getting back to shooting has not been a simple matter of “the moratorium’s over, commence churning out the product.” Though Annie Cruz has come out on top, a certain degree of her teenage innocence evaporated and has been replaced by the first in a series of hard-won lessons called the path of life, the spectacle of watching her stumble into the hungry meatgrinder had destroyed much of my sense of fun at what it is we do here in Fuckworld; reading the comments of the actresses I used to admire before I became a director on how much the landscape has changed for the more brutal and dehumanizing since their day has confirmed that It’s Not Just Me. Thanks, Patricia Kennedy – you always did have a lot of good old southern belle common sense ….

Anyway, the good news is that I finally found my way back in – and as it has often been in my life, when I have felt so totally disengaged with disgust at the grimy self-interests flooding the plains around me, it’s a new muse that has made me look up from the gutters…

Veronica Lynn. Holy Jesus … She actually came into Video Team when I wasn’t around several weeks ago, and I was intrigued enough not by her pics but by what my pal Keith B., who took the Polaroids, described as her general attitude. I thought about filming her in a girl/girl, but ultimately decided I couldn’t shoot anything at that time, no matter what the rationalization … unlike half of the other directors in this business, who I know I’ll never look at in quite the same way again.

But I got down to business last week, pulled out the VX2000 and started aiming it. I’m damn rusty right now, but by the second day of filming Veronica the grace was beginning to creep back in – that gravity-defying relationship between camera and subject, of which at the best of times I feel like nothing more than a facilitator. I’m filming her a few more times over the next couple of weeks, because yes, she has that much going on with her besides her striking physical beauty. At 20, she’s already earned her bachelor’s from San Diego State in Criminal Justice, which puts her intellectually and in terms of real-world credentials way ahead of most of the mooks who are shooting her.

She’s a deft blend of Filipina, Japanese and Brazilian; you can see it all in her smile – not to mention her firm, round little ass – but not see where the one influence ends and the other begins. She’s a sweetheart with a Kali-girl squeak but a strong, confident personality. And she’s set a bunch of boundaries about what she will and won’t do to earn a screen fee that will make the hacks who base their success on nothing but refusing to shoot girls unless they’ll have their ass torn up for the sake of a grand quiver with outrage.

But fuck those losers. Veronica Lynn is the sexiest girl I’ve had the pleasure to shoot in a long time, and like the best of them – Loni, Kylie Rey, Lucy Lee – she has become an instant favorite. Bless her ballsy little “semi-nympho” heart, and the hard head which I hope will keep her eyes on the prize she wants, as opposed to giving in to someone else’s easiest, most shallow exploitation of her considerable charms.

I know there’s much grumbling among the anal-obsessed Neanderthals over a new awareness among many actresses, old and new, that it’s THEIR health and life that’s at stake here, not those of greedy producers who will all go on blithely to the next disposable set of holes when the current sets wear out their welcome or their elasticitiy, whichever comes first … I say, bravo – you go, girls! The day that I see these producers who try to claim that anal creampies and such are not a problem start taking loads up their asses is the day I concede that they’re not hypocrites. Until then…

What’s sexy is bringing out the best in a woman’s sexuality, not turning her into an anonymous, disposable fuckhole. And if you think that the latter actually is the finest expression of female sexuality, suddenly I find myself standing on the opposite side of the fence from you. I’m all for freedom of expression, and have indeed fought those fights during my life on more pertinent grounds than porn, but that doesn’t mean I have to approve of the kind of absolute garbage so many of my fine “colleagues” have been churning out over the last couple of years. Just because you can get away with helping to spoil someone’s life so you can move an extra thousand units doesn’t mean you have the right.

But I do go on … it’s time to make porn again, which I am discovering once more how to love. Thanks, Veronica; I hope there are many more like you on the way! And it’s no accident that performers like Loni and Kylie, who will never be “meatholes” to me but instead valuable and good friends, helped me get through all this psychologically … if only half of the producers and snotty young directors in this business had an iota of the strength and maturity these two exhibit daily, this benighted industry wouldn’t be in quite the pickle it is right now…

I’m putting up my first couple moments with her on the site this week; an interview, a solo girl, a BJ, and a rapturous two-minute music video that’s the first thing I’ve created in a few months that’s just full of the joy and mystery of female beauty witnessed. A dance to Spring, indeed…

VERONICA LYNN: When you're this magnificent you don't HAVE to give up your
asshole to be "sexy" .... (pics by John Nystrom)

---

5/19/04

Well, the industry is between storms at the moment but the waves are still choppy … whether aftershocks from the stirred-up tides just navigated through or the harbinger of more thunder & lightning just ahead, don’t ask me – it’s been far, far too long without shore leave for this sailor on the sea of fate, and the crystal ball has gone as rheumy as these weak eyes after an editing all-nighter.

I now understand more viscerally the pacifying popular wisdom among this quaint, lost cargo culture here in Porn Valley that everything is just a cycle with a short radius – greed, tragedy, (brief) regret, greed. I think maybe a more complex geometry might be on the horizon this time, but despite reports to the contrary from my superego I am not always correct…

I do know that these days are as odd as any I’ve ever known, and the goings-on down here in this rabbit-hole called Fuckworld are only part of the increasingly alien landscape. We’re talking about stuff up there in the – excuse the expression – “real world.”

As a Virgo who firmly believes there are patterns to everything in the universe, I’ve always been fond of conspiracy theory. But I have no problem with the Illuminati as long as they don’t make me wear plaid. I am not disturbed by evidence that the New World Order has its (kola) roots in the boardrooms of the World’s Most Popular Soft Drink. As long as I’ve got the cable bill paid and there’s a Valhalla somewhere in the direction of the rising sun filled to the brim with Sakura Sakuradas for me to dream fruitlessly of someday milking, ya’ll can play all the White Man games to which you feel the subatomic need and entitlement.

But I do confess to being offended (now THERE’S a shocker) by how far standards of epitude have plunged for the shock troops sent out by our country’s chairman of the board to defend American corporations’ freedom to acquire, absorb and drain dry every resource visible from here to the fourth dimension.

(And make no mistake. If Einstein were around today, he’d have been confined years ago to some virtual-reality cell and been sustained by a feeding tube down his throat while a team of anal-probe wielding interrogators worked his soft tissue until Bank of America discovered how to thwart the space-time continuum so it could go back in time and collect transaction fees on the two buck lawn-mowing wage every baby-boomer Wally and the Beaver used to open My First Bank Account with, not to mention a week-long hold.)

No, no, I don't mean the “scandal” of those goofy, half-grown G.I. punks who, nurtured on a public school system allowed to crumble to avoid any troublesome education or enlightenment to get in the way of unquestioning serfdom to Oceania, were only too eager to catch up on all the crypto-homo S/M ritual they missed out on by not being able to afford college and pledge the fraternity or sorority of their choice.

Though they were only too glad to be given orders by their commanders that would chase away the underachiever blues through the use of those hapless Iraqi prisoners — who are for the most part guilty of not much besides being the pesky flora and fauna in the way of Our Oil Fields — as straight men in a corny vaudeville right out of Hell Week, that doesn’t amount to the dried piss on the fly of my jeans when you compare them to the real heroes of My Lai, who took no prisoners and collected fingers and teeth as keepsakes as opposed to digital snapshots.

I’m talking about a serious issue here: The sad state of today’s CIA. Jesus, boys, try and manipulate me if you can, but please don’t insult my intelligence with any more “terrorist beheading videos” that are less convincing than the Super-8 Herschell Gordon Lewis-wannabe one-reelers my creepy pre-adolescent buddies and I used to make in suburban New Jersey basements after liberating the family movie camera.

(see http://topplerummy.org/berg/ if you’re confused by this, Mr. & Mrs. I-Didn’t-See-It-On-CNN)

If I were Daddy Spook, I’d go recruiting at UCLA film school for some value-free auteur who can come up with a better approach than that outdated BLAIR WITCH PROJECT so-crude-it-must-be-real high concept b.s. That shit's been played for some time, now.

When every junior-high brat who sneaks into a KILL BILL screening knows that you need a Hatori Hanzo blade to even hope to make that clean and easy a cut through bone, sinew and major arteries, and that the resultant arterial spray from a still-pumping heart is more akin to the spectacular load Brian Surewood’s been saving up through his quaratine, as opposed to the last squeeze of the near-empty toothpaste tube that oozed out after the fifth time I masturbated to the sublime Maja Lee POV that’s going up next week on this site’s pay side, you’re just not meeting your audience’s need for a proper suspension of disbelief.

Next time, try some test screenings first; monkey with the ending a few times, and don’t forget better product placement than military-issue office furniture and those crisp, clean togs that just don’t read on-camera as hunted-terrorist wear.

For the set dressing, maybe something simple and tasteful from Ikea for that subtle dash of conservative style, and perhaps something with more of a bit of hip-hop porch-rebel flair from the wardrobe department to distract from that God-fearing, Apple pie-fucking posture. You never go wrong with a Nike logo.

I guarantee you’ll get the Oscar from more than just the small-penis brigade running all those apoplectic right-wing websites that so amusingly froth over the perceived “liberal media bias” from an utterly corporate American media that would rather merge and acquire than live up to the accusation that they’re being unpatriotic by exercising the rights and responsibilities of a free press.

But like I said, pass on the bling-bling next time. Shariff don’t like it.

Good Lord, if YOU guys had been America’s Most Spookiest back in Camelot, JFK would be still around today, chowing down on boiled potatoes and grits with Clinton, double-teaming easily-impressed white-trash hos and telling the story over and over of how he never got the stain out of his best suit when Jackie’s bouffant found a new home on his lapels. Look, I know you told Suzie Creamcheese back in the heartland that you would never, never take off that gold wedding ring, but next time they tell you to impersonate a zealot Muslim terrorist, do a DeNiro and immerse yourself in those telling details.

JUST IN: As we prepared to file this dispatch from the heart of Oceania, that right-wing simpleton’s substitute for the Cartoon Network commonly referred to as “Fox News Network” is triumphantly reporting that after more than $120 billion spent, 10,000 Iraqis killed and 500 unsuspecting refugees from Bush’s golden-shower of a trickle-down economic policy turned into cannon fodder, an artillery shell dusted with less than a DAC load’s worth of U.S. government-invented Sarin has been “discovered.“

Okay. Better. You never go wrong carrying that throw-drown piece in your sock. Less is more, when you gotta sustain those aimless fears that distract the cattle from noticing that the Homeland Security Act is slamming shut the gate behind its collective cud-chewing ass, and the far end of the chute beckons.

Don’t over-furrow wondering when I'll return to the comfortingly existential duty of documenting the pussy, Hentai. I’m starting to book for my June scenes now. Soon enough, I will do my patriotic duty and go mind my own business. Back to the still-unoccupied territory of Fuckworld.

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5/4/04

ONCE AGAIN, THE OBSERVATIONS EXPRESSED HERE ARE THOSE OF DAC, AND ARE NOT ENDORSED BY OUR SPONSOR.

(Note: This clip has been disabled, you can see it in my next show)

Sorry for neglecting thou, dear journal. I have been busy negotiating the landscape of hell, which is overflowing with the willfully, brutally ignorant, callous and greedy.

This past month spent in the L.A. porn industry has been more revealing than the 72 or so that have come before it. I have seen faces that I had grown comfortable with if sometimes only through their familiarity become ugly masks of denial and self-interest. Every week, new HIV-positives have been revealed among the talent pool, and as of now, this is the worst outbreak of the virus ever here in the heart of the industry.

We thought for a moment it was over at two, but it wasn’t. And despite the best efforts to do the impossible task of tracing the genealogies of potential infection through a jungle of furtive producers, part-time talent and general indifference on the part of companies who are for the most part showing less humane care for their “meat puppets” than a respectable farmer does for his cattle before they are sent to the slaughterhouse, there’s no way to be in ANY way sure that the number is going to stop at five. Not for MONTHS.

There’s supposed to be a production moratorium. No shooting for 60 days. AIM, who we have charged with protecting our health, did their job, and told us that was the only way to be safe.

As of today we are not even half-way through the moratorium. But a large number of companies are quietly shooting, even as they grab publicity by supporting the moratorium in both the porn and mainstream press, evidently operating on the murderously specious logic that as time passes, it gets safer. NOT IF YOU’RE CONTINUING TO OFFER OPPORTUNITIES FOR INFECTION, HOWEVER SMALL, YOU MURDEROUSLY STUPID IDIOTS. THERE HAS BEEN A NEW INFECTION EVERY WEEK.

I understand that some companies are desperate for product. I understand that many performers are desperate to eat. But except for the fund established by Jenna Jameson – which I hope TT Boy has donated at least a Ferrari or two towards, since many of us believe that it was indeed his production policies that seems to have set off this string of infections – there has been precious little but hypocritical lip-service from most of the so-called leaders of the industry, whom at all other times are only too quick to assert their power and influence and flaunt their financial success.

The power structure has shown no real interest in changing the way we create our product to reflect a basic human respect towards the people who truly drive it that might at least be the equal of how the law demands a minimum-wage worker picking grapes or flipping burgers is treated. They say it’s okay because they’re paying a premium to teenage girls in order to persuade them to perform ridiculous and unquestionably dangerous acts. $1200? What’s that, a month’s rent in exchange for risking the rest of your life? This is not Hollywood stunt-man pay, this is not professional athlete pay, and there are none of the regulations or benefits that those punishing careers are required by law and by union to provide.

Now the state has decided that we are not fit to regulate ourselves; a bill is in the state legislature that despite a scary threat to ban performers with herpes, HPV and the three sisters of Hepatitis for life, would otherwise only establish some reasonable, basic working conditions. How ironic – and how irresponsible this industry! -- that I, a life-long contrarian and foe to authority, support everything except the social disease clause.

As a journalist and author who has always stood up for free speech – and not just sexual speech -- I have come just short of vomiting, listening to the lamebrained, self-serving spew of those in the community who are trying to paint themselves as American citizens standing up for their right of free speech when all they’re really interested in is protecting their opportunity to make some extra bucks by bribing performers to do dangerously stupid things.

And despite the protests of those who say it’s not time to point fingers, I say it is, and I’ll point first at myself. When a distributor told me last year that an all-Asian internal-pop series would FLY off his shelves, I plunged into the BANANA CREAM PIE series. He was right. It’s done quite well. Allowing myself to degenerate from a human being to another one of these lemmings, I approached it with the same resolve I approach all my projects.

Some of my favorite performers who never do creampies did them for me. Some girls who were not on birth control offered to do anal cream pies instead. I went with it. Hey, they were okay with it. Some even suggested.

Could there be a more bullshit excuse? What was I thinking?

Obviously, I was thinking of myself. For my own gain, I embraced the culture of denial that rules Fuckworld. But unlike the teenagers and often-uneducated that we shoot, I know better. I’ve been taught better. I have no excuse, only this explanation – I have been here in Fuckworld for too long, this place of whim and ambition fulfilled despite all consequence.

Besides that I am lucky enough to have found a home at a video company that is not run like a misogynistic frathouse or WalMart’s sweatshop, the only thing that is keeping me at the moment from seeking a mid-life career change are those few but precious people I have seen who have had their consciences and minds shaken awake, and who are brave enough to stand up and say, “There is no place for situational ethics here. This is WRONG.”

See, in Fuckworld NOTHING’s wrong, as long as the check clears. He who makes others die for him while he collects the most toys wins, to redefine a phrase.

But I have seen the beauty of comradeship and respect flower in the ranks of performers who are finally realizing that they matter little in the face of most of their employers’ bottom lines. Despite the naysayers who think it’s clever to be endlessly cynical, despite those who would crush their spirit to keep the unbalanced status quo, some of the most prominent male performers in the business are slowly building towards a performer’s guild, enduring the belittling jokes about porn studs’ priorites and attention span.

It’s in people like Mr. Marcus and Brian Surewood and Sledge Hammer and Tony Tedeschi, who became a laughing stock for predicting the sky would fall until indeed it did, that I have seen the most common sense and honesty, the least willingness to hide behind rationalizations in the sake of self-interest. Because it is in their self-interest to see a truth beyond the daily mindless pursuit of an extra penny that grips Fuckworld.

Notable that they are meeting to develop a better, saner way of conducting business, when it seems that every time I turn around I see one or another of the supposed captains of this industry are spending their time basking in the Notoriety of news-media attention.

It is more than notable that a large number of black male actors are particularly galvanized to go the distance on this one – despite dissembling and plain old self-absorption from professional industry spokespeople, they saw immediately that one of their own – and one of their best – was being subjected to a public lynching on TV, on radio, and most tellingly on internet sites from foul, loathsome little mealworms who just wait for the excuse to spew their vile. Even those claiming sympathy were murmuring that Darren James must have done something wrong when nobody was looking to get himself that HIV, because of course we all know that black men have no self-control.

The irony being, of course, that Darren was doing what he was ordered to do.

More clearly than the rest, the black male performers see that the power structure that claimed it had everything under control in this industry has been interested in little but protecting its own interest, including keeping the corporal who ordered Pfc. James to the battlefield on a suicide mission – not to Save The World, but to Save A Few Bucks – safely hidden in the shadows, invulnerable not only to any repercussions but even to the public shame he so richly deserves. “For the good of the industry.”

And as I hear it from their own lips, the black actors see that they as a group are being left holding the bag in the public eye – not to mention in the behind-their-backs sniping from the closet racists in this industry.

When Mr. Marcus got back from Chicago after the first day of publicity, he had to deal with a hysterical significant other who had seen a brief report on the TV news that a black actor with HIV had infected a white woman – the stock footage the station used to illustrate it featured an unidentified Marcus, because we all know one black stud is the same as the next.

These are the guys who only a few years ago almost every company would take an advantage of by either not casting them or paying them less than white male performers because they were not as “marketable.” When the market indeed went crazy for black male performers, and white and latin producers and directors saw their profits soar by regularly hiring that big chocolate dick, the actors managed to force the companies to raise their rates.

Now, they face the far more formidable job of getting them to treat them like human beings.

I support them whole-heartedly, as I support those few who have been brave enough to indeed point out the sky is starting to fall. It seems that I am losing friends and allies almost daily because I will not be a part of the wicked set of hypocritical lies being spewed by those who have somehow come to believe that the concept of “acceptable losses” can and should apply to the capitalist urge to peddle pornography. Suddenly Fuckworld becomes Iraq – someday soon to be Vietnam, if there is not a change in all our ways.

I urge my fellow directors and producers to honor the moratorium. Shoot non-penetrative safe sex for a few weeks or no sex at all. EVEN IF YOU DISAGREE WITH AIM’S ASSESSMENT OF THE RISK FACTOR, show some responsibility, some class and perhaps even some respect towards the living meat you put through the grinder to get ahead. And springing for a couple of tubs of chicken wings at an industry meeting doesn’t count – especially when that’s probably the first time you ever shelled out for any decent craft services since you figured out you could get away with not doing it. Stop figuring out what you can get away with, and start justifying your presence on this planet.

I also urge AVN – which I am told has no responsibility or authority in this situation to investigate the producers and practices that have brought this storm down on us, despite that the magazine has avidly defended its position as the center of the industry, running trade shows and the industry’s biggest annual event, the AVN Awards – to rethink its editorial policy. Stop rewarding videos made by directors who are willing to strive for that editor’s choice by filling their shows with brutal and un-erotic acts that put performers’ lives at risks. And don’t even try to argue back that you’re justified because it turns you on, and you have to be honest as a reviewer. If kiddie porn were legal, would you all be writing such predictably glib paeans to it?

If you are not interested in the truth and in the golden rule, I don’t need or want you as a friend. And if the price for being your ally is to smile and pat you on the back and pretend that I don’t notice the blood on your hands, I’m sure I can live with the professional burden of your censure and hostility.

Because more than anything, I have to live with myself. I’m bemused that some of you can, right now, and that you can do it so damn easily.

I hope you fans don’t mind me using our hangout here to speak to my Fuckworld peers, but you should be hearing all this, too. Watch the PSA with Loni, Kylie and Brian that we shot this last Sunday. They’re no different than a lot of people you know – they just perform sex for money. Challenge yourself to be just a little more thoughtful and a less selfish when choosing what you buy – there’s more than one way to stir a libido, and inspire a squirt. You do not live in a vacuum. Your personal choices affect others.

If what you need is to see is the cathartic fantasy of a girl “getting hers,” I’m not going to judge you -- there’s plenty of rough-sex hardcore and SM stuff out there that’s full of humilation and degradation without the threat of extinction.

Get the fuck over the anal creampie thing. You could always go out back and set ants on fire with your magnifying glass, or trip blind people at intersections. Not to be smart-ass with you, but by underwriting the behavior currently rampant in the industry with what I understand is your hard-earned entertainment dollar, you really are catering to the same instinct.

Next time I’ll tell you about AZN SUPERIDOLS VOLUME ONE, which features some of the scenes I’ve been writing about this past month. And DIRTY VEGAS – a porn verite that will only be available through this site.

Meanwhile, I’m doing some research and thinking to find some inspiration to do kinker and nastier – but safer – movies, as opposed to just mindlessly trundling along in the line of creatively bankrupt producers and directors who in monkey-like fashion rely on imitating a crass and boring formula of affectless degradation.

This is your chance. Any of you guys got some good ideas you’d like to see come to life, I’ll listen.

Now hit the play key on the video clip and please take six minutes to listen to what my friends would like to say to you. They would truly appreciate it, and so would I.

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04/20/04

ANNIE CRUZ, BRIAN SUREWOOD: These are NOT just images on your TV screen, and these are NOT disposable people.

CAVEAT: THE FOLLOWING REPRESENTS ONLY THE OPINIONS OF DAVID AARON CLARK AND NOT NECESSARILY THOSE OF ANYONE ELSE AT VIDEO TEAM OR CONNECTED WITH THIS WEBSITE!

I don’t know how many regular readers of this director’s journal there are, but I have been trying to keep up with at least weekly postings since it started back in January. This last week has been the first exception.

Though I’ve engaged in a couple of back-and-forths over on ADT because the level of ignorance of some loudmouth fans over both what goes on in the industry AND the facts of HIV transmission via anal sex angered me to the point of a little furious typing, I’ve been too heartsick and had my hands full dealing with the current health crisis to compose myself enough to write an entry.

Annie Cruz, the smart, vivacious Filipina slut I wrote about last time, is on a long list of peformers exposed to the HIV virus – one of those punishing, membrane-ripping scenes that she was booked for by Cherry Modeling as her intro to the wonderful world of adult-filmmaking L.A.-style that left her unable to complete her scene for me was with Darren James, who unbeknownst to himself and despite his religious adherence to a testing schedule MORE stringent than that demanded by the industry, was at that time – March 29th -- infectious with the HIV virus. Though there’s little way to determine it beyond a shadow of a doubt, he most probably picked it up on the trip he had just returned from, shooting bareback double-anals and the like with local talent down in Brazil for TT Boy, a bully famous for his death-wish whom every real insider in this business knows doesn’t give a fuck about tests as long as nobody’s looking. Laura Roxx, another girl Darren worked with both before and after Brazil, has also come up positive – though thanks to willful ignorance both by herself, the companies shooting her and a string of pimps that reaches from Montreal to here, it’s impossible to tell at this point if she indeed wasn’t infected already.

But to what’s weighing on me, personally, the most: As of now, Annie doesn’t know whether she has HIV. Brian Surewood, one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and Sledge Hammer, the guys I booked for her scene, don’t know if they do, either. Darren, a wonderful person and more thoughtful and mature than almost all of the male talent I’ve ever met, is missing, and a lot of us are very afraid that he’s committed suicide.

In addition, Tyler Knight, also from my very small pool of favored male performers, has been directly exposed – he worked with Laura mere hours after she had been with Darren, same day, same set.

A great many people with their own agendas influencing their points of view are saying that while it’s “certainly a shame,” none of this is enough of a big deal to get all “panicked and hysterical” over. And that “everything’s under control.” Familiar platitudes, eh? Add to it Sharon Mitchell’s mystical, mumbo-jumbo advice “Don’t break the circle!” This is a realistic and mature health professional??!

Some of those all too ready to shrug this incident off as an inconvenience are the raincoater fans to whom Annie Cruz, Brian Surewood, Laura Roxx, Tyler Knight, Sledge Hammer and all the rest are basically no more real than the electronic images formed by the lines of resolution on a TV screen, images that go away when you’re finished masturbating and turn off the TV to go get something to eat.

So far, the majority opinion on ADT seems to be that this is some sort of acceptable byproduct of providing them with the most appropriate possible fodder with which to relieve their lonely, otherwise unattended nutsacs. They’re warning us that if the industry dares implement some sane degree of safety for its performers – like condoms, or at least a de-emphasis on the kind of sexual circus acts that go light years beyond what the CDC and AIDS organizations warn to be the most extremely high risk acts for the transmission of the HIV virus – they will stop buying porn. Which is bullshit – when a guy is horny and needs wank fodder, he’ll use whatever he has to, whether it’s an underwear catalog or the Sports Illustrated bikini issue. Anybody in the business who listens to that sort of threat is a naïve coward, and anyone who caters to it at this point is an opportunist without an ounce of social or moral responsibility.

Was I disappointed by the lack of sympathy leavened with the occasional crocodile tear from these fans? Nah. I know from a lifetime of experience with my own member as well as witnessing the actions of other dick-owners that indeed “A hard cock has no conscience,” so truth be told I really don’t expect too much from that crowd as a whole, especially when, as I say, we are all no more personally real to them than President Bush, Mickey Mouse, or Jesus.

But some of those voices in denial I’ve been hearing are also the company owners, producers and directors whom like me have made their living from instigating these increasingly dangerous acts simply in order to get ahead of – or keep up with – the Joneses. I’ve been disgusted at times by my peers in this industry on moral and integrity issues – hell, I’m disgusted by most of them every day on issues of native intelligence and aesthetic taste – but I can’t remember ever feeling this hopeless and depressed by the pure cannibalism that is the badge of our particular tribe.

In recent months, I have found myself slipping towards the New Viciousness, too, encouraged both by the atmosphere fostered by AVN, which in the last couple of years has taken to rewarding gonzos full of life-threatening, reckless behavior with financially lucrative Editor’s Choices, and by an increasing number of performers who through their own ignorance of the health issues or by being trained by other, more vicious producers who got there first, have taken to offering their services in scenes like DP, DPP, DA, CP, ACP, and all those other acronyms that sound like something the U.S. government dropped on civilians during the Vietnam War.

Because Annie Cruz – a 19-year-old influenced, I suspect, by watching the kind of porn that’s been prevalent for the past five years, since she was 15 – was offering to do double penetration, that’s what I booked her for – actually, only the second time I’ve ever specifically booked that act. I had resisted until just recently, both because I hadn’t been sexually jaded enough to find anything appealing about it, and because in reality it is a difficult thing to do, and really doesn’t give very much physical pleasure to any of the participants.

Last weekend, I edited up the Annie/Surewood/Sledge scene, which as it turned out was quite hot on its own terms, despite her inability to perform the circus act she was booked for. Gripped by the same spirit of competition that drives Jules Jordan and all the rest, I was intending to slap it right up on the site, because she is Fresh Meat. I even jerked off to it myself several times.

Now, I can’t even look at it, and until all these performers are in the clear and it’s been verified that they were lucky enough to dodge a bullet pointed right at them, it’s going to sit on my shelf. As it was, I left in the parts where Annie was yelping because Surewood’s dick hurt like hell in her already abused, raw pussy, and where she was examining herself and admitting that her first few days in the business were far more physically demanding than she had ever expected – it’s the stuff they usually cut out, in order to collect the dollars of the raincoaters for whom life would evidently be without meaning if they could not have their fantasy of impossible sexual acts without any consequences. But I had thought it might be a little educational for people to see the REALITY of this kind of shooting.

Now, I’m thinking about everything. About the anal cream pies I’ve been filming. About the kind of denial that I’ve been in, too, caught up in the struggle for survival in this vicious marketplace.

I’ve been thinking about a system where we not only tolerate but applaud and reward directors and producers who shoot “five-man creampies” without the female performer on any kind of birth control, and then brag about it as a sales point on their websites, as these excerpts from Mark Kulkis’s Kickasspictures.com, reproduced today on adultbeat.com, attest:

THREE GIRLS - 15 INTERNAL CUM SHOTS! Birth control is such a drag. Condoms suck, and pulling out is dicey. It feels sooo good to just let loose inside a girl's pussy. Shoot your load right up there into her womb. "Fuck pregnancy, fuck disease, just take my seed, bitch!" This movie is for all you frustrated men out there. Each girl submits to not just taking one load of sperm inside her birth canal, but FIVE! Watch three innocent babes submit to becoming human sperm banks as they suck and fuck a pack of filty mooks who have been storing up their reproductive juices for days! Isn't it beautiful what some girls will do for money?“

THE PREGNANCY GAMBLE That's the exciting and risky game that these girls are playing. Are they on birth control? Do they trust it 100%? No form of birth control is foolproof, dummy. Yet here they are, letting five complete strangers cum inside them and possibly impregnate them. These girls are filthy! Fucking five guys is one thing, but welcoming unwanted sperm into your birth canal for money is the very definition of "whore." Enjoy!”

FULLY LOADED That's what these girls are, filled to the brim with the potent semen of five different men. If these girls were smart, of course they would be on birth control. But guess what? "I'll be okay, I just had my period." That's the most common excuse. Another is, "I'm just going to douche really good afterwards." But why should you care? You can just sit back, relax and enjoy watching these girls open their fertile wombs to strangers - and thank your lucky stars that your daughter's not a porn star!”

A FRIEND INDEED Vic Sinister came into our offices with another 5-Guy alumni, Renee Pornero. Seems that Renee has convinced her sexy friend that it was cool to let five men ejaculate inside her. We had read the rumors on the Internet about Lola being impregnated from an earlier shoot. But it Renee wasn't scared, then neither was she. Each time Vic felt another stranger's cock erupt inside her, she wondered if she was really doing the right thing. But she smiled and carried on until her fallopian tubes were filled with potent sperm cells. We've lost track of Vic since the shoot.“

You might think that’s all hyperbole. But it’s not. A lot of these girls really are ignorant, and a lot of them really are not on birth control. (I have this information confirmed by two independent sources, as a decent journalist should.) So why would they do something like that? Because some asshole who DOES know better than an uneducated teenager offers them money to do it, because he knows it will “carve a niche” in the marketplace for his product, and make them rich no matter what the consequences to others. Isn’t it special that such a guy would take the trouble to gloat over it in his sales pitches?

You could argue that these girls know what they’re doing, but you would be rationalizing. If they’re so responsible, would the producers or directors involved trust them to hold their wallets full of credit cards, or the keys to their luxury cars, all acquired through recklessly egging human beings not even out of their teens to take insane risks for the sake of a scene that will sell better than the next guy’s?

The sad truth of the matter is that with a few notable exceptions, the most successful producers of “gonzo” porn today are the biggest monsters. I came into this business working for a sleazy, lying, cheating, stealing piece of garbage named John T. Bone, who was infamous in those days for the way he would bully and lie to the talent and put them at risk. I still remember when his business was failing and he was opining that Rob Black had stolen his thunder by being nastier and even less saddled with a conscience than him.

Make no mistake, they were both pieces of walking, talking excrement – I worked for both, and saw and heard things first-hand that still trouble me today. But I remember when Black took the Extreme crew on their first trip to shoot in Brazil – Rob Black, reviled by most of the industry today, except it seems by AVN, which has been offering him more editorial space than any three responsible producers put together, because he happens to be under indictment by the feds for producing pseudo-snuff porn – and even HE had his male talent use condoms when working with the local girls in an environment which even then was world-famous for its high heterosexual HIV-infection rate.

In 2004, by comparison, we have several major companies shooting in Brazil without condoms – perhaps some of them are paying more attention to valid HIV tests than TT Boy is renowned for not doing, but the bareback risk factor is still obscene. In fact, in the middle of this crisis, the major creep who owns one of the major gonzo companies is already planning a Brazil foray, hoping payoffs from his fat wallet will shut up those charged with overseeing the health of this industry’s performers. Which, of course, makes him a hero to the raincoaters on adultdvdtalk.com who threaten that if we dare do the responsible thing with our product, they will take their dicks and play with them elsewhere.

There’s a Good Old Boy network in this industry that has made it the ugly place it is today. If you’re a Good Old Boy, you don’t blow the whistle on producers who don’t pay attention to HIV tests, who coerce talent into dangerous acts they don’t want to perform. If you’re a Good Old Boy, you help mislead the industry and the public into believing someone with a mail-order PhD. diploma from a non-accredited, crackpot institution is a medical doctor, and qualified to have the final word and oversee the health of 600 people – that’s roughly how many performers there are out there, these days.

If you’re a Good Old Boy, you circle the wagons, keep your mouth shut and do or say anything necessary to “keep the government off our backs and out of our business.” Even if it’s putting on blinders to conditions that directly lead to the destruction of some of the insignificant little people who have made you or your employers’ fortunes. And why not? As Dr. Everett Koop – an actual physician – pointed out, porn actors are viewed as “disposable people” by most of society – and evidently that includes a large percentage of those who make their blood money from their flesh.

These guys all talk like government interference in our business would be the end of the world. I don’t doubt that those merry capitalists responsible for the Triangle Shirtwaist fire said the same thing. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, go here:

http://www.csun.edu/~ghy7463/mw2.html

Yeah, nobody held a gun to those teenage girls’ heads and told them to take the job either, did they?

There is government regulation of the way we are served food in restaurants. There is government regulation of health and safety in the workplace. This is NOT a freedom of speech issue anymore, I’m sorry to say. AIM has done everything it can in its present state, but despite all the warm fuzzies about Sharon’s history in and devotion to this industry, it needs a professional manager and the daily presence of a qualified physician to act without fear or favor to properly protect the health of the industry.

So what am I, as a producer and director, going to do about all this? I really don’t know; I’m still figuring it out. The latest BANANA CREAM PIE just came out – despite the fact it’s one of my best-selling titles, it very well might be the last volume. A great director, one of my role models in this business, recently pointed out to me that he flinches every time he sees an internal comeshot, because an infected male ejaculating inside a woman’s vagina increases the chance of transmitting the HIV virus exponentially to the risk of simple bareback fucking.

One thing I’m certainly not going to do is hire any talent that has returned from a trip to Brazil or perhaps any foreign country within the last month, no matter who it is.

I’m looking at the facts, I’m questioning my own procedures, because obviously, trusting that the producers next to me are doing the right thing and that the performers who show up on my set have been previously working in a safe, sane environment is not a fair assumption. That I ever thought it was sadly points towards a fair degree of denial in my own mind.

I began making erotica and pornography because I love and admire women, not out of some need to “see them punished” – or to cater to some unpleasant market share that does.

Indeed, I am a pervert, I am kinky, I enjoy giving an often-dark psychological edge to my work. But I didn’t become a pornographer to cater to the hateful demographic out there that is impatiently waiting for all this shit to blow over so they can see the next 18-year-old girl get her ass ripped open when two or three cocks the size of a cop’s flashlight are stuffed into it while some sociopathic jackal cackles away from behind the camera and asks them what their parents would think, or embraces a series where a girl’s face is held while guys come directly into her eye (not only painful, but a direct line of infection for HIV and all other communicable diseases). THIS is a far cry from simple bareback fucking. I’ve HEARD these producers laugh in amazement at “the insane things these whores will do for money” – hell, at JM Productions and Anabolic and KickAss, they laugh over it on their websites, and then ask you for your credit-card number so you can laugh, too.

If that, as well the fact that as a responsible human being with some sense of right and wrong left, I can’t help but speak out on this situation and these issues means I won’t be getting the critical recognition, awards and glad-handing from the Good Old Boys, then I hope the company I shoot for can accept it, and that we can find other ways to create and bring attention to erotic entertainment that doesn’t come with a death wish.

One of the reasons that I’m proud to work for Video Team is because my boss has a very admirable history of doing the right thing – even when it’s directly cost him large amounts of money. By industry standards, I guess he’s crazy. But right now, I’m certainly glad to be working for him, as opposed to the scum next door.

I’m oing to a meeting tonight that will be packed to the rafters with those “throwaway people,” the actual manifestations of those lines on the screens that raincoaters are always hectoring to more and more ridiculous levels of risk. I’m sure there will be some wisdom, a lot of ignorance; I’m sure that some of the same bastards who push the performers into ever-dangerous acts will be there smirking and trying to stir division and fostering confusion. But we’ll see what we will see.

And then we’ll see what really happens.

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04/08/04



Continued my banana-peel skid of awkward and trouble-plagued shooting last week, but was finally rescued from frustration when I broke the Sabbath and shot an anal creampie scene with none other than the Notoroious L.E.E. herselves -- yeah, Lucy Lee is back, and better than ever!

Felt like high-school reunion here at my Koreatown digs when L.A. Direct’s professional Bitter Irishman and veteran porn agent Mike Sulllivan delivered the newly sprung K-goddess up unto me, Nystrom and Surewood, the latter of whom had his new cat-eating German Shepard dozing in the mini-van while his master power-pumped my all-time fave Korean princess up her cute, (still) tiny butthole, leaving a generous supply of DNA to mark his territory, oozing down Lucy’s tan, firm buttocks.

We all shot the shit about her just-completed mandatory time-out at a state correctional facility. I admitted I’d been worried that her oft-volatile self would get end up scrapping with some prison bitch and her six months would be extended. As it turns out, she did have to kick some ass on her first or second day there, but the other girls covered up the proof . My favorite porno actress made her tormentor clean up her own red, red krovvy, and proceeded to spend the rest of her time unmolested, quietly watching TV. And keeping herself fit, mind and body – the proof was indeed before me.

The scene went like butter; the camera did its thing, floating and dancing and drinking in every detail – all the static from the last couple of shoots dissipated, the connection between instinct and tool renewed. I’ve shot a bunch of great porn actresses, but though sometimes equaled, nobody has been more wonderful to have in front of my camera than Lucy. Can’t wait to get her and Jade-blue Eclipse together for that feature I’m supposed to shoot at the end of the month, the first one for me in quite a long time … Stay sober and optimistic, Lucy, you’re the best!!!

I also finally finished editing that crazy scene Lucy and I did last year shortly after I first shot her in ASIA NOIR – you’ll find it on the site under the Princess Diaries section. Boy, do the sparks fly between a hulking, doleful Germanic pervert and a spunky lil Asian devil doll … looking at the final edit, sweetened by an off-kilter jazz waltz I threw together, the phrase “Fassbinder porn” suggested itself. Which begs the question, if Love Is Colder Than Death, then what’s hotter than an S/M passion play performed while staring in the mirror?

Been on this relentless editing jag lately, which I know Kimberly and Christian have to be happy about, as should the members of this site … I’ve discovered that if I edit a scene right after I shoot it, it goes much better. Somehow, a good edit even came out of Annie Cruz’s aborted debut last week, an April Fool’s Day that will live in infamy…

Had been in a slow-motion pursuit of this teenage Filipina sex maniac since last Fall, when a Bay-Area amateur photog e-mailed naked snaps of some grinning little gamin with perfect brown-tipped breasts and Walter Keane eyes – that is, if Keane had been secretly painting portraits of crazed teenage sluts in that “special” basement studio to which his wife didn’t have a key…

When Loni met Annie and bestowed her seal of approval, my interest, grew – even more so Annie herself mentioned in an e-mail the casual gangbangs she had been indulging in at her Catholic college…

But as young wild girls will, Miss Cruz proved a slippery shark to spear. After being cockblocked by a possessive webmaster in December, I turned to other fish in the sea, figuring that if it was meant to be, Miss Cruz and I would cross paths eventually. Which we finally did, last week.

The good news is that in the beauty, enthusiasm and personality departments, Annie Cruz lived up to the hype. The bad news? These days, this ultra-carnivorous business quickly engulfs and overwhelms even the most resilient little fuckdolls before they can get their bearings. Begrudgingly working through a local agent with whom I’ve had past dissatisfactory experiences, I optimistically booked Miss Cruz for a DP ending in double creampies, as well as a messy-girl BJ with Fassbinder himself – I mean, ah, me.

After Annie flaked on a lunch date and having strong words with the agent over whether I had the right to speak directly to an actress I’d been talking and emailing with for six months, I settled for shooting both scenes on April Fool’s Day – how could I have not seen this one coming, you ask?

The morning messy-girl shoot went okay – though I don’t like having to feel out a girl’s personality cold on camera, Annie is so outgoing and smart that things got going. Ultimately, though, I was too distracted – not only wasn’t the camera floating, but my own erection hovered at a embarrassingly resolute three-quarters … knowing we had to get to the next location within an hour if I wanted any decent daylight on such an overcast day didn’t help, he whines…

Nystrom grabbed us and we headed to Hollywood, where I’d booked the Den of Inequity, my favorite L.A. dungeon, for the main shoot. The set-up went great, chasing the slim, spicy Miss Cruz down Hollywood Boulevard, luring her upstairs to meet my “friends” –A-list performers Surewood and the always sturdy Sledge Hammer.

The guys were in cages, waiting for Annie to set them free. She was great teasing them, and when her head first sunk gracefully all the way down on Surewood’s weathered oak, I thought the scene was in the bag … not knowing that the greedy agent evidently sent a first-week hardcore porn virgin to another DP and an anal before her Thursday booking with me.

Though the lovely and lithe teen sex maniac may have thought she’d been around, she of course had no idea. She was too sore to even take Surewood in her pussy for more than a minute or so, much less Sledge – ass was out of the question. It’s a different game altogether here in Fuckworld. The dicks are huge, you get pounded for hours – this ain’t no average-cocked fratboy three-minutes-and-they-all-came gangbang territory we’re talking here, Tonto. This … is … Fuckworld.

But of course most of this new breed of rogue pimp that breed likes roaches – ah, excuse me, “porn talent agent” – doesn’t care. They’ll stumble across a new girl, and immediately try their best to work her literally bloody, shrugging when she drops out of the biz two weeks later: “I guess she just couldn’t handle it.” When Annie’s agent phoned, insisting on jacking up Annie’s kill-fee for a DP that didn’t happen so that she could collect her 18 or 20 percent on an extra hundred bucks, I remarked that if the agent wanted to work me that hard now for a scene not finished, it would be that much longer until I could afford to fit Annie back into my booking cycle.

“I don’t care. Who knows if she’ll be with me in a month,” the pimp answered. “She got fucked in the pussy, right? How long was that? How much footage did you get?”

WHAT? None of your business, bitch! Wanting to get back to my editing, I didn’t bother to point out that footage where the girl’s screaming in pain, backing away from the cock and snapping, “Stop, stop,” doesn’t count. Unless, of course, you’re Khan Tusion … Here was this callous leech, admitting no blame in delivering up a charge that within three days in the biz she had let become too battered and sore to do a proper scene, looking to tell her other client – me – whether I got what I needed or not!

Ah, beautiful world, beautiful people. It all just keeps going. I will shoot the delightful Miss Cruz again, eventually, but certainly not through that agent. I can wait until she wises up and finds a decent agent or learns enough to start booking herself.

In the meantime, site members can see the still-hot misfire next week. When it became evident Miss Cruz’s pussy and ass were broken, she gave the guys lavish suck-offs. Website-only “Better Fuck Tomorrow” is the result, a mini-documentary of a scene gone wrong that still ends, at least, in a double-helping of goo gobbled by a sexy Filipina teenage girl. And it’s your first look at Miss Cruz, DAC-style…


Time to stop this infernal typing and get back to planning my Big Feature for the end of the April. This could be a fruitful month – my horoscope warns that the female muse shall grip and inspire me for a few weeks, and I certainly welcome the help … though for the purest inspiration, I’m most looking forward to the ridiculous abundance of cinematic riches coming the day after that most awful of days, April 15th…

Not only does KILL BILL VOLUME TWO open that weekend, but so does CLOSE CALL, a melodrama about a San Diego teenage K-girl who goes “bad” and does drugs and attempts prostitution before being rescued by her heroic dad (www.closecallmovie.com).

Too bad the CC trailer seems to have more in common with predictable Hollywood cliches than the fearless vitality of current South Korean cinema, which I find the most energetic, exciting and refreshing filmmaking scene on the planet right now. The K-girls to whose attention I’ve drawn CLOSE CALL looked at the online trailer and remarked, “Hmm, I guess maybe that looks about right – except for the heroic dad part. Gee, wish I had one of those!”



Of course I’ll see it anyway – the poster is plastered up all over the neighborhood in an attempt to get the “community” out, and the premiere party is right down the street at Pearl – I never go to these things, though. Who wants to be the creepy old, scary-looking white guy who nobody knows at a party full of good-looking, well-heeled Hollywood wannabes? And God forbid if they knew I was actually the politically incorrect White Devil … I see by the CLOSE CALL stills that the villains appear to be pretty much greasy male Caucasians … NOT greasy, dammit…

What will make the weekend of the 16th even more hectic but potentially blissful is the double-bill at West L.A. rep house The New Beverly. CHUNGKING EXPRESS and FALLEN ANGELS, that matched set of HK slice-of-lowlife masterpieces from my all-time favorite director, the pot-bellied little guy with the Roy Orbison sunglasses and the drunken Aussie DP, Wong Kar Wai.

Yeah, obviously I own copies of both movies, but that hardly matters. When I saw the trailer for FALLEN ANGELS seven or eight years ago at San Francisco’s Roxy Theatre, at the end of three minutes my jaw was in my lap and my adrenaline pumping, and I wanted to laugh out loud. I think I did. When I saw the film itself, along with the less pyrotechnic but even more revelatory CHUNGKING EXPRESS, my outlook on life and art was changed forever. So I will indeed go back and drink from that sacred well again, just me and WKW’s soulful, aimless but always stylish outcasts. Hopefully, I will exit the theater blinking at the light but with a renewed sense of purpose … just in time for that Jade-Blue Eclipse/Lucy Lee movie that’s boiling and churning daily in my mind.

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3/30/04 You wanna talk about the Surreal Life? Disaffected Jersey boy grows up, flees the Garden State and finds himself, um, “some years later,” as the title card might read, sitting on the roof of a photographer’s condo in Beverly Hills, playing dirty old hentai while a 19-year-old Cambodian/Salvadoran porn star shows off a tipsy Tokyo hooker’s surprisingly well-rounded butt for his pleasure, biting it, spanking, working her fingers deep in that shaven pussy … until, upon his request, the porn star dresses the Japanese girl up in a school-girl outfit with pink fairy wings, grabs her head and guides it down until her lips are clamped around the base of h