I Shoot Porn

Sweet Child O’ Mine as covered by Taken By Trees: Who woulda thunk that a quiet, Cat Poweresque gal from Stockholm could have pulled off such a great cover. Her name is Victoria Bergsman, and when she’s singing she calls herself Taken By Trees, and her tiny piano is every bit as effective as Slash’s mighty axe. After you add that song to your mySpace, listen to “Julia”.

The Kindly Ones by Jonathon Littell: If you don’t finish this book, you can always use it to crush coal into diamonds, which might not take as long as reading it. But you might finish, cause you read this blog, and that makes you a big ol’ perv. I’m quite sure you will enjoy reading the sordid tale of an SS Officer who, among other things, sodomizes his sister, jams sausages up his own ass then cleans them up a bit to serve to his parents, and does walking tours of Auschwitz, Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald, after which he’s called to the bunker in Berlin during Hitler’s last days, where he meets Dur Fuhrer. I haven’t gotten this far, yet, and I dunno if I will, cause if a book doesn’t do it for me, I have no problem setting it down. But so far, so good.

My new MacBook Pro: It’s not really new, cause I bought it off my pal who just bought a super duper high powered one, but this is only a year old, and I love it, and I think it’s time for me to say bye bye to PC’s. By the way, my senior year I couldn’t do algebra, and I needed the math credit, so I signed up for computer class. (I dunno if it still counts as a math credit). We had the brand-spankin’ new Apple I with a 64K hard drive. This was 1982, I loved Oingo Boingo, but I didn’t have a mullet (that came in ‘84). In other words, I started on an Apple. I’ll probably end on one. Next up: iPhone.

The Ace Hotel, Portland OR: So I’m writing this from Room #315, and I’m up here kicking it with a pal, and I’m right across the street from Gay Pride (No Way Am I Gay!) — but, more importantly, Powell’s City of Books, and across the street the dude who sells vintage smut, and down from him Stumptown Coffee Roasters, which ain’t too far from Jackpot Records. The Crystal Ballroom! And on every tap, Pabst Blue Ribbon! In other words, motherfuck me. If it wasn’t for October til May, I’d figure out a way to live here.

Greil Marcus’s Real Life Rock Top Ten as it appears in The Believer: From Wiki: “Greil Marcus (born 1945) is an American author, music journalist and cultural critic. He is notable for producing scholarly and literary essays that place rock music in a much broader framework of culture and politics than is customary in pop music journalism.” Every month he hypes ten things he loves lately, so what’s a filthy, dirty pornographer to do but rip him off? Mr. Marcus is much smarter than I; hence, I’m only half as good. At least today.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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The few Whores still working Rue St. Denis are a sad lot: every one I strolled by was at least 40 years old and they wore ridiculously cheap fur coats and knee-high black leather boots and most have huge tits and big asses and hard, angry faces.

Rue St. Denis is one of the oldest streets in Paris. It’s an old Roman thoroughfare — so old, it’s quite possible the first whores to work it serviced the grandsons of the Roman soldiers who put Christ on the cross. How’s that for a thought? Some horny Soldier of the Empire just forked over a satchel of coins and is bragging to the whore he’s about to bang that Grandaddy was muscle for Pontius Pilate and was right there at Golgatha when it all went down.

I felt bad for them, actually. Poor whores. Today was a cold and rainy day (it even hailed a bit), and no one paid attention to any of them, and they just stood in their doorways, staring blankly into the street.

Not one of them said a word.

I always do my best to blend into wherever I’m traveling, just so I don’t look like too much of a dork. I don’t like pickpockets, either. I must have done an exceptional job today, cause I didn’t get solicited once; in fact, not one of them even looked at me.

Did I do a good job looking like a Parisian…or did they think I was a big ol’ dork with no money?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Rue St. Denis is just down the street from one of my very favorite places on Earth, the 4th floor of the Centre Pompidou, which I had just left. The Calder show was fantastic, and I think I could sit in front of The Cacodylic Eye all day long, just trying to figure out who exactly signed that motherfucker…and imagine the party that was happening as they all did signed away.

I’ve been down Rue St. Denis more than once in my life, but I’ve never done any business with a French Whore. I have been in the porno stores, and this time, instead of checking them out, I decided to take pictures of them. I have no idea why, other than I just got a new camera, and I’m still learning it, and the best way to learn a camera is to shoot the shit out of it.

Which is what I’ve been doing.

Anyways, in front of the church of Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles, one of the dirty bookstore barkers got pissed. I was surprised it didn’t happen earlier, but, come to think of it, none of the other dirty bookstores had a barker standing there. Sure enough, the first barker I get to is pissed, but not cause I tried to take his picture.

He shouted at me in his very best broken English, “what are you doing!?”

I don’t know why he was so pissed, cause he wasn’t even standing in front of the store when I snapped the pic.

I asked him, in my very best shitty French, “Par-lay vooooo zon-glay?”

“Yes I do!” Then he motioned to the church across the street. “That is what you should be taking pictures of! Not this place…THAT place!” He pointed at the church again.

I said, “I want to take pictures of adult bookstores.”

“NO NO NO! When you are in Paris, you take pictures of this!” This time he took a few steps towards the church as he pointed at it.

“But I want to take pictures of adult bookstores.” It drove him nuts. “Besides,” I said loudly, “I have very many pictures of churches.”

How come we speak loudly — and in poor English — when we’re talking to foreigners?

At least I do.

As I walked away, he was still going berserk over my choice of subject. I kept snapping away as I strolled down the street. It seems they’re cleaning up Rue St. Denis. Last time I was here, I was shopping for Bestiality porno for Barbie Cummings. “Please bring me back some doggy porn from Paris, Billy!” Barbie pleaded. I didn’t, and for two reasons: the shit is expensive, and I was totally frighted about customs discovering my booty. Not that they’d arrest me…but cause they’d think I jerked to that shit.

There was a black dude barker at the next store, and he was much nicer. He didn’t speak English, but he was able to tell me he was from Africa. He didn’t care at all if I took pictures of his store, and he did a fairly poor job trying to get me inside. Maybe cause I said hello to him, and asked his permission to take a picture? Then I asked him if I could take his picture in front of his workplace; he politely declined.

There’s was a Russian-looking thug barker at the next place, and he was the nicest barker of all. He spoke English. He performed his job very well! “Why don’t you go in? Very nice women inside!”

I did not know there were women in an adult bookstore. This must be some sort of new marketing strategy.

“Oh yes! You’ll like them! They massage you, and then they masturbate you!”

Then I thought I was teaching him a new phrase: “We refer to that as a happy ending.”

But he already knew it.

“How much for the happy ending?” I asked.

“Fifty euro.”

“Fifty total?” I asked.

“Yes sir!”

“No upsell?” I asked.

“No sir!” He smiled and walked to the door and pushed the drapes aside, but I declined. He tried to do his job a few more times before I finally walked away.

That’s when I came up on the whores. They totally bummed me out. They were so sad. I couldn’t even walk to the end of the street. I turned around and walked back towards the Pompidou and on to a great street that had all sorts of charming boulangeries and patisseries and meat stores (I don’t remember how you say those in French) and fish stores and oysters must still be in season cause there were tons of oysters everywhere and I took all sorts of pictures of food…mainly the totally gross stuff they sell here, like whole pigs and chickens with their heads still on and loaded with feathers and beef tongues.

But I suppose they sell that stuff just about everywhere, huh?

Posted in: Barbie Cummings, Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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Bil Maher starts his new season tonight, and I’m thinking I’m gonna invite a whore over to dinner, then have her blow me, and I’m gonna get really stoned right before she blows me, and then I’m gonna watch my hero Bill rant and rave about all sorts of shit.

I don’t smoke pot much of late. Really, I don’t. I save it now for special occasions.

BJ’s and Bill are two of those occasions…and really, that’s all.

No, wait.

Wilco.

They have a new concert DVD out called “Ashes of American Flags“.

I can’t wait for April 18!

But before I state my Gayness for Wilco and Jeff Tweedy, let me share with you a conversation I just had with an online friend:

[10:45] dlewxxx: It’s like…I get it…you hate kids and love pot…move on
[10:49] billywatson3: nooooo
[10:49] billywatson3: he talks about all sorts of shit
[10:49] dlewxxx: I know….but he always goes there and I fucking hate redundant people

Bill is my main most man, and from what I hear, he adores Black Girls.

Black Whores, to be exact.

This, of course, is nothing more than Whore Hearsay (a friend of mine who’s a whore says she has whore friends that have entertained the entertainer).

Extra Bonus Points for Bill.

Does all this Whorespeak make me come off a little misogynistic?

I think I’d blow Jeff Tweedy, but no way would I swallow.

Cause No Way I’m Gay.

So if you’re wondering what a pornographer does on his Friday, here ya go: shoot a blow bang and a IR POV (I hold the camera) then contemplate the book of piss pics I’m working on and then haul ass to the gym (218 the other day!!) and listen to French Lesson 3 whilst tread milling and then haul ass to Amoeba to see what’s shown up in the used bin and then haul ass home and have my Special Friend swing by where we shall grub and smoke and then I’ll squeal like a little girl cause Bill Maher will ramble about pot, his hatred for little kids and organized religion and our fucking Ex-President.

And our love for The New One.

I’ll squeal about Bill and not what my Special Friend does to me.

And if I say it once, I’ll say it a million times — No Way.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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I had a friend in college who had a friend who had a friend who had a spider monkey.

Spider monkeys do not make good pets; this particular one, when pissed, would throw its poo at you. And the walls. And anything else it felt like…until it couldn’t poo anymore.

Then it would scream.

Loudly.

Some animals can’t be pets: turtle may seem harmless enough, but did you know that they actually carry salmonella? Boas (any poisonous snake, really) and scorpions are no bueno. Forget about camels and ostriches, too. Crocs and alligators…oh my! And don’t even think about fucking with a Kinkajou; those cute little furry fucks will shred up the side of your face for no reason whatsoever.

(The preceding list of critters that make bad pets (the the reasons why) can be found here.)

Poor Travis The Chimp!

(By the way, the picture of the chimp putting isn’t Travis; I found it with a Google image search, and I used it here to illustrate today’s blog…and it works quite nicely, I might add).

From CNN: “The friendly guy [Travis] was known to walk around town, sometimes without a leash! He also liked to surf on the Internet and was able to change the TV channel with a remote. Travis watered plants, was able to feed hay to his owner’s horses, ate at a table with the rest of the family and sometimes drank wine from a stemmed glass.

You probably saw Travis, too…cause Coca-Cola and Old Navy hired Travis for their TV ads.

Wonder what Travis’s rate was for that kind of work.

Wonder if Travis ever surfed for porn or watched Katie Morgan’s silly HBO shows while watching TV?

Maybe Travis even stumbled upon Blacks on Blondes! (I’ll ask the owners to do a member search to see if Travis ever joined.)

Anyways, Travis got a little antsy the other day after getting “a haircut that changed her appearance significantly.”

I guess Travis has a vagina to go with her boy name.

So what do you do with a lady chimp that’s pissed about a shitty hair cut?

How about crunch up a Xanax and stir it up in a nice cup o’ tea and hand it to the monkey?

Cause that’s what Travis’s owner did.

Swear.

I guess that would make sense, though, cause I know a lot of ladies who have done the same thing after getting a haircut they didn’t like.

But I guess the Xannie Bar did nothing to alleviate the chimp’s foul mood, cause a little later it ripped someone apart.

Literally.

As in, “Travis jumped on her [the victim] and began biting and mauling her [the victim], causing serious injuries to her face, neck and hands”, and “[the cop who arrived on the scene] said the attack was unprovoked, but described it as ‘brutal and lengthy.’”

The victim isn’t dead…yet.

Of course Travis’s owner didn’t just sit around and watch. He stabbed poor Travis “with a butcher knife and hit him with a shovel.”

Poor Travis?

Fuck yea.

Poor Travis.

By the way, the butcher knife and the shovel treatment didn’t stop Travis.

Not even close.

Somehow, the cops got Travis into the back of the squad car (the report didn’t say how…which would have been the best part of the story to me) but they would up pumping Travis full of bullets after Travis went after them.

Travis’s head is now on its way to a lab to check for rabies, and his body is on its way to another lab for a routine autopsy.

My point to this whole thing?

Well, I guess stick with dogs and cats as pets…and stay away from monkeys.

Especially after a bad haircut.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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Lux Interior of The Cramps has died. He was sixty.

I managed to catch the Cramps once, and it was at a show at The Devil House in Tempe, AZ, in the early ’90s — but it could been 1989.

In fact, I think it was.

God damnit the Cramps fucking rocked. I mean that show was insane. I dunno what was better — the Kid In The Wheelchair, or Lux spanking his ball sac whilst on the very top of one of the speaker towers whilst on all fours with his ass propped high in the air whilst wearing nothing but women’s underpants whilst simulating fellatio on his microphone.

I was very nervous for Kid In The Wheelchair cause all the punks held him (still in his chair) high about the crowd, passing him all around that pit. How long until he fell out of his chair?

I was very nervous for Lux, cause that speaker tower was way up there, and it was all wobbly and shit, and I was quite certain at any moment it was going to come crashing down into the very same pit where Kid In The Wheelchair was still being passed around (and still hoisted high) above everyone’s heads.

I was very nervous for Poison Ivy — Lux’s wife and his guitarist — because almost everyone in the front two rows were spitting on her, and she had to catch some sort of illness from all that nasty saliva and phlegm that ended up covering her from head to toe.

I wasn’t very nervous for their drummer, who I thought was Kid Congo Powers, but now I’m not so sure, but he was the dude who always wore that silly Silver Medal around his neck while he bashed away at his kit, and there was absolutely no need to worry about him.

Lux wore pants that were about the lowest cut a dude could get away with without his dick popping out.

Lux had one of the coolest names for a lead singer, ever.

Lux wore creepy white make-up a whole lot.

Lux wore women’s pumps a whole lot, too.

I bet Marilyn Mason wished he was Lux Interior more than once in his life…cause, let’s face it, whatever Marilyn pulled off Lux had already done by 1979.

Lux Interior — once in a lifetime, my friends.

Posted in: Current Events, Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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On New Year’s, I like to remember my past.

1969 is the first year I remember. I mean specifically remember, in as much as I remember looking at a calendar and seeing “1969″ on it, and then being able to recall that calendar now and associate it with that year — 1969. It was a calendar that hung in Mrs. Biddle’s kindergarten classroom, which happened to be my new classroom, too.

Of course I remember things before that, but they aren’t associated with a year. Does this make sense? Like, I remember my parents going on vacation somewhere and bringing me back a 45 of Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Were Made For Walkin’” and I played it on my plastic record player in the basement. In that same basement my mother huddled me and my sister around the same time I got that record. We were all very frightened, and we huddled there on April 21, 1967. I didn’t know the exact date the tornado hit ’til I just Google’d it, but I remember the three of us under our house that shitty day.

I remember 1979 very well, cause I was 15, and that’s no trick to remember something when you’re that age; plus, my little brother came into this word that year…and on that very special day, after I left the hospital to see my new baby brother, I went with my very best friend, Johnny Boy, and we saw Styx play the Veteran’s Memorial Coliseum.

You heard right.

We called him Johnny Boy, and we caught Styx in concert.

As in

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Mata ah-oo hima de
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Himitsu wo shiri tai

but they didn’t pen that shitty song until after I had witnessed The Miracle that is Styx.

(Time for today’s Super Fun Fact about Styx: one of the band’s leaders, Dennis DeYoung, played the ever-lovable Pontius Pilate in Jesus Christ Superstar).

In 1989 I was living in Dallas, Texas — for a spell, anyway. And selling penny stocks to anyone who would buy them. I was so miserable. I’d put on a suit and a tie and wake up super early and I worked with a bunch of silly goons, and after the market closed we’d go to strip joints and drink heavily, and then I’d go home to my small apartment over a garage in a neighborhood full of gay men.

No Way Am I Gay!

In 1999 I just finished grad school (for the second time) and I was teaching English 101 and 102 at a local community college. Did I ever tell you how much the chicks dug my shit? It was incredible! But before I brag, lemme make one thing perfectly clear. I’m an average dude, with average looks…at least I’d like to think so. I never was a Lady Killer, but I got laid. Sometimes. And sometimes I didn’t. But I never, ever, had girls fawn over me…until I became The Professor.

My God!

The thing I miss most about teaching isn’t helping young people better their lives.

It isn’t the free heath care.

It certainly wasn’t the salary.

I miss all that god damned attention I got from my female fans. Um, wait…students. All my female students. And all that attention. For lack of a better word.

Anyways…who knows The Miracles and Disappointments 2009 shall bring!

On New Year’s, we play a Fool’s Game called “Resolutions”, and it’s always so much fun we do it all the time. Instead, I’m gonna set some “goals”, and if they happen — coolio.

If they don’t — foolio.

Here goes:

GOAL #1 — 213: In 2009, I wanna get down to what I weighed my junior year in high school. I know this sounds arbitrary, and it is. I mean tipping the scale the same way I did when I was 17 is an arbitrary thing, but to me it makes sense, cause for some dumb reason I remember weighing in for football practice at 213. That number’s was etched into the back of my brain since that day, so why not?

I’m getting close, too…and not a lot of middle-aged, fuddy-duddy dudes can make that claim.

Part of the New Year’s Resolution cliché (um, goals) that is weight loss means all the clichés that come with it, so that means I’ll have to eat better and exercise more and blah blah blah blahblah.

GOAL #2 — FRENCH: Did you know “French Lessons” is tricky Whore Talk for giving blow jobs? Tricky as in I’m gonna post an ad on Craig’s List and instead of saying I give 50 dollar BJ’s I’m gonna trick the Po-Po and say French Lessons for $50.

I know what you’re thinking — No Way Am I Gay!

Instead, in 2009, I’m going to learn the French language, in as much as I wanna be able to order a beer, or find a hotel, or a whorehouse…or ask any number of fairly simple questions in that wonderful language — then receive an answer.

And be able to comprehend that answer.

Or at least most of it.

Kinda like my current knowledge and comprehension of the Spanish language.

By the way, if I ever shut down my blog and disappear off the face of the Earth, don’t get your panties all up in a bunch…I’ll simply be sipping an espresso on the Seine, across from the Musée d’Orsay, reading some Sartre or Genet, and ogling at all the French girls.

GOAL #3 — Whores v. Zombies: I want to make a Zombie movie. I want to make a great Zombie movie. But, before I tell you about my zombie movie, you must absolutely promise not to tell another living soul about this movie, cause after you hear about it, you’ll want to make one just like mine, and I can’t have you stealing any of my ideas, OK?

Promise?

Good.

“The Whores versus The Zombies”.

You read right.

This one ain’t too tough to figure out. There’s gonna be whores, and there’s gonna be zombies, and a town on the brink of becoming a ghost town, and a preacher everyone hates, and the preacher shall do nothing but quote Revelations throughout this fine film, and when the zombies eat Whore Brains they shall belch loudly, and there shall be a couple cowboys, too, and they’ll help the whores battle the zombies. I’m not sure which side will win, yet…but I’m leaning towards the zombies.

Now, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll fuck your shit up. Big time.

As in your ass is grass, and I’m the lawnmower. Got it, Buster Brown?

So don’t make me do that, OK? Cause the other thing I’m gonna work on for Aught 9′er is my terrible, terrible temper. And besides, this blog is dated, and when I prove you stole my movie idea after this blog was published, I’ll sic my lawyer after your pathetic, silly, idea-stealin’ self, and trust me when I tell you lawyers are no fun at all. After he’s done with you, I’ll go out and buy a red, convertible Corvette with all your money, and I’ll drive it around really town really fast and I shall be the coolest cat around.

So there.

Oh, by the way — Happy New Year!

May you experience nothing but happiness and success in 2009.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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OK Boys & Girls!

Time to share what we all got this wonderful Holiday Season!

I’ll go first.

On The Road — The Original Scroll: Unabridged on 10 CD’s, this is the “legendary first draft” of my boy Jack’s masterpiece. Why legendary? If you don’t know this story, you should. Kerouac wrote on the entire novel in, like, 3 weeks…from start to finish. Influenced heavily by improvisational jazz, Kerouac felt that you just needed to write — and do nothing else. Except maybe take speed. Which he took lots of. Doing nothing else meant things like no revision and even — get this — no putting another piece of paper into the typewriter once you got to the end of a page. So he had the girl he was banging at the time tape together reams of paper so Kerouac could just sit there and write. Or, if you ask Truman Capote, type. The words just flowed from Kerouac…like notes from, say, Charlie Parker — who Kerouac idolized. What’s this all mean? No punctuation. No paragraph structure. Fuck grammar rules! In other words, none of the bullshit you dealt with in English class. And using everyone’s real name! So, instead of reading about “Old Bull Lee”, you get to read about William S. Burroughs. And instead of “Carlo Marx”, you get Allen Ginsberg. Kerouac himself is “Sal Paradise” and Herbert Huncke “Elmer Hassel”. In other words, we get to hear it all. Which none of us got with the published book, cause you know how editors can be…plus, Kerouac’s publishers were a bit uptight about defamation law suits, cause most publishers are. The only thing better than hearing the scroll would be actually getting to read the scroll itself, but it’s so frail now that’s impossible. Plus the rich dude who owns The Indianapolis Colts owns the scroll now, too; he bought it at auction a few years ago for a couple million bucks, and he ain’t lending it out anytime soon. Well, actually, he kinda is: the scroll goes on tour from time to time, so if it comes to a city near yours, go check it out. It’s super cool to look at, and it’s in an airtight, properly-humidified clear case, which means it won’t deteriorate any time soon. (I suppose this is a good way to properly care for a multi-million dollar investment). I know all this cause I caught the scroll on tour when it made a brief stop in San Francisco.

Wow — that was kinda long.

I’ll keep the rest of this short.

I got more audio CD’s — these will teach me French.

I got some books, too. (Not like I need any more).

I got the Vampire Weekend record (ain’t it cool that a lot of the records these days come with a free digital download for your computer?) and I got some clothes and I got a Target gift card and I got a vintage cookie jar (it’s an Aunt Jemima look-a-like girl and yet another addition to my politically incorrect “Black Americana” collection) and I got a bag of Hershey Kisses and a kidrobot Munny Doll to color myself and one of Peskimo’s Bamboo Zoo and a Hef figure from Peecol, too.

Oh! My big gift was XBox 360!

Woot woot!

OK — your turn.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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I just got invited to a BBW Stripper Party tonight!

I guess this is a Christmas Party of some sort — and it features BBW strippers. And, from the looks of it, they’re black BBW strippers!!

BBW = Big, Beautiful Women — in case you didn’t know.

Subrina Love invited me. Phantasy is going to be there. So is Lovely Cumms, Lady Finesse, and Chocolate Nights.

If you look closely at the bottom left of the flyer, not one skinny chick will be allowed in — so don’t go looking for them, OK?

And, as long as you don’t wear your colors, you will be let in!

The $20 cover gets you one free jungle juice!

What goes down at a BBW Stripper party? Are those lovely women gonna strip…and give lap dances? Is it a Meet n’ Greet? Or will it be just another night o’ clubbin’?

Regretfully, I will never know, cause I will not be able to attend. I’m off to Phoenix to celebrate my birthday; however, I’m sending The Minion in my place.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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Last night, I was feeling like I needed some “Me Time”.

When male talent’s on set, “Me Time” means leaving him alone with the porn whore he’s working with in order to get some wood.

When I need “Me Time”, I just need to chill. By myself.

I love my neighborhood. I really do. I can walk to a strip joint, a whole bunch of bars, my favorite art gallery, a huge thrift store, my favorite bookstore, the very best coffee shop in LA, and some of my very favorite restaurants.

And since no one walks in LA, this means more than you think it does. Nothing is within walking distance in this city, so to have all this cool shit so close to my crib makes my neighborhood almost as good as eating pussy.

My crib…is a very very very fine crib.

Walkin’ in LA! Walkin’ in LA! Noboby walks in LA!

(Right now, as I bang this out, OJ’s about to get fucked up. Goes to show ya it really is hard to get away with murder, huh?)

Me Time usually means Spend Money Time, so — just cause I’m sure you’re very curious — here’s what I spent my hard-earned, dirty smut money on last night…and what I almost spent my money on: 4 books, 3 fish tacos, one Max Grundy painting, and a raspberry crumb cake.

The four books, in no particular order: 2666 by Roberto Bolaño, Julian Barnes’s Nothing To Be Frightened Of, Zombie Movies: The Ultimate Guide, and The Album Art of Hipgnosis.

2666 cause everyone’s gushing that it’s a masterpiece, Nothing To Be Frightened Of cause lately I’m obsessed with death; Zombie Movies cause I wanna make one; and it appears the dudes at Hipgnosis designed the cover of just about every record I listened to from, say, 1978 to 1982.

My three fish tacos were dressed nicely with guacamole, sour cream, and pico de gallo.

Should I pull the trigger on a Max Grundy? I find his work oddly compelling. My brother called Basophobia (Fear of Falling) “scary”. It’s one of three I was thinking about, and I liked his take on it. But my brother also thinks Grundy is a Shepard Fairey rip-off, so I dunno. I kinda see what he’s talking about. Anyways, I told the gallery I’ll be back tonight for the opening, and then I’ll make my final decision. And eat some cheese n’ crackers and drink some cheap wine.

Oh, and right before I go to bed, I take a lil’ nite-nite medicine, and I eat a treat, and I listen to what Rachel Maddow has to say, and I wonder if she likes eating pussy as much as I do, and then I go nite-nite; hence, the raspberry crumb cake…but only cause they were sold out of chocolate chip muffins.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn by Billy Watson /
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Forty years ago this month, Van Morrison released his very first (depending on who you ask) solo record, Astral Weeks. He had just quit as the singer of Them, which you might (or might not) know, but I’m sure you know about their hit “Gloria”, as in G-L-O-R-I-A Gloria; I’m sure you don’t know The Doors opened for Them during the band’s 1967, three week stint at The Whiskey A Go-Go, and, in one of Them’s final shows, Jim Morrison jumped up on stage with Van Morrison to belt out “Gloria” for one of their final encores — ever.

Imagine that — the two Morrison’s screaming “G-L-O-R-I-A!” before almost anyone knew who Jim Morrison — or The Doors — were.

It doesn’t get any better than Astral Weeks. Really, it doesn’t. Just about every music rag places Astral Weeks in its Best Of Lists; Lester Bangs called it “the rock record with the most significance in my life so far” (he died a few years later); I scored it an 8 on the Billy Watson I Shoot Porn Top 10 albums ever made list.

It’s not only Van’s masterpiece, but a masterpiece of modern music, and, like all masterpieces, no one really paid attention to it when it was released, and the record company didn’t really promote it, and for years no one really cared about it.

So when I saw Van was coming to the fabulous Hollywood Bowl last weekend to play Astral Weeks in its entirety, I was all over it. I even forked over 350 Clams to sit as close as I could to Van and his mini-orchestra…as well as two of the last surviving musicians who played on the record.

350 Doll Hairs is a whole lotta bread to fork over just to see a show, but lemme take a sec and defend my decision:

1) It’s Astral Weeks, god damnit. From beginning to end. Catching a Van Morrison show really isn’t a big deal — cause he still tours somewhat frequently — but catching him playing anything off that record is, cause, well…he just won’t play tracks off Astral Weeks. (He also doesn’t do “Brown-Eyed Girl” or “Gloria”).

2) It’s The Hollywood Bowl, god damnit. What a great place to hear a show. Plus, ever since I was a kid and shelled out 6 bucks for a copy of The Beatles at The Hollywood Bowl, I’ve had a weird affinity for that place.

3) I’m flying solo. No date. As in Mr. Lonely Guy. I’ve never been to a show by myself — ever. Why not start now? Plus, if I bought a date, we’d be talking 700 sheckles, which is steep. But solo? I’m there!

4) Then, the day of the show, I read he’s doing two sets, cause they’re gonna make a DVD / CD of the whole shin-dig, and the first set will be a greatest hits thingy — with “Brown-Eyed Girl” and “Gloria” in it — and the second set’s Astral Weeks, and once he does this show, that’s it. As in Van’s done. He’ll tour again, but there will be no Astral Weeks tour.

So I went to the show.

And it ruled.

I sat near the fat dude from Superbad; actually, I sat in front of him.

After Van walked off stage and the house lights went up, I headed home, but before I got there I ordered a plate of Chicken Nachos and a Diet Coke from my favorite taco stand in LA.

I made it back just in time to watch Bill Maher and n’joy mis nachos.

Then, as usual, I took my medicine and fell into a deep sleep.

Posted in: Nothing To Do With Porn, What I'm Listenting To Lately by Billy Watson /
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