My Pal Bob.

Don’t blame me for ignoring you guys lately. Sure, it’s my fault…just don’t lay the blame on me. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: I really don’t have anything to say. At least not off the top of my head, and a lot of times I write best when I’m doing it off the top of my head. Well…sort of. So sit tight as I ramble about nothing particular at all.

I scored Dylan tickets. He’s playing at the Palladium next month. My date shall none other than The Fabulous Mz. Berlin. She’s already warned me she sings along loudly whenever she hears Dylan, and she double-warned me that she sings poorly, but that’s OK, cause Dylan’s no Pavarotti. She’s also warned me that if I don’t behave during our date I shall be caned, slapped, spanked, flogged, and humiliated in various ways.

I haven’t decided how I will behave that night, but if I was a betting man, I’d lay 7 to 2 odds I’ll wake up bruised the next day.

I told The Producer I was going to Dylan, and he told me Dylan was arrested recently after wandering around a neighborhood in New Jersey. Of course the officer didn’t know Dylan, but she’d heard of him, and it took his roadies pulling out his passport to suffice Officer Friendly.

Which reminds me of dinner the other night. I hate dropping names, but what the fuck? I had dinner the other night with Abbey Brooks and her agent and Mr POV when Agent tells us his dad “used to be a rock star” and he passed recently. Of course this piqued my interest, and I asked who: Pappa used to be a Raider.

As in Paul Revere and The Raiders.

I spun “Cherokee Nation” about a zillion times when I was 11 years old. I have no idea why I liked that song so much, but I did, and I had the 45, and I’d listen to it over and over, just like I listened to The Agent’s super duper stories about Pappa and all the Rock Stars he’d met over the years: Kiss (sans make-up when no one knew what they looked like without their make-up); Makenzie Phillips was his babysitter (and he had fun baby sitter stories); and he met just about every touring band in the 70’s and 80’s: Led Zeppelin, The Who, even Dokken! His dad just passed, and Paul McCartney even sent his condolences via e-mail. “You wouldn’t believe McCartney’s e-mail address,” he said. You wouldn’t either.

That’s about the time when Abbey said she had no idea who Paul Revere and The Raiders were, and then I went off on some tangent about time and how it only takes a generation to forget just about anything Pop Culture has to offer. Who survives? The Beatles?

Cause only about 50 people lined up on 09/09/09 to score a Beatles mono box at Amoeba. I was #9. How fucking cool is that for this geek boy? I’m #9 on 09/09/09 and yes, I got a monobox. Turns out we all did! I also got a stereo box, cause if I bought both I got the limited edition litho (1/10,000…which means there’s nothing “limited” about it, but I had to have one), and I even scored 2 Beatles 09.09.09 tee-shirts. Then I went home and listened to the box in chronological order. I got as far as the White Album. Those guys always amazed me. Not cause they’re so great; it’s the way the evolved over those 6 years and all the music they made during that short time frame. Never again, my friends. Not over 6 years.

Which is one year short of the time since I started shooting porn. I clocked year 7 last month. This is now officially the longest I’ve been at one job. I dunno even know what to think about that. Except The Minion is back in my corner — this time as an editor — and I’ve hired two new, part-time PA’s to replace him: Ricky and Mr. POV. Ricky used to be a gay porn star, and Mr. POV is on his way to becoming a porn star. So far things are fine & dandy (note the use of the ampersand…one of the most underrated punctuation marks). Mr POV even Twitters and Facebooks from time to time.

I have to draw the line somewhere.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *