The International Dirty Webmaster show ended yesterday, and from what observed, the only way to you make big money in this business anymore is “working in the gray areas”. As if being in porno isn’t gray enough. You better either be a thief or selling shit like “Beastie Porn” if you wanna make a living. That’s what they referred to it here — simply “Beastie”. When someone first said the dudes flashing all the big money and living in weird places like the Antilles sold “Beastie”, the first things to flash through my head were The Beastie Boys — and Paul’s Boutique — which is, perhaps, the greatest rap record ever made.

I guess they recently outlawed Beastie Porn production in Holland, but sales are legal…unless the stores I saw in the Red Light District featuring covers with chicks sucking horse dicks are breaking the law — which I doubt. Oh yea, I also found out there’s also something called “Sim Beastie” — which means the model might play with herself in a stall, with a bunch of horses and dogs and pigs kind of milling about, but she never touches them.

I wanna meet the twisted fucks who jerk to Beastie or Sim Beastie. Not literally, of course, but if this is your thing, please e-mail and tell me why. Include in your e-mail why this sort of thing pushes your button and when you went to the 8th grade dance, were you a Wall Flower?

Oh, and please don’t take offense to the “twisted fuck” label — there’s a lot of us out there.

Happy Yom Kippur!

I’m no Jew, but I know today’s the day cause I took a walking tour through the “Jordaan” neighborhood on my way to Anne Frank House, and fuck me cause it was closed. But that’s OK. There were tons of other cool shit to see, and I ended up scoring these weird, fold-out maps of France in an antique store for 20€ each, which was probably 15€ more than I should have paid. But they’re the kind of thing I don’t mind paying too much for.

Before that I kinda got fucked at the Rijk’s Museum, cause almost the whole thing is closed while they renovate. I could see they were tearing the place apart, but I didn’t know to what extent. They didn’t reduce the price any, either…but I was still down, cause I had to see the Vermeers, and I was figuring there was gonna be at least 10 or 15. On the way to the Vermeer Room, I caught two paintings featuring distressed ladies, seated, with a Wise Man beside them. Wise Man in Painting #1 is inspected a bottle of piss; in the second, Wise Man has already inspected the piss, which he has set on the ground. Turns out this was a paying gig in, say, 1600; “Piss Prophets” inspected the golden nectar in an attempt to see what was causing The Fair Lady to act whacky. Could it be? Pregnant!? Call The Piss Prophet!!

I am a modern-day Piss Prophet. And in order to be 100% accurate, I require it directly in my mouth.

I get to the Vermeer Room, and I’m out of luck. Call this and Anne Frank a Dirty Deuce. I was expected a dozen or two; they only have four god damn Vermeers in the whole joint — and two of them are on loan. Ends up I was in and out of there in less that an hour, and that included listening to the audio tour on most of what’s being displayed.

After the Pistols’ last show at The Winterland in San Francisco, Johnny Rotten sneered to the audience, “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?”

That makes two of us.

I found the flea market off the canal near City Hall. I was playing Tourist, which I never have a problem with, when suddenly the prerecorded lady’s voice on the canal boat said something about “…one of the biggest flea markets…”, so I jumped off that boat as fast as Tourist Boat Captain could toss the rope on the dock, and sure enough — a decent flea market! Nothing to go search an ATM over, but some OK stuff. The used porno there ruled. Just take a look at some of it. Gold Rush #2 on the left certainly is tame next to Shit Mania — Lipstick Lesbians #2, which features (in order listed on the cover) shit, pissing, shit eating, vommiting [sic], pee drinking, and, finally, lesbian action. (How about that “sic” I managed!)

Now, if I got the job to design the cover of Shit Mania — Lipstick Lesbians #2 I woulda listed the action from tame to hardcore, so my list would have looked like lesbian action, pissing, piss drinking, vomiting, shit, and shit eating — in that order. I think I would have played with the typography a little and started with a 10 or 12 point font for “lesbian action”, but by the end of my list, “shit eating” would have been about 72 point, and bold, both words underlined, and an exclamation point at the end. But hey…that’s just me.

I had to hurry to the International Adult Webmasters Convention, cause that’s the whole reason I’m here. Every hour I spend at a flea market feels like five minutes to me, and today was no exception. The next thing I know I’ve got to find the hotel this deal’s at, and I have no idea where it is, and no one I asked had even heard of it, which kinda threw me for a loop cause it’s as big and corporate as you get. Maybe no one cares about US corporate hotels based in Amsterdam. Wouldn’t that be great?

I wound up finding the place, and still had 1/2 hour before check-in even started, so I made friend with Thumb Lord and we walked across the street to a coffee shop. He’s a local and he explained marijuana laws to me, which, come to think of it, is really an explaination I didn’t need, cause I paid attention to the beginning of Pulp Fiction. But it made for good conversation between me and my new pal.

I bought a latte and two pre-rolled joints of “Pure Skunk” for 3€ each. I can’t roll a joint to save my life (a friend once called a joint I rolled a “wind tunnel”) and no way I’m gonna buy a pipe and smoke it, so I opted for the pre-rolled, which was a good choice cause they’re amazingly well packaged.

Both tables on the sidewalk were taken, but some in the smoking room — right by the door — were totally open, so I made myself comfortable and enjoyed my coffee and weed. That’s when The Thief sat down next to us.

He looked sorta like a Russian Thug you’d see in any movie with Russian Thugs, but this thug was Irish, and he was loud and belligerent after he sat down next to me to start rolling his joint, he asked, “Are you here for the show?”

“Yep. I’m Billy and I shoot porn. I live in LA”

“HA! You fool. It’s almost done for you, lad.” He was referring to my job, and paysites in general, but then he turned it into a jingoistic sort of rant. Wait…that’s not the right word. But you know what I mean, I think. “It’s pretty much done for you and yours. You and your country. I know. I was just there. 15 million unemployed in California alone, and Obama doesn’t know shit. He can’t fix this. You’re going down. You need to start doing what I do.”

I didn’t want to ask him what he did for a living or how he made his money, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I did, and that’s when he told us — me and Thumb Lord — using the best metaphorical rhetorical bullshit he could muster, that he steals content to make his living. It took him a few times of explaining his complicated thievery before I made him finally come out and just admit it, and after he did I wasn’t sure if was going to sock him in the head, or just walk away, or sit there and smoke my dope and quit paying attention to him…which was what I ended up doing.

I’ve decided I don’t like Pure Skunk. It’s kinda speedy, and I hate anything that makes my heart go pitter-patter; or, as William S. Burroughs once said, I don’t take any drugs that make me want to chew the carpet. (I’m paraphrasing him the best I remember). So I’m really stoned and really pissed, and it was time to get in line and register, but I didn’t want to, cause I was in no condition to start networking, so I sat there and wished away The Thief. I opened the bag of records I scored at the Flea Market (New Boots and Panties!! by Ian Dury (a super clean early (first?) pressing on Stiff, Peter Gabriel’s second solo record, a really early Kink’s record that was pressed in Germany, and June 1, 1974 featuring Kevin Ayers, John Cale, Eno, and Nico…which I grabbed cause a friend once told me years ago that “only junkies own that record” as he showed it to me, and I haven’t seen it since.)

Most of the time Porn Stars show up at these shows, and I was really hoping to run into some of the foreign girls I’ve worked with (like maybe Cecilia Vega, or, even *gasp* Annette Schwartz (even though she’s officially retired)) but not a tramp in sight — and the only reason I’ve even mentioning this now is I have to make my cheesy title work.

Cause here’s how The Gypsy fits in: a few hours later I’m on the #5 back to my little hotel in the Museum District when one jumps the tram. It’s a dude, but he looks kinda like a chick, cause he’s wearing bright red lipstick (smeared all over his face) and his fingernails are polished black and I can’t tell if he’s wearing a long black wig — or it’s his real hair — and he’s got all this dumb, dangly jewelry and rings on every finger and thumb and the stupid floppy hat and he’s hanging on to a shopping bag filled with nothing at all and he stinks and after he jumps the tram he turns to a very nice, very middle-aged woman standing next to him and hisses, “do you love me?” He’s speaking English, and over and over he’s telling Very Nice Lady “you love me, don’t you? How about you let me eat your clam?!” I’d laugh if Very Nice Lady wasn’t cowering in fear, and the tram was packed. Gypsy knows he’s scaring her shitless, and he’s feeding off it, so before you know it Gypsy’s pulled some sort of black shaker thing from his filthy vest and he’s shaking it over Very Nice Lady’s head. Is this dopey fucker casting some sort of spell over her?

Before you get confused on what “black shaker thing” is, let me clarify, cause I just went to Wikipedia and did a search on musical instruments, and it’s called a shekere; it’s a percussion instrument from Africa. But I didn’t know that then. And when Gypsy pulled the shekere out and started shaking it over her head and talking more shit to her, I watched all the people standing around her, cause I was just waiting for someone to do something, but the only thing that happened was everyone’s eyes got really big and their mouths dropped, and really, that’s about it. As in no one did anything at all — including me.

So what happens to an American that kicks a gypsy’s head in on public transportation in The Netherlands? I hate fighting, too, but I thought about this as the tram stopped…and put an end to it all. A bunch of people left and a bunch more came in, which took the wind out of Gypsy’s sails, and that was that. He quit.

It sobered me up, too. I jumped off the tram a few stops after — right past the now-silent Gypsy — and walked the couple blocks back to my room.

I wish I had a record player in here. I really want to listen to June 1, 1974.

You probably know all this, but the mushrooms I’ve seen here on the store shelves (“Smart Stores”) earn a four star rating for various highs: euphoria, visual, energy, body high and brain high. Not that I’m into mushrooms; in fact, I’ve eaten them only on two occasions — both times being so long ago I won’t even mention it, except to say the second time I was at the movies catching Who Framed Roger Rabbit while it was still in theaters. And the first time was a couple years (or so) earlier, and this time we were at a buddy’s house watching The Grateful Dead Movie on Betamax.

That’s right — Betamax.

We ate them with apple pie a la mode. That is we had apple pie, some vanilla ice cream, and a handful of fresh mushrooms — all slimy and gray. They tasted like shit, but that’s why we had the tasty desert chaser. I hated the Dead then, too. But I sure loved them high on ‘shrooms. Especially the opening cartoon where the skeleton dude is riding the chopper and he busts right in on “US Blues.” I kinda like a few of the Dead records now…only as long as I don’t think about Dead Heads and all the hullabaloo that surrounds them. Just put on Live From The Mars Hotel and listen to the music and don’t think about anything else. No fucking dancing Jerry Bears. No hippies in tye-dye frying on acid in their VW buses while trying to sell enough of their bullshit trinkets to make it to the next show.

I was quite certain Who Framed Roger Rabbit was the greatest film ever created the night we gobbled down a couple handfuls of freeze-dried mushrooms. There was a large group of us, and I remember my pal Ben The Used Record Salesman had scored an enormous bag full of them. We ate a handful a piece, then walked into the theater. Soon I was laughing so hard nothing came out. I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. After a while I was afraid I was going to pass out and maybe even suffocate on my own guffaws. To make matters worse, The Meat Puppets had shown up, cause they hung out with some of the people who made up our group. I certainly wasn’t friends with them, but we were friendly. This is when the Puppets were good, and I idolized them, and I was worried I was spoiling the movie for my heroes — as well as making a complete asshole out of myself. When I could control myself, all I could think was I am The Town Idiot, and I might as well be in a medieval castle, cause pretty soon these dudes are gonna start throwing food at me. But I wasn’t the only jester; the whole row was high, and they were laughing as hard and as loud, so that made things somewhat better. Except one of our pals couldn’t handle it, and he fled the theater; a few hours later we found him hidden between two cars in the parking lot, in tears, and waiting for his wife to come get him…although he wasn’t sure if he called her or not. (He hadn’t).

I rate both the fresh ‘shrooms and the freeze dried ones 4 out of 4 stars for euphoria, visuals, as well as the brain high. I’d go 3 out of 4 on the body high, and 2 on the energy.

At least that’s what I can remember.

I’d rate this week’s update with my pal Mr. POV and Aurora Snow 4 out of 4 stars for euphoria, visuals, brain and body high, while a 1 out of 4 for energy — cause after you watch it you’ll be drained.

How about that for a shameless porno plug?

Oh yea, I went to the Van Gogh Museum today, and I could go on and on about how great Vincent’s story is (even though his story has turned into a cliché, but that doesn’t make it any less of a story), and how standing in front of all those masterpieces that I’ve never seen (I don’t think they travel outside of the museum) made me feel small and insignificant…but I decided to tell you the ‘shroom stories instead.

And plug Mr. POV.

I landed at one in the afternoon — local time — and made my way to the train. I wasn’t too tired, cause I actually managed to sleep some on the way over. I sat in the back of the plane, packed tightly between two Danish boys (No Way Am I Gay) and a dude who jumps motorcycles for a living.

Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles was the last in the plane, and — don’t you fucking know it — the last person in our row, and as he made his way down I was praying to Jesus, Joseph Smith, Gandhi, Buddha, The Space Monsters the Scientologists buy in to, as well as anyone else who would listen — please please please don’t sit next to me. If you sit somewhere else on this plane I will be good for the rest of my life. I might even quit making dirty movies when I get back home if you sit somewhere else on this plane.

Of course I was crossing my fingers behind my back as I said that, which is why he sat next to me. It’s not good to cross Evil Space Monsters.

Within five minutes he was offering up his small cache of pharmaceuticals: Soma’s and Xanny Bars, mostly. Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles asked, “Want one Bro? I mean I’m not a pill popper or anything, but I hate these fucking flights.”

I declined. Politely, of course. And by mid-flight, I got to see the slide show he carried around on his lap top, which consisted mostly of pics of Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles flying through the air, his super hot girlfriend, his buddy who died jumping bikes, or his drunken friends doing stupid things at various parties in the OC.

I guess there’s a fairly lucrative circuit of Motorcycle Trick Shows in Europe and South America, and Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles is one of its stars. “See that dude up there?” Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles asked. “He’s world famous. Best one out there. He practices way more than I do.”

I asked him, “How do you practice doing back flips on a motorcycle through the air?” and he answered, “you just do it. Start small, I guess.” By this time he was so loaded on pills he couldn’t keep his eyes opened, and that’s about the time our conversation ended. I think he told me he was gonna quit the sport when his body couldn’t take it anymore.

I lost my VISA card in the god damn machine that sells tickets to the train in to Amsterdam Central. I wasn’t on the ground 15 minutes and I already had a problem. But an old Dutch man standing behind me went and got a Fix-it Lady. She wore a great uniform and with a piece of paper and several hard smacks to the side of the machine, she retrieved my card and took away all my anxiety. I thanked her until she thought there might be something wrong with me as the old Dutch man high-fived me, over and over.

I’m right across the street from the Van Gogh museum. Down the street from a great book store. From my balcony I look into a park, and last night I didn’t get high or buy a whore.

The Minion quit last week. He walked out of my studio after I told him if his phone rang one more time, and it wasn’t in his pocket (where I told him — over and over — to keep it while he was on the clock) I was going to smash it.

Smash it to bits.

Of course I wasn’t serious, but I was pissed.

I do not like being The Boss. I get no thrills or trips over being in charge; in fact, I hate it. But sometimes you gotta do what ya gotta do.

When The Minion walked back into the office, I said something like, “dude, you know I gotta tell you that so you’ll remember to keep your phone in your pocket. It’s obvious that asking nicely hasn’t worked.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” he said. “I quit.”

And with that, The Minion walked.

A few minutes later the bell rang. I answered the door. It was The Minion. He handed me his keys and turned away.

I don’t blame him, really. In fact, I was proud of The Minion. He stood up for himself, and that’s something he rarely does.

After The Minion handed me his keys, and I shut the door, then I looked over at Gia Paloma, Make-up Artist, and asked, “what do I do?”

“Let it marinate,” she said. “Just don’t do anything right away.”

“I should call and apologize for threatening to smash his phone,” I said.

“Shit Billy, Chico Wang screamed FAT FUCK at him for 3 years anytime he wanted something. I can’t believe he just quit over what went down.”

Maybe Gia’s right. Maybe The Minion has wanted out of porn for a while, and this was his way to leave.

Maybe not.

I called him the next day and apologized. “I’m sorry I said I was going to smash your phone, bro. It’s just that I got really frustrated cause I’ve asked you, over and over, to keep it in your pocket.” I also told him I can write a great letter of rec when he starts to interview for other positions. I’m not sure what kind of work he’s going to look for…but either way, we spent two solid years together, and through blunders and fuck-ups, good days and bad, he was part of my team, and I couldn’t do what I did without him by my side.

We talked a few more minutes, and The Minion said he’d come in Monday to help me with some editing and get his stuff and when we hung up, we were cool.

Or so I thought.

Cause that’s the last time we spoke. Since then, he turned off his voice mail, won’t answer texts, and won’t reply to my e-mails. His phone no longer even takes incoming calls.

I won’t get into the mess that’s left, or how long it’s taken just to figure out where files and folders are, but it sure woulda made things easier if he just would have taken a 10 minute phone call. Cleaning the mess has pretty much consumed my life since he left; the only cool thing I made time for was the Jay Reatard in-store at Amoeba last Tuesday.

But that’s pretty typical when people leave the porn biz. When they leave, they Leave, and they don’t look back…whether it’s your favorite Porno Princess or The Minion: when they’re out, they’re Out…and they don’t look back.

Can you blame them?

I don’t.

But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss them.

I miss pretty much all of them, too — even when they drove me crazy: Spring and Ruth: Katie and Candy; I think I miss Barbie most of all…as well as The King of the Misfits — The Minion.

Unrequited love is great fodder for artists. Don’t believe me? Just read the lyrics to probably 90% of any song written, then read a whole bunch of poetry, and then think about yourself: when’s the last time you got kinda creative?

Probably around the time your last chick dumped you.

One of the best celebrity sightings I ever saw was Marilyn Manson leaving the Hollywood Arc Light theater arm in arm with Evan Rachel Wood. But wait…I’m kinda fibbing. I caught a glimpse of this; Adrianna Nicole was the one who really caught the full sighting and then pointed it out to me.

I just read Marilyn’s completed his record, and he’s calling it The High End of Low, and it’s all about his messy break-up with Miss Wood. In addition, Ms. Manson is sportin’ 158 fresh, self-inflicted cuts, one for every unanswered call he placed to the actress during their break-up.

He cuts to let the pain out…kinda like half the girls in porn.

But maybe not. He confirmed the story and followed up with, “But they weren’t the type of wounds I’ve imposed on myself in the past, because, well, a razor blade is a very fine instrument, and it makes very small, precise cuts,” he says. “But I really don’t think that was bad. It was me making a point at the time, reminding myself of the stupidity of waiting on someone, a reminder that I’d made a mistake. So I’m glad that I did it, and I learned from the experience.”

Uh huh.

And now guess what?

He’s dating one of the Highest Porno Princesses today — Stoya — and he’s gone as far as to call Sotya his “salvation”.

Note to Ms. Manson’s man-servant: make sure the bathroom is razor free and clear the cutlery out the kitchen.

ASAP.

Take a look at those giant tits.

And that fat pussy.

You’re looking at the world’s oldest stroke fodder, which was whittled from a Mammoth tusk around 33,000 BC.

And you thought Nina Hartley was old school.

Caveman beat his meat, too. Poor, lonely Caveman, who couldn’t manage to club Cavegirl over the head and drag her back home.

The obsession with nekkid girls has been with man since Day One, and this just proves that point. They found this bit of Caveman Porn in a German cave. I’m surprised it wasn’t more elaborate…as in a Caveman pooping on Cavegirl, cause we all know how much those Whacky Germans love their Scheiße Movies.

Thank goodness for the internet when it comes to translating German to English. This is how I discovered “Scheiße”, cause — being a dumbass American — I was about to call them Schizer movies. As in German Schizer Movies. As in the kind Cartman’s mom starred in.

I also have no problem ending the last sentence in a preposition.

Anyways, they’re calling this the earliest example of figurative art, and I’m gonna call is the earliest example of porn, and I bet this was passed around during Caveman meetings, and after a furious session of Paper Rock Scissors, one lucky Caveman got to bring it home and whack off like never before. And I’m sure one winner hoarded it, and never brought it back, and he ended up hiding it from his future Cavegirl…and there it sat for 35,000 years.

What a good hiding place!

I think I’ll go off on a quick tangent and talk more about Germans, especially how clean those motherfuckers are. I couldn’t get over it. No one fucks up anything. Even on the public transport. The restrooms are so fucking spotless I had no problem dropping a deuce in them, which, for me, is unheard of…I am a total Home Field player, and the second I’m forced to poop anywhere but home, I won’t — unless I’m on the verge of dropping the aforementioned deuce in my drawers.

Not in Germany!

I had no problem sitting my big, white butt all over their public toilet seats.

(Sitting or setting?)

There will be no disorder! Not even in the sex shops, which were spotless. And when I walked into one, there wasn’t a single creepy Cruisy Boi; instead, all I saw were hot chicks buying sex toys.

Is this indicative off all German sex shops? Or only the ones in Munich? I mean are the sex shops in Berlin filthy?

What gives?

And now that I’m in Prague, what should I expect?