Mr. and Mrs. Watson rolled into town this Labor Day weekend. I’ve never really talked about my family, but that’s cause this is a porno blog, and if there’s one place your folks don’t belong…well, that’s in your porno blog. In case you’re wondering, they know what I do for a living, and while they’re not ashamed at Their Son The Pornographer, I’m sure they would have been much happier with Their Son The English Teacher. Although they were much more disappointed with Their Son The Stockbroker, that’s for sure.
When I told my mom I was getting my Series 7 and getting on the phone to peddle stocks, she scowled…and said nothing.
When I told my mom I was getting behind a camera to document people engaged in various sex acts — some of which may be deemed obscene in certain parts of our great nation — she just sorta shrugged her shoulders and said something like, “just be careful.” And then she asked me, “do you have a porno director name?”
“Billy Watson!” I said.
She asked, “Where did you dream that up?”
“Well, I just wanted to call myself something unassuming and corny. Cause there’s nothing cornier and dumber than, say, “Johnny Madness” or “Tommy Big Guns” or any variances thereof. And I certainly wouldn’t give myself a one-name name, you know? That territory is reserved for the weak and worthless.”
My mom thought about it a sec and said, “that’s strange. I never told you this, but your grandmother dated a man named Billy Watson before she married your grandfather. I think that’s the first time I’ve heard the name Billy Watson in maybe a hundred years.” She said it so nonchalantly that I dunno what surprised me more — her non-expressive reaction or the fact that I randomly chose the same (porno) name as a dude who my granny dated about the same time The Great Depression was winding down.
Weirder yet? This weekend at one of my flea markets, Dad walks up to me and says in this sort of hush-hush whisper, “the fat lady sitting in front of the van has the kind of dirty pictures you like.” I looked up and over at the lady, who was really fat and had parked herself right next to her ’89 Dodge van. Someday I think I’m gonna take portraits of flea market folks, and yes…I got my dad scouting flea markets, but he still hasn’t figured out the difference beween “cheesecake” pics and hardcore ones. But in this particular instance, that was quite alright. Cause in the folded-up envelope the fat lady kept in a small glass case on her plastic folding table was more of the Three Nuns.
Oh, while I’m talking about that post, I was pretty amazed only one reader called phony on the Nazi fags; more amazing yet was the following e-mail that landed in my in-box from Europe: I am born 1975 but my grandfather already told me that the Sturmabteilung (SA) was the known “gay-wing” of the Nazis. (He was your typical “been there, done that” former not-anymore-Nazi…) So, these Nazi gay-pics do not surprise me at all. This prompted me to dial in my Google machine, which immediately returned Ernst Röhm.
Back to The Three Nuns: First off, the half-dozen or so pics I scored at the Flea Market are tiny, and each single picture contains a bunch of even tinier pictures. They were small, but not so small I didn’t immediately recognize the large photo of the three nuns I scored in New York City last month. “How much?” I asked the Fat Lady.
“Fifteen,” she said, flatly.
“Give ya ten.”
“Fifteen,” she said, flatly.
I turned and walked. And then I turned and started looking for something else I could bundle into the buy. The only other thing that remotely interested me was a black americana label featuring a black kid eating watermelon, which, when I think about it now, is more offensive than the image of the 3 nuns getting banged. And which is why I used to collect that stuff. The only problem with the label was it was already stuck to a piece of cardboard.
I handed the fat lady $15 and went on my merry way, back to my studio…and my scanner. Take a closer look at these, would ya? How about the nuns getting put into pile-driver! Would woulda thought girls were getting slammed in pile driver back then? Not me! And the dudes are butt-fuckin’ bi-boys, too, which totally cracked me up.
And to think the porn getting churned out today is labeled “bad”.
ORDINANCE NO.181989: An ordinance proposed by initiative petition requiring City film permits for commercial production of adult films to be conditioned on certain work practice controls, including the required use of condoms.
THE PEOPLE OF THE CITY OF LOS ANGELES DO ORDAIN AS FOLLOWS: CITY OF LOS ANGELES SAFER SEX IN THE ADULT FILM INDUSTRY ACT
Section 1. Title.
This ordinance shall be known and may be cited as the City of Los Angeles Safer Sex In The Adult Film Industry Act.
Sec. 2. Findings and Declaration.
The people of the City of Los Angeles hereby find and declare all of the following:
(a) The HIV/AIDS crisis, and the ongoing epidemic of sexually transmitted infections as a result of the making of adult films, has caused a negative impact on public health and the quality of life of citizens living in Los Angeles.
(b) Safer sex practices are a prime method of preventing and reducing the spread of HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted infections.
(c) The Los Angeles County Department of Public Health has documented widespread transmission of sexually transmitted infections associated with the activities of the adult film industry within the City of Los Angeles.
(d) The Los Angeles County Department of Public Health has opined that the use of condoms is the best and most effective way to stem the spread of sexually transmitted infections within the adult film industry.
(e) Multiple organizations committed to protecting the public health have called for mandatory use of condoms in the production of adult films, including the American Medical Association, the American Public Health
Association, the California Conference of Local AIDS Directors, the California STD Controllers Association, the National Coalition of STD Directors, the National Association of City and County Health Officials, AIDS Healthcare Foundation and the California Medical Association.
(f) Producers of adult films are required by California Code of Regulations Title 8, Section 5193 to use barrier protection, including condoms, to protect employees during the production of adult films.
(g) Many producers of adult films in Los Angeles consistently violate the worker safety provisions of California Code of Regulations Title 8, section 5193.
(h) Pursuant to Section 12.22(A)(13) of the Los Angeles Planning and Zoning Code, producers of all films within the City of Los Angeles, including adult films, are required to obtain film permits.
Sec. 3. Purpose and Intent.
The people of the City of Los Angeles hereby declare their purpose and intent in enacting this ordinance to be to minimize the spread of sexually transmitted infections resulting from the production of adult films in the City of Los Angeles, which have caused a negative impact on public health and the quality of life of citizens living in Los Angeles.
———————————————————-
I’ve had people asking me to voice my thoughts on this, but I couldn’t do it any better than Alex Garner did over at Frontiers LA.
Take a second and read his fine op/ed, and why not poke around Frontiers LA a bit? It’s an excellent site, but I’m basing that soley on Mr. Garner’s work, cause No Way Am I Gay.
Here’s what I (generally) have to say about all this hullabaloo: working in porn is a bad decision.
And now I’ll get more specific: for most people who enter it, working in porn is a bad decision. I don’t care if you’re in front of the camera…or behind it. For the majority of girls who wanna be the next Jena Jameson — or just need a quick couple grand to pay some bills — getting into porn is is a dumb idea. It’s just as bad as the worst tattoo you’ve ever seen — and while it might not stay with you forever, being a “porn star” sure will haunt you for a long time.
Things aren’t as bad for the dudes who are successful in front of the camera (as their sex addiction will attest) and while they still are negative consequences for the (straight) male porn star, they aren’t as severe as they are for women (ain’t society grand?).
Directors (as in yours truly) are least effected…but we still deal with the shit Society At Large tosses our way.
But here’s my take on all this: since when did some people get to assign themselves as The Bad Decision Cops and then mandate their rules?
And if we’re gonna start taking action to limit peoples’ bad choices, imagine the parameters we’d be dealing with. To me, being involved in the adult film industry is as dumb as being in the Timber Industry, or the Structural Iron and Steel Industry, or a Farmer or a Rancher, or any other of the stupid jobs that make up the top ten most dangerous jobs of the last two years.
Being in porn is as stupid as playing football. Have you seen the video of Hall-of-Famer Earl Campbell’s speech at the dedication of the football field they named after him? (Try and guess how old he was when he made that speech, and then Google him to discover the shocking truth).
Nothing in this world can make us 100% safe at the things we do, whether it’s work or play…or having sex.
We can be always be safer, and, in my biz, pissing into a cup and having your blood drawn every 30 days is what I would call the equivalent to wearing a helmet and pads if you play ball for a living, or body armor if you’re a cop, or having the required life saving appliances on your fishing boat.
And finally, all adult entertainment performers — every single one of them — have what we call a “dance card”. Take a look at Super Whore Ava Devine’s dance card: she’s available for Solo, Girl / Girl, Girl / Girl Anal, Boy / Boy / Girl, Anal, Double Penetration, Double Vag, Double Anal, Interracial, and Creampie.
She could easily add “CONDOM ONLY” in big red letters at the top of her page, just like Raquel Devine does. (Oh, and if you’re wondering, they’re not related).
Does Raquel work as much as Ava?
No.
And guess what — that’s another decision Raquel got to make all by herself, just like a big girl.
The Bad Decision Cops’ counter with being tested every 30 days just isn’t enough. Just like wearing all those pads and helmet wasn’t enough for Earl Campbell, I suppose. But he got to make the decision to suit up and play.
One day, a female performer is going to walk on a condom-only set and make a statement, and it’s gonna go something like this: “Hey gang! I’m a big believer in the First Amendment, and today I think I’m gonna use that amendment to secure my freedom of speech as an adult entertainer and perform my scene without a condom.”
She’ll be asked to leave set…and that’s when she’s gonna call her lawyer.
That’s when all the Legal Fun will start all over again, and something tells me when this is taken to a higher court, Porn will Win.
But I never told you about the time I had The Porno Princess stay at my place for a few months. What am I thinking about? Cause it’s a good story, and I think there’s some funny parts, and when I told this story to Jack Napier, he said something like, “bro, have I ever seen that!? Are you kidding me? I’ve never heard about ANYthing like that!”
Which kinda reminds me of the movie Tombstone, when The Good Guys are getting bushwhacked by The Bad Guys, and in the middle of it all Wyatt Earp decides to just leave his cover and walk right out into the river, totally exposing himself to gunfire, and then proceeds to smoke all The Cowboys — including Curly Bill Brocius. And a little later, after it all went down, Texas Jack Vermillion asks Turkey Creek Jack Johnson, “have you ever seen anything like that before?” and Turkey Creek Johnson says, “Seen anything like that before? I ain’t never even heard of anything like that before!”
In my particular situation, it wasn’t a gunfighter defying all odds and killing everyone in sight, but a Porno Princess stomping on her own fecal matter — as if her poop were grapes and she was making wine — trying desperately to break it up in order to get it down my bathtub drain.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I won’t bother with the stories leading up to this story. Oh sure, I could tell you about the argument we got into in which I tried to differentiate, for her, “fame” and “infamy”.
“I want to be famous, and that’s why I’m in porn.”
“But hun, porn will never make you famous…at best, you’ll be infamous. But nothing more.”
She looked at me with this sort of blank stare, and then, as if the sudden realization of exactly what infamous meant, said, “then how come Jenna Jameson is famous, huh?! Tell me that! Or Sasha Grey? Or any of those girls?”
“They’re infamous. Nothing more. They’re known simply for their porno and nothing else…and because of that they get cast in mainstream movies as either a hooker…or a dead hooker. Sometimes they’ll get as far as making bad, forgettable music…or banging some celebrity. Or getting cast by John Waters in one of his lesser films. And that’s about as far as it goes.”
“You’re wrong.”
Another time I asked her how anyone could Twitter for 12 hours in a row. Which is to say I left my apartment at 8AM to head to work, and when I got back that night at 8PM, she hadn’t moved an inch, really…except her thumbs and fingers, as they banged away on her smart phone. I stood there for 10 minutes, looking at her. I was waiting for her to say, “hi” or “how was your day?” She remained silent, her eyes fixed on the phone, so I finally asked, “What are you doing?”
Without looking up at me: “Tweeting.”
“All day?”
“I’m building up my followers!”
“You hungry?”
“Nope. I already ate, anyway. I had Quiznos delivered.”
“Quiznos delivers?”
“No, but I found this service that will go to wherever you want and get your order and bring it to you.”
“But Quiznos is literally at the end of the block. It’s like 50 yards from here. Maybe less.” (It really was. I’m not exaggerating.)
“So.”
“How much did this service charge to bring your food 100 feet from where it was made?”
“Twenty bucks.”
Her fingers glided over that Smartphone’s keyboard effortlessly and with blinding speed. Remember the faint cloud of filth that drifted around Pig Pen on Charlie Brown? Sitting there watching her Tweet reminded me exactly of that. So I asked, “think there’s any way I could get you to clean up all the crumbs and empty containers and empty soda cans all the other shit that’s accumulated around you for the past 72 hours since you last moved from that spot?”
Which finally brought her eyes off her phone and to me. “What do you expect me to do?” She looked around the sofa, and then back up at me. “Do you actually expect me to get on my hands and knees to scrub your floor?” And then she went back to her phone.
I left to go buy myself dinner.
“Oh my god!” she yelled as I was walking out. “I’ve almost got 10,000 followers!”
That Friday night, Porno Princess got her Porno Princess Pal, and the three of us went to the Improv Olympic West. I like that place, cause the PBR’s are cheap, and the shows are good. And since I lived right by the Metro stop (it was 25 feet past Quiznos), I could walk to the metro, take it two stops, and be in the middle of Hollywood for a buck and a quarter. Then it didn’t matter how much I drank, and I didn’t have to worry about paying to park.
Win-Win.
We got back a little past 1AM, and since I had an 8AM alarm set, I crashed.
Porno Princesses did not. I was so tired I didn’t hear them party, but a few hours later I could hear the Porno Princess I called everything but “girlfriend” yelling in the kitchen. I got up and peered out my bedroom door. Porno Princess Pal was sleeping soundly in the same spot Porno Princess would Tweet for hours on end.
I walked out of my bedroom and into the kitchen, and there Porno Princess sat, on the floor, with an empty bottle of wine between her legs. “Why don’t I get work? What’s wrong with me?! I’ve got nice tits and they’re NATURAL!!”
She was yelling at my kitchen cabinets.
I turned and walked back into my bedroom. She didn’t see me, and that was a good thing. She continued to yell, and she’d cry, and then she’d yell some more — mostly about how the porn industry sucked, and how all the people in it sucked, and how her family sucked, and why can’t I get more work?! and blahblahblah until I fell asleep again.
Which is about the time she shook my shoulder. “Hey. Are you sleeping?”
I didn’t move. So she shook again, and asked again, and shook again, until I opened my eyes. She said, “pay attention to me.”
I looked at my clock. It said 4AM. “I have to wake up in four hours. You get to sleep all day. Good night.”
This didn’t stop her. Her mouth ran loud and fast, and she covered all sorts of issues, from the male talent who disrespected her on set to family problems back home to her kitty back home she had to leave to —
“WHEN MY ALARM RINGS IN FOURS HOURS YOU ARE GETTING UP WITH ME AND YOU’RE GONNA P.A. FOR ME ALL DAY FOR MINIMUM WAGE! HOW’S THAT FOR SOME WORK?”
She went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. I looked at my alarm. It said 4:10AM. At 5:30 I woke up again, and the shower was still running, which wasn’t a good thing. I knew that right away, so I got up and tip-toed in to my bathroom, not knowing what to expect…but readying myself for whatever it could be.
An overdose?
Dead Porno Princess on my floor?
No…she was in the shower. It was running. The bathroom was a steam room, and the shower curtain hung open a few inches, and that’s when I saw the incident I’ll forever refer to as The Poop Stomping.
Which is to say she was stomping on her own poo-poo, as if it were grapes and she was making wine. I’ll say it again. And all I remember is brown all over my beautiful white, porcelain tub. A vintage tub with claw feet that I loved very much…which was now Very Poopy and Brown. I tip-toed back a few feet, rapped on the bathroom door, and announced, rather loudly, that I was about to enter.
“I NEED MY PRIVACY!” she yelled.
I went back to bed.
I wish this was the end of my story…but it’s not. Cause she jumped into bed a few minutes later. I looked at the clock. It said 5:15AM.
“Let’s fuck,” she cooed in my ear.
What was I thinking? Not sexy thoughts at all, but Poo River running down my bathroom drain.
She rubbed my back. She kissed my neck. She bit my ear.
I feigned sleep, and I wished — as hard as I’ve ever wished for anything in my life (including the Gordon & Smith skateboard I got for Christmas when I was 14) — that she would just leave me alone and fall asleep.
Instead, Porno Princess started twitching.
I didn’t think much about it.
Then, she started twitching a whole lot.
I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. It said 5:18AM, which is when the convulsions began. I turned on the light and watched as she flip-flopped, like a fish, on my bed. I couldn’t believe it. Gasping for breath, too. I asked her if she was epileptic, which wasn’t the smartest thing to ask. Then, I ran out to my front room and woke up Porno Princess Pal…who didn’t want to wake up one bit.
“But she’s having some sort of attack!” I said.
“She’ll be fine,” Porno Princess Pal said, “just give her some water.” Then she rolled over and went back to sleep.
I walked back into my bedroom. Porno Princess was done flopping around, but her breathing was still heavy and her heart was beating out of her chest. I tried to get her to sit up, but she was out. Completely. Soft, too, like a scarecrow or play-doh. She lost all consciousness, too; all she did was breath hard and fast through her mouth.
I called 911.
911 got me over to the LAFD.
The fire department asked some questions, and in that time her breathing slowed, and she started coming to, which I told the dude on the other end of the line. “I mean do you guys really need to come?”
“Look, do you want us to come or not?”
“I dunno,” I said. Cause the last thing I needed to was explain to my Armenian neighbors why the paramedics were at my door at dawn, wheeling a Porno Princess out of my apartment on a stretcher. “She seems to be coming out of it,” I said…cause she really was.
“Just monitor her and if it gets bad again, call us.”
I stared at the wall, and the last time I looked at my clock before I fell back to sleep it said 6:30AM. Ninety minutes later I got up, skipped the shower, and went to work. When I got back, the sun was setting, and there she lie, wrapped up in bed, snoring lightly…like girls snore. I looked at her a little while, and then I called her agent and asked, “do you have room in your model house?”
He did.
She was out of my place a few days later. I haven’t had anyone live with me since. And, to this day, I never asked Porno Princess what cause her convulsions, or why she didn’t just drop her deuce down the toilet that night…like most normal people do.
I love brunettes. I’ve always been a sucker for them. And I was looking through my Twitter timeline this morning over my everyday breakfast (iced coffee and a chocolate old-fashioned), when I stumbled upon a tweet linking to an old article about Sasha Grey. And not too long ago, I reconnected with an old Porno Princess, and in the midst of catching up on our lives, she said: I simply cannot, however, believe that Sasha Grey is so popular these days. I just don’t get her. Maybe because there isn’t much to ‘get’? To which I respond: Sasha Grey is the quintessential brunette, one of a handful who surfaces in pop culture every generation or so and make some sort of impact. Whether that impact lasts is another thing. Audrey Hepburn, Betty Page, Natalie Wood, Ali MacGraw, and Barbi Benton come immediately to my mind. I’d have to say Natalie Portman, Winonna Ryder, and Angelina Jolie are the ones from this generation we’ll probably end up remembering. Well, maybe not Winonna. As for Miss Grey? Well, porn stars are never famous — just infamous. Why don’t they all realize that? Will Sasha be the first to cross that line? Only time will tell. Since I’m rambling, I’ll wrap it up with this: blondes have it easy. Too easy. They’re a one-trick pony…or three tricks, if you’re counting the boob job. No, wait…make that four tricks, cause you gotta toss in the dumb part, too. Yep. I went there.
I’ve caught some movies recently: The Debt, Our Idiot Brother, and The Hedgehog. Out of the three, The Hedgehog was my favorite, although The Debt was great, but in a much different way. Drive was kinda cool, but its corny 80’s soundtrack and hit-and-miss storyline kept it from being great. Moneyball might be the greatest baseball movie ever made; and finally, Our Idiot Brother was just OK, and certainly not great…more of a wait-til-Netflix kinda movie.
Rdio is the best site to stream your music, if streaming music is your thing. I’d almost give away my real name here just in case you’re on Rdio so we can follow each other, and I can see what you’re listening to these days. My last few listens: Mumford & Sons, Bon Iver, Adele, Big Star, MF Doom, Iggy Pop, Muppets: The Green Album, Butch Walker and The Black Widows, and Jay-Z/Kanye West record. I can even drive around and stream music into my car. Why buy records anymore? (Not a serious question). My favorite new band: Oxford Mississippi’s Bass Drum of Death.
Wilco’s new record, “The Whole Love“, is every bit as good as the great “A Ghost is Born”. Is is as good as “YHF”? Only time will tell. But you probably know I’m gay for Wilco, so whatever I say about them you’ll take as biased (and thus immediately dismissible) — and rightly so.
I get a handful of e-mails a month asking about what cameras I use to make the dirty movies I make. I’m a Canon guy, and I just got the XA10, and so far it’s pretty amazing. Lightweight, small, 1080p (when I’m shooting 24FPS) and the test shots look clean. The only thing I’m worried about is accidentally deleting shit as I’m getting used to shooting sans tape. I also picked up an S95, which is a little point-and-shoot still camera, but it’s pretty powerful: drops all the way down to f2, writes RAW files along with JPEGs, and is great in low light situations. Best part is when I walk around on vacation, I don’t look like a dopey tourist with a huge SLR wrapped around my neck.
How come I’m getting so many e-mails from Pakistan and India and other whacky (and predominately Muslim countries) from dudes with crazy names begging to get into porn? Shit, I wish I kept a few of them now, but they’re instantly deleted, and they’re always funny, and I guess I shouldn’t have even mentioned it now that I can’t even show you one.
My junior year in high school I almost failed Algebra 3/4. As a freshman, I did fine with Algebra 1/2, and my sophomore year I whizzed through Geometry. So junior year algebra shoulda been easy, but it wasn’t. I almost failed, and, during the second-half of that year, I opted out of algebra and took a computer class instead. I would still get the math credit while completely avoiding math! And the best part was the computer lab just landed two of the newest, coolest computers ever: Apple III’s! In addition to the big, old floppy discs, they had 64K internal hard drives…and came with a montor!! This meant I could avoid the dumb keyboard computers that had suction cup doo-dads that you’d stick a phone into, and then read the print outs of the BASIC code we were working on. But when it came time to buy my own computer a decade later, I went with a PC (a 386 DX 40 with 4 megs of RAM, a 250 meg hard drive, and the newest, fastest modem — a 14.4!), and I was a PC dude until a few years ago. Let’s face it — up til the introduction of the iPod, Apple products sucked. After the iPod, it’s just been one home run after another, and now I love everything Apple. So, as I was struggling with jet lag at 3am, I decided to check my twitter to see what was up back home. Which is how I found out Steve Jobs finally passed after his 7 year battle with pancreatic cancer. So here I am, in Paris, and it’s 5am, and I’ve got absolutely no sleep, and I’m watching American news channels to see what they have to say about him. You already know all this, and since I can’t add to what you’ve already heard about the man, I’ll leave it at that. Except to say I’m oddly depressed about it.
1. Mouthwash
2. Soft Drinks
3. Lysol wipes
4. Prescription drugs
5. Fancy bottled water
6. A pack o’ smokes
7. Thirty thousand cash. Or its equivalent.
8. Bedhead After Party Hair Cream
9. Lotsa Lube
10. Ikea’s “Magiker” coffee table
11. Skin Bronzer
12. A lone ring
13. A hit TV show
14. A fire place (in which, during particularly long binges, you forget to open the damper).
15. A large suitcase chock full o’ blow (not pictured).
