Los Angeles.

My new Home.

Los Angeles. The City of Angels — a city full of devils.

Laugh all you want, but I’m serious. And they’re devils just as you’d picture them, too: sharp horns on a red, round head; long, pointy tails; pitchforks and hooves; menacing, fire-filled eyes. They’re all over the place: on the 101 (usually after it’s been turned into a parking lot, but not always), and they’re in parking lots that are way too full…aggressively searching for that last empty spot, and they’re hovering outside convenience stores, gas stations, banks, and the shopping malls.

Oh, the demons are everywhere!

And back home every thing’s safe and warm.

For the last three years I’ve been commuting to LA — hour by plane, six hours by car. It started with Spring Thomas. We simply couldn’t find any good black guys for her to slut around with, so we started driving out to LA, where Black Men roam free. She’d fly home after a couple days of wild, crazy sex, and I’d stick around and shoot for Blacks on Blondes or scout for the newest, filthiest gloryhole.

And it all just went downhill from there: first, a few days in LA, and the rest home…then 10 days LA, 20 days Home…then 20 days LA, 10 Home…and now, it’s almost like I have to find an excuse to go Home. Well, not really an excuse, just more of needed a break from work.

Meanwhile, Home turned into an empty dust bowl, as my cats — The Fluffy Sisters — stood watch. When I’d return home, Ginger Fluffy would meow, “Welcome Home, Stranger! How did it go making all that smut?!” and Sunshine Fluffy would just kinda scoff at me, cause she was pissed.

She still is.

I don’t like LA. I find almost nothing redeeming about this place. Sure, there’s cool things to do…if you don’t mind doing them with 10 million other people. For me, LA’s always been a place to go to for a weekend to see something; I can’t believe I now call this place home.

But the Smut Industry is here. Most of it, anyway. The internet’s really put a dent into LA’s claim to being the be-all, end-all to Porno Land, but it’s still hanging tough.

Somewhat tough.

Jobs aren’t as abundant as they were a few years ago. It seemed to me that, in 2004, every girl working the circuit made $15K a month; now, that ain’t the case. Male talent is blowing my phone up looking for work, too. Definitely a weird time to be employed in Porno Land.

My new pad is littered with 1/2 filled boxes, and there’s papers and unopened mails and all sorts of shit strewn about. Maggie likes sleeping in the front yard way more than being inside the new place, and that makes me worried.

But I’m here, and so is all my shit, and, for the most part, it all fit in to the new place, and it’s close to becoming completely functional.

Maybe I will too, someday.

You should have seen all the suckers today at the Apple store, waiting in line to get the new i-Fucking-Phone. There were so many people waiting around it was like Christmas — and they were giving them away.

I was lugging my iMac in, cause it had a CD jam, and the extra dough I shelled out for the technical phone support couldn’t eject it, either.

I dragged the iMac along the ground in the very nice box it came in by its flimsy handle, back to The Genius bar, where all the geniuses at my local mall’s Apple store labor. They told me to wait at the bar, cause they’d call my name when they were ready to deal with me, and the store was really loud cause it was chock full of suckers waiting to get a piece of the new iPhone — code named G3.

Kinda like a robot name.

I looked up at the pretty illustration of the G3, and then down at my new LG Dare. The Dare is Verizon’s answer to iPhone, and while its design is wholly feminine (hence making it kinda gay for a dude to have one) I very much like it…as well as my Verizon service.

I Dare, but No Way Am I Gay.

(Time for a total (and really stupid) digression: “I Dare” reminds me of “I Will Dare”, Paul Westerberg’s fine opening song to the superb Replacements record “Let It Be”. If you don’t know it, make yourself aware).

I kept looking up at Apple’s nifty illustrations, and back into my palm and at my Dare.

My Dare — the iPhone G3. The iPhone G3 — my Dare.

To make myself feel a bit more secure, I started playing with my Dare, and reassuring myself I made the right decision to extend my contract with Verizon 2 more years in order to get my Dare super cheap…and not ending my contract with Verizon (it was coming up fairly soon) and going to AT&T…and the iPhone.

I flipped through my pics. I turned my Dare sideways, so I could look at my pics at more of a 16:9 ratio — just like iPhone.

Fucking iPhone has nothing over Dare!

I scrolled through recent family pics, and old friend pics, and, nestled right in the middle of all those nice, safe pictures, are a handful of pictures of my Ex’s red, swollen vagina with my ejaculate slowly oozing out.

Creampie pics on Dare! Take that, G3 iPhone!!

I smirked to myself, looking out over a Sea of Suckers, then back at Dare — and those filthy, dirty images.

Which made me go right to My Videos. There’s only three, but oh, what dandies they are! There she is again, doggystyle, pushing her absolutely stunning ass right into my swollen, white-boy wiener. Which isn’t to say I was fucking her in the ass, cause I wasn’t, cause railing a girl in the booty doesn’t really make my Freak Flag fly.

I would also like to add that making homemade movies of me getting it on with a girl does not make my Freak Flag fly, either. Really, it doesn’t. I know you’re thinking something like, come on, dude, you’re full of shit. But really, it was simply a case of a capturing a moment in time for Whackiness’s sake.

Whackiness’s sake!?

Anyways, I smirked to myself, looking back out over The Sea of Suckers, then back at my Dare and those filthy, dirty movies.

I played each one, two or three times, whilst eying all the Dopes & Morons waiting in a dumb, dumb line for their new god damned iPhone.

(For some reason, I just felt the overwhelming need to show off my superior grammatical skillz and use an ampersand in a sentence, so there you go).

As I watched my homemade porno I thought Thank God for technology, and, at that very moment, I swear to God my Ex called.

I did exactly what the geniuses at the Genius Bar told me not to do, and I walked away from their smarty-pants place, cause I didn’t have a good signal there, and I wanted very much to talk to her. So I walked to the front of the store — by the Power Books — where my signal got much better.

We’re kinda navigating through Rocky Seas at the moment…and, when I think about it, with a clear head and from a safe distance, there’s really not very much of a good reason why we’re going through what we’re going through right now. Cause we haven’t really been a couple for quite sometime, with the exception of one recent Romantic Whorl, and that’s when things got kinda weird.

Weird, huh?

I don’t even really know why I’m referring to her as “Ex”, and I suppose that’s super fucking weird — cause that’s what she is — but whatever. I had to dream something up to call her here, and that’s the best I could do.

So we’re in the middle of a nice conversation when I look up at notice my genius at The Genius Bar is giving me The Stink Eye, so I hung up and ran back as fast as I could just to deal with her. “So what seems to be the problem?” The Genius asked.

I said, “CD jam.”

“What kind of CD is it, exactly?”

“A very good one. All stuff off hhe Trojan label…Dancehall…oh, and Rocksteady, I think.”

She looked up at me, totally befuddled. But she’s a genius, right? And I have no idea why I told her this, and when I did, she looked up at me like I was a Special Person. A very Special Person. Like I shoulda been wearing a helmet while shopping at the mall.

So I quickly followed up: “It’s a reggae CD, and I was dumping it into iTunes, and it just jammed. I tried everything, and nothing worked. I Googled a bunch of stuff, but nothing worked, and I spent about 1/2 hour with Apple care, and they finally gave up and assigned a case number and told me to bring it here.”

Genius wasn’t too friendly. “Did you restart the computer with your mouse pushed down?”

“I did everything.”

She didn’t like that answer. “Did you restart the computer with your mouse pushed down?”

“Yes mam. That was the first thing Apple Care told me to try.”

“I have to ask that, sorry.” Then she grabbed some paperwork and started filling it out. Half way through she looked up at me and said, “How do you spell Reggae?”

I shit you not.

And I wanted to say something like, what kind of genius working The Genius Bar do you think you are? But instead I said “R-E-G-G-A-E”, which she wrote down on the paperwork.

I shit you not.

Suddenly, I thought about Priest’s super fun e-mail that I blogged the other day. I have no idea why I thought about it, but I did. Maybe cause I just hung up with Ex…but who knows. And I wish the genius working the bar was really a genius, cause I woulda followed up with all sorts of questions on relationships, and how to make them work, and what to do, and what not to do, and what to do when they go haywire; but, instead, I just kinda stood there and watched her fill out her paperwork, in which she wrote “REGGAE”, (spelled correctly) and then she handed the paper to me and said to initial here and date there and sign here and then she said something about it taking up to 48 hours to make things work, and they’d call me when my iMac was all better.

I walked out and noticed the line was gone. I couldn’t believe it. No more iPhone Dummies waiting in line for G3! Where the fuck did they all go? Big Bonus Points to all the employees at the Apple Store! Imagine that wild influx of Yuppie Suckers who want a new gadget to beat off to…and taking care of almost all of them in under an hour.

I was shocked.

Amazed.

Must be some sort of World Record.

Some place.

Somewhere.

My pal Noah is really into Jap Porn. But before I go any further, let me make one thing clear: I love the Japs, and I am not a racist. And I love them so much I often refer to them as “Japs” and sometimes “Nips”, but never as “Slants” nor “Yellows”.

I never really figured out why White Boys go berserk over Asians, but some of my friends definitely suffer from Yellow Fever. One of which — the dude I have refered to as “The Actor” — loved them so much that, after a while, I had to quit hanging out with him. For example, we’d be in the middle of a conversation and a cute one would walk by us and, in mid-sentence, he’d leap up and run to her and use all his might to make that Little Nip his.

I think it’s all about size and submission…in that order.

Back to Noah: he sends me whacky Jap Porn titles all the time, and I laugh my ass off at them. Of course the big part of the hi-jinks is simply translating the titles, and my favorites have been “Big Breasts Convenience Store”, “Street Corner Amateurs Are Embarrassed Trying To Identifying Boyfriend’s Penis”, “Like A Cold Wind Rubbing Continuously Rubbing The Penis Head After Ejaculation, Penis Persecution Hand Job Part 5”, and “Mega Chin, Satisfaction From Seeing Her Slapped By A Penis”, and “Just As I Thought! You Can Borrow Cute Girls At The Rental Shop, Part 2”.

If that isn’t kooky enough for ya, according to Time / CNN, there’s a 74 year old male pornstar — Shigeo Tokuda — who starting banging chicks in front of a camera when he was 60, and it appears he’s at the apex of his porndom.

Do you think all that fucking keeps Shigeo chipper and spry?

Oh, and guess what? Shigeo Tokuda’s wife and kids has no idea what he does. 14 years. 300+ movies. And he’s living The Lie…like so many of us in this crazy business do.

Porn’s huge in Japan. Is it that surprising that the popularity of smut in a country that, according to the article from Time / CNN is, “in surveys conducted by organizations ranging from the World Health Organization (WHO) to the condom-maker Durex….repeatedly found to be one of the most sexless societies in the industrialized world. A WHO report released in March found that 1 in 4 married couples in Japan had not made love in the previous year, while 38% of couples in their 50s no longer have sex at all. Those figures were attributed to the stresses of Japanese working life. Yet at the same time, the country has seen a surge in demand for pornography that has turned adult videos into a billion-dollar industry, with “elder porn” one of its fastest-growing genres.”

I wish I had a clever comment about that — or something witty — but I don’t.

I just find it all very funny.

Now if I could just find the rental shop that lends out cute girls.

It’s bad enough that Arclight Cinema in Hollywood charges $14 to see a movie ($11 on the weekdays!), but to pay even one fucking dollar to sit through “The Happening” is way too much.

On the way out, a woman tried to justify this piece of shit by saying, “everyone compares everything M. Night makes to ‘The Sixth Sense!'”

“It’s not even about that,” I said. “This movie was simply awful. What did you like about it?”

“The relationship between Mark Wahlberg and his wife.”

“Did you hear the people boo when the movie ended?” I asked.

She nodded.

“When was the last time you were in a movie and that happened?”

She couldn’t remember it ever happening; neither do I.

In case you don’t know, The Plants are pissed, cause we don’t pay attention to the environment, and we’ve scared all the bees away, so the plants dump “toxins” into the air, which make people suddenly commit suicide in all sorts of crazy ways.

Somehow The Plants can communicate with The Wind, so whenever The Wind blows, you know it’s time for M. Knight to show off all the gratuitous violence in his “first R rated movie”.

Did I mention that only the plants in New England — where Mark Wahlberg’s character lived — were pissed enough to do this, and apparently they liked Mark, and his wife, and a little girl they rescue enough to leave all three of them alone…even when people are offing themselves left and right.

And after 24 hours (or so) The Plants proved their point enough to stop making people commit hara-kiri…until a few months later, when The Plants in Paris, France, get fed up and start doing the same thing.

I wish The Plants would make M. Knight jump off a building, but not before that fucker gives me my money back…cause the theater refused.

From a recent GFY Post:

Do the math on the Paul McCartney-Heather Mills divorce: after 5 years of marriage, Paul shelled out about $49 million dollars. Assuming he banged her every night during their 5 year relationship (married men will be the first to admit that doesn’t happen), it ends up costing him $26,849 per lay — not counting attorney’s fees and court costs.

Elliot Spitzer’s call girl Kristen charges $4,000 an hour. As you’ll soon see, a bargain.

If McCartney employed Kristen for 5 years, he would’ve paid $7.3 million for an hour of sex every night for 5 years (a savings of $41+million) .

Value-added benefits include a 22 year old hot babe, no begging, no coaxing, never a headache, wide open menu, ability to put BOTH legs around you, no bitching and complaining or ‘to do’ lists. Best of all, she leaves when you’re done, and comes back the next day, ready for another round.

Is it just me, or is Kristen the better deal?

———————————————–

To Which I Add:

My stockbroker pal always called whores a “value”, and, on some level, he’s right…right?

There’s also no price tag for true love…even when it goes awry…right…right!?

And besides, Paul will probably get it all back once they release Beatles music on iTunes and Rhapsody…right?

Right.

It is the function of the artist to evoke the experience of surprised recognition: to show the viewer what he knows but does not know that he knows.

Helnwein is the master of surprised recognition.

— William S. Burroughs

Cowboys and Gay Hustlers?

Intellectuals and Tattooed Tough Guys?

Are they The Village People of the 21st Century?

Do people even care about them anymore?

This record better be good…at least good enough to make the cover appear to be cool.

I think I just shot the best BJ I’ve ever shot in my life, and trust me when I say I’ve shot a lot of BJ scenes.

Presley Maddox is resurfacing into Porno Land after a year (give or take) off, and she’s looking better than ever. Sure, she’s the main reason the scene went so well, but I teamed her up with a Sybian, and that, my friends, really made things interesting.

It’s not like I invented Sybian (duh), and I’m sure I’m not the first dude to plop a girl down on a Sybian while she sucked a dick, but goddamnit Presley Maddox and Sybian teamed up to make a Mighty Combo…so much so I decided to blog it.

Gia Paloma even decided to blog it. Gia’s seen a lot of crazy shit in this business, and she’s partaken in even more crazy shit…so to get a reaction out of her on Presley’s BJ scene for TheDickSuckers is saying a lot.

Shit, I like this scene so much it got me back to blogging, even if it’s only for today.

No. I’ll blog more this week. Why wouldn’t I?

Anyways, Presley also showed up at Manojob, and here’s some free Presley Maddox handjob movies, just so you can say you got something for free just by visiting my blog.

Looking at those handjob movies, you may be wondering whose wonderful record collection is in the background of clip #1. Look at all of them! Stored meticulously in their protective sleeves!

They’re somewhat in alphabetical order, too, but that’s going to change soon when I get a little bit of time on my hands.

Oh, wait! I forgot to tell you Sybian made Miss Maddox orgasm so many times it appeared, by the end of our little movie, that she had just finished running a marathon.

And the pop shot? My Lord!

She exclaimed, “I just got Stevie Wondered!” before walking off set, which was more like Presley hobbled off set…like she got off a horse after a day-long ride at a dude ranch.

Do I need to tell you The Money Shot blinded her?

Or that she’s just discovered a new idiom for taking a facial!

And you thought Porn Whores were dumb.

So I get an e-mail from a reader saying he’s got the Marilyn movie, and in the header he says something like “Let’s Discu$$”. In the body of the e-mail, there was a pic, too, along with a request to call him so I could make a deal.

I’ve never really been a fan of celebrity sex tapes, mainly cause the few I’ve seen are total shit and completely unwatchable. They’re also fraudulent…in more ways that one.

I’ve talked to people in my biz who had something to do with the Paris movie, and they told me Paris was in it from the get-go. And ever wonder how the Tommy/Pamela movie turn into almost public domain? I watched parts of that piece of shit, as well as parts of the Paris flick, which, I might add, is better than Pamela’s dirty movie.

I’m not sure what anyone wants to discuss with me when they have something as big as Marilyn Monroe’s sex tape, but I was kinda curious.

Once on the phone, he immediately admitted he didn’t have the tape at all. “But that doesn’t matter! Why not just shoot a BJ with whoever you can book that looks like Marilyn, and then in post-production we can turn it black and white and add scratchy stuff so it looks old!”

I said, “I don’t think her estate is gonna be psyched about this.”

He said, “spell her name differently!”

I said, “so you want me to fraud people out of their money?”

He said, “dude, it’s porn!”

I said, “what happens when the people realize it’s not Marilyn, and they call VISA to get their account credited?”

He said, “how about not charge for it, and then use the movie to upsell them to something else? Like one of your sites? Besides, it’s porn!”

I said, “who would buy anything from us when they know we promised them something we couldn’t deliver?”

“Dude, it’s porn!”

I passed, but the Marilyn thing had me intrigued, cause…let’s face it — it’s Marilyn. So I Googled a bit, and apparently some dude shelled out 1.5 million for 15 minutes of blowing an Average Joe in, like, 1952. The dude’s name is Keya Morgan, and he calls himself a “memorabilia collector”, and he must have quite a collection of shit in order to cough up that much bread for something he’s gonna just put in a safe and never show anyone, ever.

He’s doing it to “protect her reputation.”

That’s kinda funny. No, that’s really funny.

Funnier yet is the story that goes with the tape, including J. Edgar Hoover’s involvement, and his hopes that one of the Kennedy brothers was the Mope in the flick. Imagine that poor closet homo’s disappointment when he figured out he didn’t have a thing.

I poked around a bit more, and the Smoking Gun says the whole thing’s a big hoax.

But dude…what did you expect?

It’s porn.