Le Sex Shoppe

When porn was sold in brick-and-mortar stores. I took this photo about a decade ago. It will appear in an upcoming book by Charles Saatchi.

Take a shot

I've been posting some old photographs I took on sets in the adult movie industry on Flickr. Lately, I've been switching them from color into black and white. Some of the photos are almost "too much," at least at this time, in color, and this rendering seems to help turn them into something, say, more iconic.

I eliminate the color, and then mess with the brightness and contrast. I've made some of them too bright on purpose. I think this sort of bad processing effect actually helps turns them into something else.

You can see the NSFW black-and-white Valley set here. If you don't see all the photos, you may need to turn your Flickr SafeSearch off. You can do that by going to Your Account > Privacy & Permissions > Content Filters > Search Settings > SafeSearch off.

Things famous people have said to me

1. Bill Maher: "I'd have to go up on you."

2. Candice Bergen: "Well, duh."

3. Little Richard: "How can I get some?"

4. Mickey Rourke: "Do you know that girl, that German girl?"

5. Ron Jeremy: "I'm not talking to you anymore."

6. Angelina Jolie: "I'm wearing [?]."

7. Chuck D.: "I see what you're doing now."

8. Hugh Hefner: "Nice to meet you."

9. [Redacted]: "I don't really like to have sex."

10. Bishop Don Magic Juan: "I'm gonna call you Angel."

[Music via This Isn't Happiness]

Mirrors

Today, I met with a literary agent. Right now, I don't have one. Although, I have had a few. This one emailed me a few days ago, and he had sold a book in my milieu, as it were, so I decided to meet with him. Usually, I reply, "Not interested, thanks," as if I could not even be bothered to be grammatically correct.

In any case, these things go as these things go, and before long, it was clear what we were talking about was the idea of me writing a nonfiction book about the adult movie industry. This is a subject upon which I remain torn. I believe that if your life takes you a place, and you bear witness, you have a responsibility to testify. I do not feel that I have testified fully.

If you know me (or even if you don't, really), you know I am very competitive and very driven. I do not like to perceive myself as having failed at anything, ever. So, I'll have to think it over. I don't have to live there, but it requires a return, nevertheless, and I'll have to consider if that's a move I want to make.

Choke

I was watching that movie "Choke," and I was watching the guy stagger around while pretending to choke, after I had watched another TV show about a guy who ran Ponzi schemes on people who like to gamble, and for some reason I thought about this guy who got into a car accident in front of an apartment in which I lived years ago.

I don't know. Maybe the trigger was all the noise from outside. New York City really is the city that never sleeps. You can tell because it never stops talking to you. So, that was in the back of my head, too, when I thought about this kid. I lived in the back of the building of this place on Los Feliz Boulevard. That's on the east side of LA. The road there is big, and busy, and, sure enough, about once a week there was a pretty bad accident somewhere along the road. You could hear it.

But this one was particularly bad, as I recall. Big enough a smash to send me running out the door, for some reason, and down a couple flights of stairs, and out the front of the building, where there was this kid sitting in this car that was all smashed and spun around so it was facing the wrong way, and all the traffic stopped. I went up to him. He was dazed, and bloody, and he kept saying over and over again something to the effect of, "I don't know what happened." I took off my hoodie, I think, or another shirt that I was wearing over a wifebeater or something like that, and I gave it to him, and I think we wrapped his arm in it. I don't know what happened to him after that.

Traffic brought strange things in LA. There was another time at the big intersection where there's a Blockbuster on -- I don't remember, Sunset or something. And I walked out, and everything was stopped, all the traffic all ways, and a car in the middle on the other side, and nobody doing anything. For some reason, I trotted over to the car, and I went over to the passenger seat, where the driver, who had gotten out of the car, was standing in front of the guy who was still in the passenger seat. I guess there was a drive-by shooting right before that, because the Hispanic kid in the passenger seat was dead, from being shot, and the driver was screaming, in Spanish, so I didn't know what he was saying. The front of the passenger kid's white shirt had two big bloody handprints on it that were from where his friend, the driver, had put his hands on him, except he was already dead.

I don't know why I thought about all this stuff, watching some stupid movie on the couch, listening to this truck that has been running outside for what seems like forever. I mean, is there even enough gas in it to have run this far? I guess I am trying to sort things out in my head. Like, LA was crazy, and where I went after that was something else altogether, and I thought maybe, I thought this exactly, actually, in New York City: This is where my future lives. And the movie kept playing.

Filth

I'm staying in Hell's Kitchen. Or Midtown West? I am sure you can figure out which description I like better. Surely, there are wonderful things to be said about various other parts of New York City, from the Village to Brooklyn to whatever the hell is Alphabet City. But I love this part of town, because, in this weird way, it reminds me of LA. Not LA, per se, but like the seedy underbelly-ness of the east-end of Sunset. Yes, yes, I know it used to be much filthier here, I wandered through it then, but it has retained some of its stickiness. The random strip clubs linger, offering totally dated photographs of girls who have long since disappeared, and who knows what they're doing in the back rooms, except for sure it's illegal.

Every few years, every few months, I say, oh, I am tired of writing about X! Whatever X happens to be. Usually something filthy. Then, a month will pass, maybe more, maybe a few years. Then, there I am, right back at it again. When I was stuck waiting for a flight in DC, at one point, I took out my laptop and fiddled some with my novel. Sitting in the middle of all those people made me realize how filthy it is. I suppose I usually then wonder: What's wrong with me? But, hey, maybe it's in my DNA. Or something, somewhere deeper.

In a way, that's what I like best about NYC, what I wasn't sure I liked about it at all in the first place: it's freakin' filthy. I grew up in California, where "new" is mid-century modern, and the sky is made of gold, and we all drive fuel-efficient unicorns. By comparison, Jesus Christ, New York is a fucking dump. The stench of urine, and sidewalks no power washer could ever clean, and even the snow is a mess of dirt, and grime, and slip. But I like that. That feels about right.

In any case, I suppose this is a dress rehearsal for moving here soon. That is what I want for 2010. Won't I be happy then? We would like to think.