Money

Because sitting around alone at my desk working on a Sunday afternoon leads to a lot of introspection. Which usually leads to me feeling like shit.

I know, I know; it’s just the MCWBT.

Fuck.

It’s been a big month for disasters so far. I’m not just talking about the cyclone in Burma and the Chinese earthquake, though those are certainly impressive in the pyrotechnics-and-body-count sense. I just wish they’d been closer to home, say, maybe John Hagee’s attic and wherever they keep Dick Cheney’s coffin full of consecrated earth.

I don’t mean to sound callous or cruel or heartless or unsympathetic, but I am so get over it. Y’see, I’m not all that enamored of humans as a species. I think Bill Hicks was spot-on when he described us as “a virus with shoes.” If I could snap my fingers and erase mankind in toto along with all evidence we’d ever existed, believe me the last thing you’d ever hear would be a clicking sound.

But I can’t. So I have to revel quietly when the Earth shakes off a few of the fleas that plague it. And while 150,000 is just a pittance when weighed against the global population of nearly 6.7billion, as the old joke goes, “What do you call 500 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? An excellent start.”

But, no, I’m talking about other disasters. West Virginia provided a disastrous reminder to the rest of the world that the real core American values are racisim, intolerance, bigotry and deeply-held pride that you’re rock-stupid.

Disaster struck Hollywood in the form of Speed Racer, and the trailers for The Love Guru and You Don’t Mess With the Zohan, both of which were so incredibly, execrably foul I literally couldn’t close my jaw. Have things really gotten this bad?!?

A similar disaster struck London with the premiere of the Sex in the City movie. Personally, not being a forty-something woman with no sense of style, taste, humor or reality, and not being a gay man of any age or sensibility, I found this tragedy particularly entertaining. I’m hard-pressed to think of something less appealing that sitting through this movie.

A root canal would take less time, be far less painful, heal more quickly, and would, presumably, have a point. Getting the Bill of Rights tattooed on my cock (oh yes I COULD!) would at least result in something I wasn’t ashamed to admit I’d done, and might prove useful if things continue the way they’re headed in this country. Dangerous as it is, oil wrestling Oprah for a cheeseburger would yield a great story providing I survived the experience.

Sex in the City? I’d rather move to Burma.

On the bright side, I read that FEMA has emergency relief crews set to revive unsuspecting husbands with hours of recorded ESPN highlights, Girls Gone Wild DVDs, and several episodes ofWeapons of War. And perhaps, when all is said and done, we’ll finally be rid of Carrie… and… the rest. I dunno. Twatchy, Slutty and Cunty. Whatever their fuckin’ names are. And maybe Kim Cattrall can finally give her poor, plastic face a rest.

Israel celebrated its 60th birthday, which was a disaster for the Palestinians, and the Retard-in-Chief opened his mouth in a foreign country which is disaster for everyone except al Quaeda.

All this and May’s only half over. Next thing you know, we’ll find out that Marvel Films pissed all the Iron Man goodwill down their leg by casting someone completely batshit wrong as Captain America. Like, oh, I dunno… Matthew McConaughy or somebody. I know, it’s a ludicrous suggestion. They would never be that

..oh..

The great thing about posting a blog only slightly more often than George Bush gets head is that so many things which would take hours to write simply fade into the background.

Here’s a little quickie update on our lives.

• The Blood of Virgins has been bumped back to September (tentatively) to accomodate its bigger scale.

• We’re currently prepping ICON, a big-budget Hillary Scott all-sex movie.

• I’m in a pissing match with another porn director over an upcoming project and I don’t really understand why.

• My interview for Geek magazine finally came out. It’s okay, but the editors cut so much (Rob sent me the full version right after he wrote it) I was a little surprised. I shouldn’t bitch, though… they only gave one more page to Jon Favreau. Still, I wish they’d kept most of what they cut and cut most of what they kept…

• I went to Porn Star Karaoke with K the other night. Thanks to Lexi Lamour and Ethan Cage and Gram and Joanne being there it was actually fun. Had I gotten the urge to sing, I can’t decide if I would have gone with Tom Waits or Bobby Darin.

• We finally have contractors working on the never-ending bathroom (that’s the little know thirdsequel where the Luck Dragon takes a whiz on a giant fire hydrant) and it’s kind of an adventure. Having moved as far away as I feasibly could from my white-trash roots in Apache Junction, Arizona I had almost forgotten what most of the rest of this country is like.

One of the guys working for the contractor is so reminiscent of all the dudes I went to high school with part of me wonders if I’m related. He’s s decent enough guy, I guess, but I really don’t miss these people. Y’see, rednecks are only funny in standup acts. And this ol’ boy is about as red as they come.

Bad cop mustache. Half-mulllet. Weird 80s-era Oakleys. Sings along with George Strait and Eddie Rabbit on the “Yesterday’s Country TODAY!” station they listen to when they work. Used the phrase “tree-huggers” in conversation with no sense of irony. At all.

I know this guy. I was surrounded by him for the first half of my life. Not only does this guy have a three-tree gun rack in his truck window and a sticker of a badly-drawn Saddam Hussein getting a missile with a US Flag up his ass, he would vote for Bush again if he could. He’s never heard that Al Quaeda and Iraq had nothing to do with each other until we blew the country to shit, nor would he care. I guarantee you this guy has, at some point in his life, used the term “camel fuckers” and the word “nuke” in the same sentence.

So I can’t help but wonder what he must think about us, and our home. Downtown L.A. warehouse-turned-loft complete with full dungeon, pictures of naked whores all over the walls, populated by cats — CATS, for Christ’s sake — a shaved-headed freak faggot with earrings and his slut girlfriend.

Someday he’s gonna talk about this job and the words “L.A. Freaks” and “nuke” are gonna get all cozy in the same sentence. I guarantee ya.

…tree huggers… jesus…

For those who don’t know, Kylie & I live in a huge warehouse dowtown that we’ve converted into a loft. A big part of the main floor is our dungeon, complete with collars, cuffs, whips, chains, sex furniture and two big, steel cages. Yes, it makes a dandy porn location, but that isn’t why it’s there. It’s there because we’re perverts.

True, we’re both insanely busy workaholics who spend something in the neighborhood of 27 hours a day shooting, chasing money around the valley, working at our desks, trying to get to the gym, or some combination thereof, so we don’t use it that often. But occasionally, just occasionally, we catch a little hottie in our web, or, even better, spend some time alone being filthy deviants. It’s part of our home.

However, our place is a location, and we’re listed with various agencies. About ten times a year, we get scouted for some mainstream gig that needs a loft or a warehouse. They even considered trying to shoot The Contender here, which would have involved us moving out for nine months (but they would have paid nearly 200k, so it was, y’know, fucking worth it). The mainstream location scouts are usually very polite, though occasionally, just occassionally, we have to pick someone’s jaw up off the floor for him when he sees the cage hanging from the ceiling.

Yesterday, we got a call that Entourage wanted to scout our place for an episode. Now, I’ve never seen the show, and I’m not likely to since we don’t have T.V., but our friend Todd, who’s helping me cut Corruption, explained that it’s an HBO series about show business. I have a long history of hatred with HBO stemming from a variety of mainstream deals gone sour, and the outright theft of a show concept that I was involved in pitching a few years back, but as my buddy Hollywood says, “The best revenge on muthafuckers is to take their money.” Occasionally, just occasionally, you get the chance to take that revenge.

As if they know or care, right?

So, the location agent tells us they want someplace that “looks like adult movies might be shot there.” I suppose, in a pinch, we can fit that bill. Obviously, this episode is going to be some incredibly off-base, demeaning portrayal of the porn industry, probably featuring a wacky cameo by Ron Jeremy. Whatever. Fine. I fought those battles for years at AVN, and I can’t be bothered anymore.

Well, Entourage decided to move their scout to this morning, around 9:30. That’s fine, but it meant that Kylie & I had to get up at 9 to clean. Y’see, Kylie is one of those people who has to straighten all the picture frames before she goes to bed, and cleans the hotel room before the maid comes in.

Unfortunately, last night I was wide awake, stressed and anxious about Corruption and a multitude of other things until around 4:30 this morning. Kylie has been filling in for Ginger Lynn on the Nightcalls radio show, and then going to the gym when she’s done, which meant getting home around midnight, and to sleep around 1:30. But we got up this morning and cleaned and straightened and bitched and moaned. We were cranky, tired, and had a saggy diaper that leaked. But we got the place prepped..

At 9:30 they called to cancel the scout because they think “maybe they want a house instead of a loft.” I could rant and rave about the excesses of mainstream with their frivolous catering to the whims of hack directors who make changes to seem like they’re creative rather than shooting the script they’ve been given, but instead, I’ll let a hearty go fuck yourself suffice.

As I said, I’ve never seen Entourage, but I went and looked it up, and any show that stars Matt Dillon’s emaciated, skull-faced, whiny, talentless brother Kevin, and the dubious “comedic” skills of Jeremy Judgement Night Piven is in serious trouble. Particularly at 9:30 when I’ve had maybe four hours of sleep.

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