Okay, so I’ve been a little busy. Really, that’s what it comes down to. I’ve been doing casting and pre-production for Upload, the big summer movie I’m directing for SexZ Pictures, and that’s taking about 14-16 hours out of every day. Then I’ve been keeping the production end of SexZ moving along, which takes another 9-10 hours out of each day. Not to be forgotten is running production for SlutWerkz, and shooting camera for Kylie’s first SlutWerkz show Submitted For Your Approval, which is at least a 12-hour-a-day job.

So, um, yeah. A little slammed. Which is a shame because there’s been a fuck of a lot of stuff I’d like to bitch about, so instead I’ve been complaining to my friends, all of whom are so sick of my constant bitching, whining and complaining that they just nod and say “uh-huh,” with kind of a glazed expression. Which isn’t very satisfying.

All right, so three quickies…

First, they’ve cancelled Premiere magazine. I’m having some cognitive dissonance about this event. On the one hand I’ve been buying Premiere since the very first issue with Dan Ackroyd and Tom Hanks on the cover promoting (ugh) Dragnet, and while I recognize that Premiere is — or rather, was — a pretty lightweight film rag, it’s no fucking Entertainment Weekly which is just an irredeemable pile of undigestible pablum forced between two badly-designed covers.

On the other hand, it pleases me to think that Glenn Kenny, Premiere’s chief reviewer, might have to work for a living for a while. That’s because it was on Glenn’s watch that the equally irredeemable David Foster Wallace (oh, bullshit, you do not. You didn’t even finish the fucking book — no one did — and don’t try to claim otherwise) wrote an article about attending the AVN Awards that was such a blatant attack, with such incredibly skewed and misreported “facts” (the fucking moron couldn’t even correctly name the hotel the awards were held in) that lots of lawyers were bandying about lots of ugly words like “libel” and “lawsuit” and “fuck yo mama.”

So, yeah, Glenn, best of luck. Here’s a quarter. Fuck yo mama.

The pisser is that they’re fulfilling the rest of the subscription with… deep breath… Us. No, really.Us Weekly. A fucking year of it. Can I just cancel? You can keep the money. It’s a small price to pay to avoid the shame of having Us arriving with my name on it. I mean, we’re pornographers here, as our mailman well knows. We have a image to uphold…

Thing two is something I thought was an aberration, but which has now happened three times, so I want to put a stop to it. My stage name is in no way, shape or form derived from or related to the existence of a mainstream director named Eli Roth.

Not. Never. At all.

Where I got my stage name is easy enough to figure out; just Google the name or Peter O’Toole or Richard Rush. I’m not going to do the rest of the homework for you. I have been Eli Cross since well before Cabin Fever was dragged into coolness by Quentin Tarantino. I’ve never seen it. Or any of Roth’s movies.

I have met him, however. It was shortly before Cabin Fever was put — forced, some might say — into wide release. At the time, Kylie & I were still very close with Chloe before she dropped completely out of the world and off the radar, and for a brief time, she and Eli Roth were an item.

Chloe enjoyed pushing the porn world in his face because he was so squishy and uncomfortable with the whole thing. She brought him by Kylie’s apartment once to meet us. He gave me a dead-fish handshake (plainly he immediately felt the need to scrub his lily-white hand after having sullied it with a filth-monger’s touch), made a few condescending comments about Chloe’s “job” (he made the quotes in the air with his fingers), and was gone. K & I hated him immediately.

So, yeah, I’m not trying to be Eli Roth. He’s far too cool and hip and successful for the scummy likes of li’l ol’ me.

Thing three is a location that’s pretty well-known to the feature-shooting porn world. It’s Linda Vista Hospital. I’ve shot there several times. It’s a creepy old abandoned hospital with lots of great location potential if you’re after filth, gloom and squalor. The last time I shot there, the new owner begged me to start referring gonzo shoots.

Normally, gonzo doesn’t go anywhere near places like this ’cause the rates are just too high. Daniel swore that they could work with the gonzo rates, however, so a few people have tried. It’s generally turned into a bad experience for one reason or another.

However, it was a perfect location for a few of Kylie’s scenes for Submitted, so we booked it for last Wednesday and Friday. A week ago we get a call from the location rep telling us we’re getting fucked out of the place on Wednesday because they’ve double-booked it with a low-budget mainstream feature and one of the stars has it in her contract that there can’t be any adult shooting on premises. That star? Jenna Jameson.

Then, on Friday, we arrive to discover they’ve double-booked the place with some big show for CBS. So we have no parking. And we have to work around mainstream people wandering everywhere. And we’ve been asked not to tell them we’re shooting porn because they might get offended. And we get to shoot around their full-auto gunfire on the floor below us. And we get to wait to leave because the CBS G&E crew has a big 12k rigged right behind our parked cars. And the location tried to charge us for two extra hours. And now, today, Daniel calls me screaming because we didn’t have the check inhand to deliver immediately after the shoot.

It’s hourly, ASSHOLE! How the FUCK was I supposed to make the check out BEFOREHAND?!? Are you that FUCKING desperate? We have people shoot here all the time; I don’t, as a rule, walk up at the end of the day with palm outstretched. I give them an invoice and a few days later, the check arrives.

Personally, I think the solution to his check problem is to go knock on Jenna’s trailer whereverZombie Strippers (no, really) is shooting this week, and tell her if she doesn’t cough up the $500, he’s gonna tell someone she once did porn.

Of course, it wasn’t very good porn.

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