I was talking with arty provocatrix Vena Virago about her movie East Side Story. I can relate to her because her hair is always different, reflecting a restlesss spirit.
"Well of course there'll be sex in it."
She had just finished telling me how the movie would be an amalgamation of the two Los Angeles worlds she knows best, those of art and porn, and that the movie would be done documentary style, a la Jean Michel Bisquick's Downtown 81.
"Don't say 'Bisquick'," someone corrected.
"I'm an artist, man," I said. "'Once God moves the hand, you go back and revise - it's a sin!'"
So the movie will have sex in it, primarily perpetrated on, in, and by the person of Dana DeArmond.
I was at the way-East Side Barnacle Brothers Studios Friday, far past the mental confines of what Angelenos consider Los Angeles, and yet Los Angeles nevertheless. Large seahorse and elephant bicycles crowded the space, which is used as a workshop for theatre and parade set pieces.
The Vivid-steve collective was there, as was Krist Sorge, a Manhattan-based commercial casting director. He had won a contest on car payment-provider Fleshbot and was there to see the shoot. If you read his site, you will get an excellent idea of the thoughts running through the head of the first-time porn-set visitor. He thought enough to write it all down, whereas most of us are immediately swept away in a wash of Caverject and indiscriminate fellatio.
Like when all the girls in high school started liking System of a Down but only after "Toxicity" came out, whereas I was into those dudes right from their three-song demo before they fuckin' sold out, man, because I'm Armenian, I feel bad for being a comparatively late arrival on the Dana DeArmond train of admirers. But there you go. All I know is that I can love her better than you can.
"Hi Dana," I said.
"Hi Gram," she said.
That was all we needed to say to one another, other than "Why were you standing outside my pink house this morning with chocolates and binoculars, weeping softly and rocking back and forth?" which was just sort of assumed.
(I later ate the chocolates and made Dana go away.)
Anyway, the question remains: Can one jerk off to art? If you've ever gone to the Whitney and tried to rub one out to their Egon Schiele collection you would have found that the answer is a resounding No.
Still, Klimt's errant prodigy didn't have himself Dana DeArmond, Armenians or no Armenians.
