Notes from A Greyhound Station

Gram Ponante
Hollywood's White Lotus club, which used to be a great dance bar called Crush, which prior to that was a Greyhound station (the new one is next door), was host to a mainstream entertainment staple that is becoming more and more common in the adult industry: a co-production.

About 17 companies (including Nike and the Vatican, by accident) sponsored this shindig, which among other things featured a dance performance by Shy Love and Kelli Erikson in an act they called "Heaven & Hell."

As you know, the adult industry is nearly bankrupt, so it was no surprise that all these PornCos pooled their pennies for what would probably be their last evening to have any fun at all. What is getting more and more dispiriting, however, is that they invited Hollywood.

As my grandpappy in Bogue Chitto was fond of saying, "Never mix your weasels." By this he of course meant that putting Hollywood weaselry in the same room with pornskum is a bad idea. Each on their own is charming and a delightful part of the rich American tapestry, but once you throw Melrose Ave. gay men posing as metrosexuals into a teeming room full of the spiritual heirs of the east coast legbreakers who built the adult industry, well, it's not as fun as it could be.

Not that I didn't have a grand time, because I have fun wherever I go™.

As has become my habit, I checked in with veteran director Roy Karch to get the lay of the land. That guy is a babe magnet. He cursed being single at 58, but every woman in that room (who wasn't a nervous, butterfly-tattooed, belly-shirted, other arm clutching, slumming script coordinator from HBO) made a point of getting face time with him.

"Father my child, Roy?" one asked.

'I don't even know you," he replied, again and again.

I sought a point of clarification on something he'd said a month ago.

GP: What is second-position anal?

RK: Well, it's the second position of anal a couple gets in. There can't be a second without a first.

GP: Oh! My thinking has been so uptight, dude. I thought it was like ballet positions.

RK: No. Whatever the first position is, whether it's anal missionary, a pile driver, whatever, the second position is the next variation. But it is like a dance, so you're right.

I expected him to call me Grasshopper, but he was interrupted by another peroxide blonde he needed to be polite to. Roy was under the mistaken impression that I was once lead singer for Rage Against the Machine, an impression that, regrettably, he gleaned from this very site. I was merely the lead singer of Dokken.

There was a red carpet with some klieg lights that allowed entering celebrities like Danny Bonaduce to be photographed by a press of fotogs appropriately kept behind a metal barrier.

I ambled up to International Pimp (and Under Pimp Arrest star) Mr. Johnson and his cousin. Both are about 6'6". Johnson was dressed floor to ceiling in white, and had some rhinestone glasses that I coveted.

GP: Are those prescription?

MJ (taking them off and checking): Naw, man.

I had a followup question from our interview back in the day.

GP: What kind of pimpmobile did your dad drive?

MJ: Dad had all kinds of cars. His name is Tricky. The next movie's gonna have him in it.

Later on in the press room Mr. Johnson positioned Primary Ho Amina Blue nearly astride his crunk cup. He pulled up her dress.

MJ: Now you see it!

He flapped the dress back down.

MJ: Now you don't!

The party was packed by what All Media Play's Shari described as "900 of our closest friends."

It might have been the other 400 that were the trouble. I talked with a bouncer who looked like he could punch through the Space Shuttle. I asked for confirmation of something I'd heard.

GP: Is it true the little guys are the hardest to eject from a club?

Bouncer: Yeah. They've got something to prove. The little girls, too.

I sat down to be plied with drinks. While I was talking with my friend a guy calling himself Tommy the Promoter came by with two small Asian women. He was selling something named "Internetmodelpalooza III." He asked the two Asian girls to do a little dance, which they did, sluggishly.

"They can't speak much English," he said.

"Neither can are," I said.

A woman walked by wearing nothing but scraps of fabric. A couple of guys slapped five as she passed. It was weird. It didn't see respectful.

I might be wrong, but it didn't appear to me that the non-industry people in attendance were there to help sales. If not, why were they there? They didn't even appear to be fans. More to the point, they were like gawkers (no disrespect to our friends at the Fleshbot compound). This complaint, of course, is more in the realm of my colleagues, who believe that the introduction and coddling of the mainstream element only cheapens the adult industry.

"These people are not your friends" someone once wrote (I'll find out who).

Dominic Acerra, the official photographer of Porn Valley, lamented later that people got into the press room just because they had cameras. Some spike-haired Fruit Loop in tinted glasses kept stepping into his shot.

"What's the world coming to?" he asked.

It's coming to you.

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