I haven’t been to a good old fashioned porn party in a while; I’ve been sick, I’ve been away, my camera’s been broken, and I’ve seen too many of my homies hurt in useless steveporn bitchoffs.
(Kiss fingers, pour malt liquor on grave. “I’m’a miss you, dawg.”)
Last night’s release party for Kurt Lockwood’s The Decline of Western Civilization Part 69: The Porno Years party at the Knitting Factory was just what I needed.
The choice of venue was excellent. The Knitting Factory is a rock club rather than an exclusive-seeming valet/bouncer/stupidly overpriced drinks/bottle service/TMZ.com stalked/bathroom attendant establishment, easy to get to, and within walking distance of several Scientology buildings so I could get a quick audit before I went out.
But I was also wary of the Knitting Factory. Last weekend I attended the Sixth Annual Big Lebowski Festival there and, in between getting my chicken strips and my bill, someone appropriated my credit card number. I’m not saying it happened at the Knitting Factory, but chicken strips were the last thing listed on my bank account Monday morning before $850 worth of Moscow-based debit card transactions. And Nikita Denise and I are no longer dating.
So I brought cash, worried that somehow “Free drinks all night”, as advertised, would morph into “Free drinks for porn actresses” (but then again, when was the last time a porn actress paid for her own drink?) I needn’t have worried. Drinks were free. Drinks were so free I drank them out of other people’s mouths. I left carrying all the cash I’d arrived with, free to spend on the hot dog cart outside and a procession of four-foot-tall Oaxookers.
The movie was playing with the sound off. It looked good, if not utterly decadent and depraved. I took out my camera to take a picture of Pamela Peaks. Now that lady is depraved.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I can’t get the flash to work, Baby,” I said. I began feeling clammy.
“It happens sometimes,” she said.
“Not with me it doesn’t,” I said. I’d bought the camera 12 hours earlier.
What followed was horror upon horror, as women flashed achingly appealing parts of themselves to me (and I’m not talking about their souls) and I had no way of capturing it. This is the best I can do:
A Canadian whose name I never caught demanded I take her picture.
“I can’t figure out how to work the flash,” I wept.
“Let me try,” she said, exhibiting a can-do spirit most often associated with Inuit suppression and fishing disputes.
“Aren’t you embarrassed that a Canadian girl is fixing your camera?” asked former legitimate journalist for XBiz Steve Ochs.
“Not as embarrassed as I am about your anti-Canadian misogyny,” I said. “I’m calling up Christine McGlade to kick your ass.”
Turns out the Canadian couldn’t fix it, either. Haughty Toronto can bite me.
I finally got an accidental picture of her with Benny Profane, whose Olivia Newton John-in-Grease (not Xanadu)-like transformation from stay-at-home wallflower to 24-hour Porn Party Shoggoth has been abrupt and frightening.
I asked him to explain again why his scene with the dismemberingly delightful Audacia Ray wasn’t going to be released. I could not hear his reply over my wails of grief.
I appeared in more pictures than I took. Now that I am a world-famous porn director, that may be acceptable. Also, my inability to operate a camera puts me in good company with my fellow auteurs.
I talked with director Eli Cross and high wattage vixen Kylie Ireland. Cross is apparently in receipt of Sex Z Pictures’ largest budget ever, for the movie industry insiders say is tentatively titled The Corruption of Senator Billy.
“Is your Senator more decadent than the events depicted in this movie?” I asked, pointing to Decline playing on a nearby screen.
“It’s all very decadent,” he replied.
The camera worked sporadically. I played a little game called Spot the Non Porn Actress. The lights went up on stage and the Sex City Punks, Lockwood’s band that plays porn events, began a vamp. The audience wasn’t paying attention. Then several porn girls walked onstage and started moving around listlessly. It started to not look good. Then Lockwood came out and said, “Woot!”
I was closest to the door and a bunch of people followed me out. It wasn’t that the band was bad; it was just that the presence of a rented band, etc. said more about pleasing Lockwood than it did about pleasing the audience.
Still: free drinks.
Previously: Lockwood’s Decline to be celebrated; The decline of western civilization: Dildopolis; Porn party report
did he really say w00t?