Since he’s no longer in porn, I think it’s OK to tell you what happened after Jason’s phone call. If you haven’t read about it yet, it’s the first part of this blog, and it should be right below this one. So you might want to read “Just Call Me Randall P. McMurphy” before you delve into Part Two.

Anyways, Jason was good on his word. The next day he came to my studio to show me his “something”. When the buzzer rang, I thought it was one of the dudes for the Blow Bang I was about to shoot; instead, it was Jason Brown. And, being the kind of person I tend to be, I welcomed him in to my studio.

Without looking at anyone, Jason said, “Billy! I need to talk to you…NOW!” He pointed at the sofa and demanded I sit down. He took off his jacket and pulled off his back pack and tossed it on to that sofa, then he put his cell phone down on top of all his other stuff, and then he looked at my bookkeeper and ordered her to leave the room…immediately.

I looked at him and said, “Who the fuck do you think you are, bro?” Then I told him, “This is my office. That is my employee. Never, ever walk into my place of business and tell me or any of my co-workers what to do.”

He apologized, and I walked him back to the front door and out to the street.

Then, he started. First, he showed me the thing he had to show me — his athletic uniform. It’s a very special thing to him, and as he started to explain to me why his jersey is so important — as well as the number on his jersey — a clock was ticking in my head. He had exactly five more seconds to tell me whatever it was he needed to tell me, which, of course, was never going to happen. If I gave him an hour, I don’t think he could cover all the territory he felt he needed to cover. He talked about Manchester-United, which I remember from a Rod Stewart song, and his dreams and aspirations when he was a child, and then, when he started in with more of the oxymoron talk, I told him to have a great day.

He begged for me to listen. I walked back in, grabbed his stuff, and handed it to him. I wished him luck, and he threw everything on the ground and told me to wait…he had something that, to him, signified his career in porn, and he wanted to give it to me as a symbol of his retirement. I rolled my eyes, shut the door, and locked it. His stuff lay there, in the public foyer, and I didn’t give a fuck. I walked back in to the studio to see how my crew was coming along with their paperwork, and to see how long until the Porn Whore was out of the make-up chair.

Just then my buzzer rang again.

I opened the door, and Jason handed me what he needed to hand me, and then he bolted past me, and into my office.

“Dude, you need to leave,” I said.

“No! Absolutely not!! I have to go back into your studio and talk to the guys!!! I need to tell them The Truth!”

“Dude, you need to leave. Now.”

Jason screamed. “BILLY! DO NOT INTERRUPT ME!” and then he made a mad dash for the Blow Bangers — all eight of them. And the Porn Whore.

I stood there, dumbfounded, and contemplated my next move. And just as fast as he went to the studio, he was back, and out my door. He scooped up his stuff and hauled ass.

Maybe Tone Capone and The Crew mad dogged him out of there?

Then, I got a text, apologizing for his actions. And to me, nothing works better than an apology, cause no one does that sort of thing anymore. At least it seems that way to me.

So I shot my Blow Bang, and I went about my business.

Later, I was making my way home after a long day, and I was thinking how fucking weird my life is, and here’s Jason Brown — once more — calling to tell me something.

I like Jason Brown. Even after all this, I really do. He’s been one of my best guys going on 5 years now. A “go-to” guy. He always showed up on time, never really had a problem on set, and did pretty much whatever we needed to get done. That’s one of the reasons I answered his call.

The other was just to hear what was coming next…and oh, boy, was it worth it.

“I fucked up,” he said. “I was a total asshole.”

“Yea, well…we all have bad days,” I said.

“No, dude, you don’t understand. I really fucked up. I simply misread the signals He sent me. I thought it had something to do with you, but I was wrong.”

Uh huh. You heard me. I couldn’t believe it, either, so I asked, “Jason, does God send you signals?”

Jason said yes, and he misread the ones he had just received, and he apologized once more. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

Then I asked him, “Hey, Jason…ever feel the Porno Biz has skull fucked you so hard that your brains have turned to mush?”

“Yea,” he said.

To which I concurred.

Just then I looked up and saw the green neon lights of the Vista Theater. It’s one of my very favorite places in Los Angeles…for a few reasons: I’ve sat next to some of my very closet friends in that place and watched some great films; its Egyptian facade restored to its past splendor makes it a place I’d go and sit through a movie just because…of that place. And in the 70’s, it was a seedy porno house; I even scored a leaflet at a Paper & Ephemera show advertising the weekly stag flick at the Vista. Before it was a stag house, Ed Wood Jr. — one of my very favorite film makers — kept an office right above the theater.

I wonder if Ed Wood’s actors received signals from God.

Maybe Ed Wood himself talked to God. How else would you explain the masterpiece that is Plan 9 from Outer Space?