I was thinking about getting rid of cable TV and keeping my Netflix account and getting a Hulu “Plus” account, too.

I bought a new printer recently, and I’m having a blast making prints of some of my pictures…but I won’t go as far as calling my pictures “photographs”.

Maggie is 8 1/2 years old and suffers from hip dysplasia; it’s so bad her front legs are starting to go, as they’ve been over-compensating for her weak hind legs. We spoon a lot, but I never slip it in. She’s called me a tease more than once.

I’d guestimate I spend about 85% of my free time alone, and out of that time, I’d say I’m lonely 10% of the time, and taking that 10% into consideration, I’d say 95% of it is between 10pm and when I go to sleep, which varies between midnight and 2 am.

One of the great songs: The Damned’s “New Rose” — but I’m not a big fan of theirs. Same goes (on both counts) for “(I’m) Stranded” by The Saints.

Thinking of those two songs makes me take back all the bad things I ever said about 70’s music.

When I was a kid, my first foray into music was WLS MUSICRADIO 89; this is the top 5 songs they played for the week ending September 7, 1974, and revisiting this list makes me think of sitting in the passenger seat as mom drove us to The Museum of Science and Industry: “(You’re) Having My Baby”, “The Night Chicago Died”, “I Shot the Sheriff”, “Tell Me Something Good” (Rufus!), and “Feel Like Makin’ Love”.

The Minion started blogging. Go check him out.

People take porn way too seriously.

I’m totally slacking on yoga practice. This is why I’ve been uptight lately.

John Updike once said Death, Sex, and Art are the three Great Mysteries in life, and I agree with him…but I’d like to add The Fourth Great Mystery: relationships. Wait…maybe “Sex” covers relationships. Yes, in fact, it does. So there is no Fourth Great Mystery.

I’m hoping people start dumping their books cheap and using that money to buy Kindles and iPads and whatever other sort of e-Readers are out there, just like people dumped their records in the mid-to-late 80’s to buy CD’s; this time, I’m gonna buy all the books I can and not fall for the same trick I did in 1985.

I like Kindles and iPads and whatever other sort of e-Readers are out there, cause they facilitate reading. But I like books way better. Tangibility goes a long way.

I want to lose 35 pounds, so when I’m 200, my penis will appear to be an inch longer. (Note: my good health takes second place to the size of my ween.)

I lost my virginity my junior year, but I got blown two months after I turned 15 — the middle of my freshman year. This was February ’79, and her name was Diana, and I remember thinking how awesome her wet vagina felt wrapped around my middle finger while she sucked me off in the back seat of my dad’s ’75 Pontiac convertible after The Parada del Sol — a car I still own to this day.

Diana would come over to “help” me with my math, and I’d bring her into my room with my closet door open, cause I had a floor-to-ceiling mirror affixed to the back of that door, which was a very pervy way way to watch her blow me, cause usually she’d kinda rest her head on my stomach to do it, and that totally obstructed the view of my dick going in and out of her mouth. I can’t believe my parents would actually let that fly — closing the bedroom door while she was over, I mean.

Diana swallowed without question, every single time, which led me to believe every girl in the whole wide world behaved the same way.

I’d often play side 2 of Pink Floyd’s Animals when Diana came over to help me with math.

My math ended at Algebra 2, my junior year. I simply couldn’t do it. I did great with Geometry my sophomore year, though. Which makes sense. Cause if A = B, and B = C, then A has to equal C.

I still love Wilco; however, I’m on the hunt for a new favorite band to obsess over.

Yes, those are army-man PJ’s I’m wearing as I bury my face into the ass of a beautiful Porno Princess; her butt hole smelled as glorious as an Easter Sunday brunch. The Minion suggested she don The Panda Mask, and then he snapped the pic.

I want to see Captain America, but I’m not a big fan of super-hero movies. I did read a lot of comics growing up though, and Daredevil was my favorite, cause it made sense to me that no one would suspect a blind dude to be a super hero. Hulk was a close second.

Here’s an interesting article on porn piracy, which, as you know, I’ve talked about more than once in the past.

Here’s a list of all the musicians who have died at 27 — the “27 Club”.

Right now, as I wrap this post, my cleaning crew is about to start sanitizing my studio, which is the best money I spend on a regular basis; and my iTunes, perpetually set on “shuffle”, is serving up “Teen Age Riot” — another great song.

With this post, I’m 9 away from 1,000. Not that anyone’s paying attention. Except me.

Porn Star Screen Tests: Is it OK to like stuff I’ve done? Even though I totally ripped-off Andy Warhol? Maybe not. So, instead I’ll just say how much I love the various reactions these are receiving, from a “waste of time” to…no reaction at all. Porn Star Screen Test #1 — Kristina Rose — went mini-viral (someone in Spain liked it enough to spread the word) and it racked up 50,000+ views in a few days, of which 20 people “liked” it. 5 times as many people didn’t like it (almost 100), which means the other 49,000 others didn’t even bother to rate it. I have to call this a success. There’s 25 (or so) left to post, and I shot them all in the fall of ’09. I can’t wait to see what you guys think of the rest. Or don’t think about ’em.

Andy Warhol’s Soup Cans: Why not stop with the screen tests? For the first time since 1962, the complete set of Soup Cans is back in LA. Bet you didn’t know Andy’s first show was in LA. Bet you didn’t the show consisted of these 32 cans. You might know the art gallery across the street was so insulted with the show, they put 32 real soup cans in the window with some sort of snarky remark about being able to at least eat the soup in their window. Bet you didn’t know Dennis Hopper was one of the few who bought one…but the gallery owner felt it was best to sell all 32 as a set, so he had to call Hopper and ask for his back. Then he sold all 32 to another dealer for $1100 ($35 a piece). In 1995, that dealer sold them to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC for $15,000,000 ($468,750 a piece). And now they’re back! I’ve already gone to see them once. I’ll go a few more times.

Michael Lohan’s behavior on Celebrity Rehab: So in one of their first group meetings, Amy Fisher (now bookable through Shy Love’s agency!) boo-hoo’d about how rehab was “like prison”. Which set off Steven Adler, to the point where I almost listed his behavior here…until Michael Lohan went off. Wow, was he pissed! Lohan started in about how, at his prison, the inmates were so terrible they actually “drew pictures” of his wife and daughter with wieners in their mouths; which, to me, is standard middle-school behavior. Looking back at it now, I was one of those dudes who drew silly pics of girls blowing dick. In fact, if Lindsay Lohan was in my 8th grade English class, I woulda been the kid drawing Lindsay blowing a goat…but only after she turned me down for Friday Night’s dance. Anyway, retelling such a horrid story made Mr. Lohan run to the bathroom and barf. No…he didn’t barf. It was more like a Power Hurl. All over the place. Which is what I woulda hoped an 8th grade Lindsay woulda done when I handed her my picture…but we all know now an 8th grade girl can handle that sort of nonsense much better than Mr. Lohan did on what is my favorite vice of late: Celebrity Rehab.

Girlvert: A Porno Memoir — I first met Ashley Blue in the fall of 2002, at Dogfart’s secret Mansion, way up high in the hills of Malibu overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I didn’t shoot her until 2010, when she was the star of an Interracial BlowBang scene. In between, we’d run into each other every now and then….mostly when our porno circles came together. Which is to say hardly ever. I went to the book release party a few weeks ago, which was a hoot, but even better yet is Ashley’s book. Ori’s book. Whatever. It is the greatest thing a porno person has achieved with something outside of porn. Her book is better than all of her scenes put together, and if you guys like reading my blog, you’ll love Girlvert. I say that cause most of the people who like I Shoot Porn like it cause of the “insider’s look” on porn. The one thing I can never, ever do is nail what goes on inside the mind of a porno princess. Ashley Blue sure did. Girlvert should be required reading for each and every girl before she gets into this biz. If I was King of Porno, you’d have to pass a test on Girlvert before you were allowed to be booked for your first scene. But then again, if I was King of Porno, you wouldn’t be able to perform your first scene til you were 21. But that’s a different blog.

“This is Billy,” I said, in my stern, RESTRICTED voice.

“Um, hey Billy.” Long pause. “My name is Julio.”

Another long pause…during which time I choose not to say another word — until he says something. Cause I’m fairly certain he’s gonna ask me for a job as a Stunt Cock. And of course I’ve already have his answer, cause between e-mails and random phone calls, I get about 20 of these a week. They go something like this:

My name’s “AJ”. I’m 19 years old, 190 lbs with a fit and slim yet muscular build, I’m 6’3″, and I live in Upland, California (about 40 mins away from Los Angeles). I’m ok with ANY kind of sexual activity, even receiving oral from a male actor. However I’m not into any kind of sexual activity that is homosexual, other than receiving oral. I have hairy legs, but my pubic hair is shaved and well taken care of haha. I have a 9″ penis when erect (6″ when flaccid), I have a lot of stamina, a strong sex drive, and I’m comfortable with performing infront of an audience. I’ve attached a few photos here and I will send another email with my attached video that i put together. I have some professional modeling pictures that I can send to you also if you’d like. Hope to hear from you soon!

or

Hi my name is g. Im a straight white mail long sell taken care of hair athletic body 2 shoulder tatoo,s nothing crazy…would love to get into this I’m a surfer looking guy..good looking could make u money give me a call

or

hi billy, im interesting on working on the adult movies, my name is f, i am 24 9/1/1986 i am in los angeles ca. please answer me..

and the phone calls always come from RESTRICTED and just like Julio’s call, they say hey Billy so-and-so gave me your number cause they said I’d be good at porno. Can I have a shot?

First thing’s first — and I’ve said this a million times — you wouldn’t be good at porno cause I’ll 99% certain that you can’t be male talent in any kind of porno, cause once the spotlight’s on you and there’s a hot (intimidating) chick and a stern (intimidating) director and a whole bunch of (intimidating) people wandering are set, your wiener’s gonna be as hard as 1st grade math.

But that’s not why Julio was calling.

He didn’t want to be male talent.

He had a “package” for me, and he was calling from a pay phone at a doughnut shop close to my studio.

I hung up immediately, terrified.

WTF?

A package? What’s that supposed to mean? Which is about the same time Creepy Q, who edits the content I shoot for Blacks on Blondes, hit me up via ICQ: “I got your package, Billy!”

So now I got Creepy Q on my computer telling me about a package, and a dude I don’t know named Julio calling me about a package. That’s when it hit: I never told you this, but last fall I sent a FedEX to Creepy Q…and it never got there. FedEX dropped the ball, so to speak; hence, there’s 5 or 6 movies of big black dicks fucking little white chicks floating around the world — someplace. And no one’s ever seen them.

Except me.

And Julio?

That’s when I got pissed at myself for hanging up the phone so quickly. And like a scared, little girl.

Which is about when my phone rang again. And again, RESTRICTED.

“Is that you bro?” I answered.

Yep. I called him “bro”. Like we were bros all of a sudden.

“Yea man,” Julio said. “Hey dude don’t be such a dick. I just got a package here with your name on it, and I think it’s only fair I give it back to you.”

“It’s a FedEX, right?” I hid the excitement in my voice, cause I didn’t want him to think it was that big of a deal. Last thing I need is Julio asking for a big reward.

“No man,” he said. “This ain’t no FedEX box.”

So now I’m terrified — again. What kind of package is he talking about? Is this some sort of weird set up? And if it’s not the FedEX, how did this dude get my phone number in the first place? Which is what I asked him.

“Shaggy gave it to me.”

I have no idea who Shaggy is. I do know of a Shaggy who rides around with a crew in a hip van called “The Mystery Machine”. There’s Shaggy, and Velma, Daphne and Fred. And a dog that talks. Other than that, not once have I heard a dude referring to himself as “Shaggy”. Not in real life, anyway.

“Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Shaggy. And if it’s not a FedEX package, I don’t know of any package being delivered to me. You’re calling me from a restricted number, and I have no idea how you got my number…so I’m about to hang up again. Cause you’re kinda freaking me out.”

Julio said, “Do you know Eric Kroll?”

Of course I know Kroll. We’re pals. Adrianna Nicole introduced us a few years back, and we’ve been friends since. Kroll’s a collector, too, just like me. And we both collect vintage smut: old nudie pics, vintage pulps, 8mm films, contact sheets, black & white negatives, and dirty mags that are long forgotten: Titter and Beauty Parade and Wink, just to name a few.

A month ago Kroll sent me a package of all the stuff I just told you about, and sure enough I never got it, cause the package was too big to fit in my mailbox, so the postman left it on top of all the mailboxes, and a pack of thieves led by a dude named Julio took it. “We thought it was a PS3 or some shit like that. Something good we could eBay. You know? When we went through it, I was like what the fuck? This ain’t nothin’ but old-time porno. Black and white shit. Who gives a fuck about that? Plus, I didn’t want my girl to think I was doing shit behind her back. If she saw a big box of porno sitting around my place, she’d get pissed. Anyway, I’m sorry I ripped you off, and I just wanted to give this back to you, bro. I just want to do the right thing! Besides, stealing mail is serious shit, and I don’t want no trouble, you know?”

I totally forgot about Kroll’s package! I wanted to jump out of the car and hug the dude. Instead, I handed him 20 bucks and thanked him.

Then I asked him, “So, how did you get my number?”

“I sell this dude weed. He’s in your business. When I showed him the package with your name on in, he told me he knew you, and he gave me your number.” Then, Julio handed me his cell, and sure enough, Stunt Cock’s number was on the screen — as “Shaggy” — which isn’t his porno name at all. Good thing, too, cause who would hire anyone named Shaggy to do anything?

Then it hit me: the only reason this dude was returning my package was out of fear. Julio knew Shaggy was gonna see me again, and if Shaggy woulda told me what he knew, I would have called the cops on Julio.

Then — “Hey Billy, you think you could hire me? I wanna be in one of your movies. I can fuck like a champ!”

“You got a big dick?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. (Every dude has a big dick, until it’s time to pull it out.)

“Hell ya I do. I’ll get my lady to make it big and then I’ll send you a pic!”

I didn’t even get back to the studio when my phone chirped. Damn, I thought. That was fast. I flipped it open, and the picture wasn’t from Julio at all. It was from a Porno Princess — a pal of mine — and she sends me a naked dude with his wiener flopped out of his pants.

“Who’s this?” I txt’d back to Porno Princess. “And why did you send it to me?”

“My brother,” she wrote back. “He wants to get in the biz. He’s got 7″, and he’s tone and fit and shoots a big load.”

I was stopped at a traffic light, already going through Kroll’s package of beautiful, old-school sleaze, some of which was spread across the passenger’s seat. I reread the text. The sun was bright, and a breeze made everything feel perfect. The thermometer on my dash said 71°. It seems like the weather is perfect here almost all the time. No wonder 15 million people live in this city.

I read the text one more time and shook my head as I made my way back to the studio.

Sweet Child O’ Mine as covered by Taken By Trees: Who woulda thunk that a quiet, Cat Poweresque gal from Stockholm could have pulled off such a great cover. Her name is Victoria Bergsman, and when she’s singing she calls herself Taken By Trees, and her tiny piano is every bit as effective as Slash’s mighty axe. After you add that song to your mySpace, listen to “Julia”.

The Kindly Ones by Jonathon Littell: If you don’t finish this book, you can always use it to crush coal into diamonds, which might not take as long as reading it. But you might finish, cause you read this blog, and that makes you a big ol’ perv. I’m quite sure you will enjoy reading the sordid tale of an SS Officer who, among other things, sodomizes his sister, jams sausages up his own ass then cleans them up a bit to serve to his parents, and does walking tours of Auschwitz, Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald, after which he’s called to the bunker in Berlin during Hitler’s last days, where he meets Dur Fuhrer. I haven’t gotten this far, yet, and I dunno if I will, cause if a book doesn’t do it for me, I have no problem setting it down. But so far, so good.

My new MacBook Pro: It’s not really new, cause I bought it off my pal who just bought a super duper high powered one, but this is only a year old, and I love it, and I think it’s time for me to say bye bye to PC’s. By the way, my senior year I couldn’t do algebra, and I needed the math credit, so I signed up for computer class. (I dunno if it still counts as a math credit). We had the brand-spankin’ new Apple I with a 64K hard drive. This was 1982, I loved Oingo Boingo, but I didn’t have a mullet (that came in ’84). In other words, I started on an Apple. I’ll probably end on one. Next up: iPhone.

The Ace Hotel, Portland OR: So I’m writing this from Room #315, and I’m up here kicking it with a pal, and I’m right across the street from Gay Pride (No Way Am I Gay!) — but, more importantly, Powell’s City of Books, and across the street the dude who sells vintage smut, and down from him Stumptown Coffee Roasters, which ain’t too far from Jackpot Records. The Crystal Ballroom! And on every tap, Pabst Blue Ribbon! In other words, motherfuck me. If it wasn’t for October til May, I’d figure out a way to live here.

Greil Marcus’s Real Life Rock Top Ten as it appears in The Believer: From Wiki: “Greil Marcus (born 1945) is an American author, music journalist and cultural critic. He is notable for producing scholarly and literary essays that place rock music in a much broader framework of culture and politics than is customary in pop music journalism.” Every month he hypes ten things he loves lately, so what’s a filthy, dirty pornographer to do but rip him off? Mr. Marcus is much smarter than I; hence, I’m only half as good. At least today.