Category Archives: Nothing To Do With Porn

Nothing To Do With Porn, random raves, Will I Get In Trouble For This?

The Weez V. Chris DeBurgh — The Results!

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Weezer

LOTS AND LOTS OF VOTES FOR MY BATTLE OF THE BANDS CONTEST FROM TUESDAY:

Fnord writes:

This is apples and oranges. You’ve got the neo-millenial slacker ramblings of Weezer up against the proto-New Romantic RenFaire geekery of Chris De Burgh?

Ultimately, I have to go with Weezer because I think they did a much better job of capturing, and ultimately driving the cultural zeitgeist at that time. Chris De Burgh, through both this song and Lady In Red (and really, is there anything else he ever was known for?) is much more able to draw people into his Weltanschung. But ultimately, isn’t music (or any form of artistic expression) supposed to be inclusive instead of exclusive? Weezer says “We are you. You are us. This is the way we are right now.” Whereas De Burgh says, “This is my story, my experiences and my fantasy.” Thus De Burgh makes a subject-object delineation that I think is a conscious method to keep something (his audience, something in his personal life, etc) at a distance.

A lot of people would rebut that however and say something like this: “There are lots of great songs with fantastic settings and tales that capture the the imagination, there’s nothing inherently distancing about it.” However, I think if you look at the best of them — take Gordon Lightfoot’s Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, for instance — they still all boil down to a thesis of “This could be me.” With Edmund Fitzgerald, you have a bad day at work gone from bad to worse. Getting busted for shooting pr0n, having a database crash so bad that revenue flow stops, catching shrapnel from an IED in Iraq, or having your ship break up on Lake Superior. A really bad day at work. Not a great cognitive leap for those who have to make a living. Tough to make that “It could be me” leap when you’re thinking “Well, here I am in Hades front of Charon. I’d much rather be playing Styx in a bar band instead of crossing it with Big Creepy here.”

Interestingly enough, I think the same distinction can be made between your work and that of Eon McKai. With your work, especially where the girls are not overly made up or sporting obvious silicone, the production lends itself to a very palpable sense of “That could be me.” With some notable exceptions, the vast majority of women you hire appear (even given your caveat of “all porn chix are broken and crazy”) like they’d be women you’d meet at an indie rock show at First Ave. or a geek bar. McKai’s work however, like that of De Burgh, is very fantastical and clearly not something that is ever going to happen to anybody in the realm of quasi-normal life. There again the subject-object separation is clear and ultimately lessens (in my humble opinion) the cultural value of the work.

D’s reply made me laugh:

I would have offered my thoughts on the Chris DeBurgh vs Weezer question earlier but I just found out about it. I would have loved to get access to the ass eating site as it is the perfect metaphor for life today.

“How’s things?”

“Great! Just as soon as I eat a little ass.”

“Honey, don’t forget to pick up the dry cleaning.”

“I’ll get it while I’m out eating some ass.”

“The party of the first part, here in after referred to as the ass eater…”

“Your attitude has come to the attention of human resources, we’d like to discuss your ass eating technique.”

“Be all the ass eater you can be in the Army.”

“The party of the second part, here in there after referred to as yet another ass eater…”

“Grant me the serenity to eat the ass I have to, not to eat the ass I don’t and the wisdom to know the difference.”

At any rate Weezer looks like they’re doing impersonations of unfortunates with Asperger’s Syndrome and Chris De Burgh looks like a less masculine version of Bonnie Tyler, who we last heard from “sitting on a powder keg and giving off sparks”. I thought Weezer had a better song if only because it was consistant with their ironic posing. Plus no way would Charon let you get in the friggin boat with out paying the fare, no bargaining, no free loading, no nothing, that’s made abundantly clear in the classical literature and heavy metal music.

I think any ambiguity would be cleared up if you took the sound track from one and played it over the other video, just to see if anyone noticed.

Tony says:

I’m casting my vote for Weezer and “El Scorcho”. I never heard this song before you posted it on your blog, but now I can’t get it out of my head. The Chris de Burgh song, “Don’t Pay the Ferryman,” takes me back to my high school days. I found it annoying and corny back then and it hasn’t improved with time.

Missy Asslove writes:

They both kinda suck but weezer can suck and u still know they’re good. Like Picasso:)

Si says, then asks:

I’m going have to go for Weezer, that is an awesome song and the lyrics are great!

ps Would there ever be any chance of you filming Kacey? I know you did a blog on her a while ago but how often do situations like that change? To me she is one of the hottest girls around along with Riley Mason and Erin Moore!

Devil At Heart writes:

Chris DeBurgh.

Reason, not that you asked for one. Just thought I’d share. I like things that are just a bit dark. The whole lighting and scene he had going for the music video just made it more entertaining. Plus, he reminded me of some of that power ballad 80’s rock stuff. Kind’ve stuff you see some guy fuckin jammin out to in his late 80’s BMW.

DN The Hater says:

à propos your little contest : stick to the porn gig….I, of course, hated it.

V says:

The Weez gets my vote. Chris DeBurg song is okay, but the video looks and feels like it was shot in the 80s, it other words, it’s kind of dated. The Weez gets my vote even though I have never heard of them before. The Weez, simply because they look like a modern band appeal to me more.

Joe writes:

I gotta go with Weezer. Johnny Thunders beats ’em both by miles, though.

Porter writes:

Weezer wins in my book. I like their music better – and it’s got a little less of an 80s feel for the video; having lived through that era of MTV – I’m not entirely willing to go back to it.

Ralph writes:

I vote for Weezer, not that the 80’s didn’t rock, but sometimes some emo ramblings are just what’s needed.

Michael in Burbank writes:

Hmm, tough choice. Weezer is good stuff, full of self-depreciating irony and all that. On the other hand, you have to appreciate the full-on commitment to style (with no irony aftertaste) of Chris DeBurgh. This decision is also made easier because I remember seeing that video when it came out because I am old (41.) DeBurgh wins!

And if by some chance I win this, I’ll take the subscription to Mano Job.

Billy Watson writes:

There were more votes (mostly for Weezer) which I didn’t list here, and while there’s really no “right” answer, I’d have to go with Weezer, too. Of course your opinion on music isn’t my criteria for giving away a free 30 days to one of my dirty websites. I mean that would be too obvious, right? I was looking for something witty and fun in your reason(s) as to why The Weez or DeBurgh should win.

Initially I was going with Fnord, cause that answer / analysis had to take a while to bang out…right bro? I liked Missy Asslove’s Picasso analogy. DN The Hater didn’t disappoint, either…as usual.

I’ve decided to give away two memberships: Michael in Burbank gets the Manojob one, and D gets one to Eat Some Ass, cause they both know which one of my sites they like the best. So guys, hit me up, and I’ll issue you a PW. Just don’t share it, OK? I’m serious! We have state-of-the-art software installed on all our sites, and once you share your password, a special frequency is secretly emitted from your computer, and your testicles will turn into eencie-beancie raisins.

Thanks everyone! This was so much fun, I think I’m going to have more contests, in which porn will be given away…cause what’s better than some free porn?

Nothing To Do With Porn, random raves, Will I Get In Trouble For This?

A Battle of The Bands: The Weez V. Chris DeBurgh — You Decide!

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Please watch both through, from beginning to end, and then e-mail me your vote. One random person shall win a month free membership to the dirty site of their choice: Eat Some Ass, Spunkmouth, Manojob, Chelci Fox, or The Dick Suckers. Or yes, even No Way Am I Gay.

(All votes must be in within 48 hours from this post. Must be 21 or older to enter. We do not represent nor make any warranty in respect of the accuracy, reliability or continuous supply of any of the information on this website. The services and information contained on this website are only for general information and use and are not intended to address Your particular requirements. Any reliance You place upon any material on this website will be at your sole risk. We reserve the right in Our sole discretion, but without any obligation, to make amendments or improvements to, or withdraw or correct any error or omission in any portion of the material without notice. In particular, Our services and information do not constitute any form of advice or recommendation by Us and are not intended to be relied upon by You in making any specific medical or other decision. Appropriate independent medical advice should be obtained before making any such decision. Our services and the materials on this website are provided by Us on an “as is” basis, and We expressly disclaim any and all warranties, express or implied, to the extent permitted by applicable law. To the fullest extent permitted by applicable laws, We hereby exclude liability for any claims, loss, demands or damages of any kind whatsoever with respect to Our services, information and materials given by Us including, without limitation, direct, indirect, incidental or consequential loss or damages, The foregoing will apply whether such claims, loss or damages arise in tort, contract, negligence, under statute or other.)

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Allen Ginsberg’s Howl.

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howl

In 1987 I was a college student, and – like most kids in school – I was very confused about which way my life was headed. I came into my senior year with a GPA only a college jock could be proud of, too. Which was true, cause I was a jock, and I played that role very well. Problem was, my time was almost over. I had to declare a major, and my athletic counselor suggested history…cause it was “easiest”.

Her words.

I chose English. I liked to write, and I like to read – biographies on all the people I looked up to, mostly. So why not English Lit? Problem was, none of the books I read were curriculum, of course.

I had no idea about Beowulf, or Chaucer, or almost anything Shakespeare ever wrote – and I really still don’t; Milton and Dante and Blake were a mystery to me; I kinda liked the 19th century American writers – specifically Stephen Crane; I threw away Absalom, Absalom! in disgust – I mean literally…like, in the trash can; however, Hem and Steinbeck and Scotty Fitz were cool; and then, one day, I walked into a movie theater cause Mickey Rourke was playing a down-and-out poet, and I still liked Rourke enough back then to cough up 6 bucks and watch him act.

This was, of course, before “Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man”.

Rourke played Charles Bukowski; the movie was Barfly. After it ended, I walked out of that theater and immediately to the used bookstore across the street, where I scored a rather dog-eared copy of Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame.

A book that would alter my life for the next decade or so. Maybe even to this point.

From there, I found the Beats, and Kerouac, and Corso, and Old Billy Boy, and sure enough, Allen Ginsberg. Devoured a lot of it, although Burroughs maddened me, and Allen was too homoerotic most of the time for my tastes, and Corso kinda bored me, and sure, On The Road was great, but, to tell you the truth, I liked Visions of Gerard more.

Until I reread On The Road.

50 years ago today City Lights published Howl. It got Ferlinghetti into a lot of trouble. It was a dirty book, and some people don’t like dirty things, so they use all their might – political and otherwise – to control everyone around them…because that’s the kind of shitty people they are. The conservatives ruled then, and a Senator named Joe McCarthy was lying his ass off and ruining peoples’ lives in the name of battling The Enemy (then called “Communists”) in order to increase his power. Most Americans were afraid about almost everything, cause that’s the way the government wanted them to feel.

Funny how some things never change.

Anyways, reading Bukowski and The Beats made me turn back to Beowulf, and Chaucer and I reread them, and this time I liked them – and almost understood what they were saying. I still avoided almost anything Shakespeare ever wrote – as well as Milton and Dante.

But not Blake or Faulkner.

I haven’t read anything in almost four years…about the same time I’ve been making dirty movies. I did go out and buy Charles Frazier’s new book, and The Best American Comics for 2006 – the R. Crumb story about his brother Charles made that book worth every cent.

I haven’t scouted for used books in almost four years…about the same time I’ve been making dirty movies. I’ve scored some beauties, too, over the years…bought and sold them lots of times, my all-time favorite being a Ray Johnson book that had a piece of his art laid into the front page. Or maybe some of the Bukowski titles that had original paintings by him, tipped right into the book itself, too. Ed Abbey and Tim O’Brien and Thomas Pynchon and Toni Morrison and Flannery O’Connor and William T. Vollmann; Hem and Steinbeck and Scotty Fitz and old James Joyce in Paris, with Gertrude Stein making sure they were all OK.

And you scurvy fucks think I’m a dumb pervert…which is entirely untrue: I’m the smartest fucking pervert you’ll ever get to know.

Nothing To Do With Porn

Me & The Pogues & The Wiltern Theater

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The Pogues

I’ve never been a huge Pogues fan, but I’ve always respected them. So when they played down the street from my studio tonight, I took it upon myself to see them. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of the Wiltern Theater, too…so off I went.

Actually, I almost didn’t go, but when my pal Jimmy 3 Way typed “what is your other choice…ICQ-ing with us morons?” that closed the deal for me.

It’s tough to go to a show all by yourself in a city in which you know almost no one, and I was quite certain I wouldn’t be running into Mandingo or Amber Rayne or Barbie Cummings at a Pogues’ show.

Before the band played, I was the geek walking around by myself and reading the historical information from the plaques on the walls and admiring the art deco masterpiece that is The Wiltern while everyone else mingled and drank way-too-expensive booze.

I’m glad I got to see poor old Shane MacGowan before he’s dead and gone. But that old duffer is such a tough motherfucker he’ll probably be alive and not-to-well a decade from now, despite what you might have read lately…assuming you even give a shit about the Pogues. I was lucky enough to watch him stagger around, only hours ago, drunk on stage and not missing a beat…just like I was lucky enough to watch Joe Strummer do the same thing before he died.

Fake snow fell onstage while he sang Fairytale of New York with Katie Melua singing along side him…and it when then I realized this is the kind of show I think I’ll brag about seeing 10 years from now.

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The Records I’m Listening To Now.

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The Dirtbombs!

That’s right, you silly MoFo’s. Records. Not MP3’s, or CD’s. All recent scores at my favorite record store, and in no particular order:

Loose Fur on the Drag City label. Cause it’s Tweedy.

Cat Power The Greatest. Cause she is.

The Dirtbombs UltraGlide in Black. Cause they fucking rock.

Studio One Rockers The Original. Straight outta Kingstown, Jamaica.

Randy Newman Live. I don’t give a shit what you say about this one.

Rolling Stones Big Hits (High Tide and Green Grass). Scored one with the book still intact in the gatefold.

Bob Dylan The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. In mono!

The Meters second line strut. Love and gusha-gusha.

The Postal Service Give Up. On colored wax, no less.

Thelonious Monk. Best of. Even though I have a ton of Thelonious, it never hurts to spin his greatest hits package. That can almost be said of any artist. Shit, even the Bay City Rollers.

Husker Du Don’t Want To Know If You Are Lonely on the SST specially-priced 3-cut maxi-single. I’d like to point out that all hyphens just used are all used correctly.

Sex Pistols Filthy Lucre Live. I don’t care what you say about this one, either.

James Brown ‘Live’ At The Apollo. Two Big Albums in One!

Various Artists on 20 Explosive Dynamic Super Smash Hit Explosions! from Pravada. For the Mojo Nixon bonus 45? The Young Fresh Fellows version of Black Betty? Or The Smashing Pumpkins doing Jackie Blue? You make the call.

So there you have it. Cause I think the only way you really get to know someone is knowing the music they listen to, and the only way you really and truly like someone is to have the same sort of musical tastes.

And as my old-time long-dead friend Eric Zanheiser’s dad used to tell him, after he would yell at Eric a whole bunch right after Eric got caught doing something really stupid: “put that in your bong and smoke it!”

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Chili con Carne. With Beans.

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Miles

Makenzie stopped by the other day. I was feeling a bit tense, so she gave me a massage. It was a great massage. I even paid for a Happy Ending. Afterwards, I thought why should I pay anyone for sex? Well, not anyone, but certainly anyone in my business, cause I can generate upwards of 3,000 dollars of work for them in a single day, depending on what they’ll do. Shit, these silly whores should be offering me sex all the time. Gratis. They should be calling me just to say HI and see how I’m doing. They should be stopping by, out of the blue, just to see if there’s anything I need. With an iced venti something-or-other in their hand and a smile on their face. Or at 2 am, after they’ve been drinking, for a booty call. That’s right, all you porno bee-yatches: booty call my fat ass. Maybe then you’ll be able to pay your rent on time when the first rolls around.

OK…I take that all back. Sorry.

I was lurking around Hipinion the other day, cause it’s one of my favorite places to lurk, and I found something very cool. Then, I found out whoever’s posting these pics is either into porn, or loves it. Then, Sophia! (You know I shot her first gangbang?) Angela Stone! (with some dude I don’t know…man, did she give me a great Eat Some Ass scene.) James Deen! (boy, did he fuck the shit out of Riley Mason for me).

And then I found a pic of The Biggest Dork in the History of Porn!

My UPS package came today, and with the 4 discs inside, I think my Miles Davis fix is complete: Workin’, Steamin’, Relaxin’, and Cookin’. I dunno if you listen to jazz (probably not) but, along with Kind of Blue, I think these records make up Miles’s Top 5. (Kind of Blue might be my favorite thing ever made). I love these reissues cause they’re fairly inexpensive, and they’re all 180 gram bad boys – virgin vinyl!! – and I can’t wait to be done with this so I can get to my record player.

My dog Maggie stinks. Really bad. She’s a Golden, and it’s starting to warm up here, so she jumps in the pool, and after she’s dried off, it smells like she’s been rolling in poo. Maybe she has been.

My other dog, Dakota, is a bad boy.

I just got a new bed. It’s one of those Tempur-pedic knock-offs. I mean I coulda gone for the Tempur, but I really liked what I ended up with better. I’m still not sleeping through the night, but at least I’m not sore when I wake up.

Speaking of my fat ass, while I was cleaning up after my Happy Ending, Makenzie said I had “man boobs”. Fuck. Like I need her to tell me that. When I was her age, I had pecs. Now I have man boobs. I wanted to say something like “wait till you’re my age, silly girl.” But she’s a runner, and she eats really healthy, and she’s like 95 pounds, and when she’s 42 she’ll weigh maybe 98 pounds, so I really couldn’t say much. I wish she smoked, and did drugs, and drank a lot, like all the other porn girls do.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Batman. Then, the Incredible Hulk. Then (briefly) Spiderman (we had a Spidey club in 5th grade). Then Daredevil, cause to me, Daredevil made the most sense. I always thought Superman was gay, cause you had to be one stupid fuck not to see Clark Kent was Superman…but the Daredevil! Who can kick ass when they’re blind? The Daredevil. Then, in 7th and 8th grade, I wanted to be Tony Alva. We even built a half-pipe in my neighbor’s drive-way! In high school it was Al Fuerbach, then Brian Oldfield, then, about the time I graduated high school, I didn’t want to be anyone at all except me.

I’m OK being me. Man boobs and all.

Miles

Nothing To Do With Porn, stories from porno land (some amusing, some not)

I’m Not Sure What To Call This,

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Chelci in the tub

but it’s late at night, I can’t sleep, and for some reason I’m thinking about my old pal Eric, who’s been dead now for 25 years. It’s weird when a friend, who happens to also be a peer, dies…especially when you’re young. Don’t get me wrong – it’s sad, and depressing – along with being weird – when someone your own age dies for whatever reason…as long as your own age happens to be anything under the age of, say, 65.

For example my friend Bob died recently, but he was 74, and full of cancer, and he’d been fighting it long before I knew him. So, his passing is sad, but not depressing, and certainly not weird.

But when my friend Pat killed himself about six months ago – a friend who graduated high school the same year I did, and was my age, well, then it was really sad and kinda weird.

But when you’re, say, 17, and you find out a friend died, it really fucks with your head.

We used to spy on Eric’s mom whenever she took a bath. Not the best thing in the world to admit, especially when you’re talking about a dead guy’s mom, but we did it. The whole neighborhood. My dad built homes back then; in fact, he built the whole neighborhood, and we lived there too. There were eight homes total, and with the exception of one, there were kids in every house, so everyone knew everyone.

In fact, when Eric moved to Phoenix from So Cal, I was the first kid he met, and we became fast friends. We both rode skateboards everywhere, we used to stay out of the hot summer sun and watch game shows on TV, and we both thought Led Zeppelin #2 was, perhaps, the greatest record ever made. (Remember, this was in 8th grade).

Eric lived across the street from me, and this kid Paul lived next to Eric, and we used to play hoops at Paul’s, and one day the basketball bounced over the fence and into Eric’s backyard. I hopped the fence to get it, and there she was, in her full naked splendor, nothing over the windows. I don’t think she ever cared about putting blinds over her bathroom windows, ever, and with my discovery that part of Eric’s backyard turned into An Event almost every night.

We just made sure Eric wasn’t around. Then, we’d sit along the lean against the fence, peering over the fence, while she sat in the tub, sipping wine, or reading, or both. We were maybe ten feet away, and she’d always have this dim light on, and nothing else, and it was simply amazing. There would be anywhere from three to eight of us, and we’d stare at her, deadly silent and intense, from the time she got in that tub till the time she stepped out.

I know once the show was over I went home and beat off like a monkey at the zoo, and I’m sure everyone else did, too, but no one would ever admit to such a thing back then, cause beating off was for fags.

Once, when a bunch of us were coming home from a Cars concert, Darren turned to me as said, “Let’s go spy on Mrs. Cuthbert.”

I was driving my father’s Pontiac convertible, and it’s so huge like 8 of us could fit comfortable in it, and Eric was in the back seat making out with his girlfriend, but I think he heard.

I still have that car, and even the ticket stub to that show, cause I kept all the ticket stubs to all the shows I’ve ever gone to…well, at least the ones where a ticket was issued, and I got to keep the stub.

Eric died a couple years later, on his way to Saguaro Lake, in the back of a jeep. Chris, the kid who was driving, was fucked up, as they all were…all four of them – Eric included – making their way to the lake to party that day. But the old CJ Jeeps had that super narrow wheel base, and something happened, and there was an over-correction, and the jeep flipped, and Eric died on the side of the road; everyone else lived.

I have no idea why I’m thinking about Eric now, 25 years later; however, I have a pretty good idea why I can’t sleep. And just to keep this from being completely depressing, here’s Chelci, who I shot in a tub, which kinda reminded me of the story I just told you, only Eric’s mom was hotter.

Way hotter.

Nothing To Do With Porn, stories from porno land (some amusing, some not)

Eat A Peach

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Blacks On Blondes

There’s times I have absolutely no interest in writing about spunkmouth, eating ass, gloryholes, interracial sex, or handjobs. This is one of those times. I don’t even feel like writing about Spring Thomas, which is kinda funny, cause most of the time she’s all I ever feel like writing about.

Instead I’m sitting at home, it’s Friday night, and the Phoenix Forum – the internet porno industry’s big deal convention where people from all over the place come to where I live and networknetworknetwork – is happening less than a mile away, and instead of being there, I’m home, with absolutely no interest in going to CCBill’s party where internet porn girls are probably dancing topless at some bar on Mill Avenue and the drinks are free (CCBill is paying for them).

Oh, sure…I was there all day, and sure, I networked…whatever that means. But that sort of shit is tiring, and I’m pooped. Too pooped to drink more and look at more nekkid girls. I got to watch all the Lightspeed girls play dodgeball in the nude, so I think I’m all good.

Maybe I’m just in one of those moods. I fall into it every now and then, mostly when I’m kinda on the edge of melancholy, and a blue funk is coming up. I have no idea why it comes on, but I think it’s a natural part of life, and I accept it. And when it’s about to hit, I find myself over my turntable, listening to as many records as I can…and I always end up with a particular record in hand. And before I get to specifically what record that is, I have to preface what I’m about to write with this: I have no real interest in the band about I’m to write about; I don’t listen to anything else they’ve really recorded…ever; and, in fact, if someone, say, 5 years ago would have told me I would have any sort of interest in this band, I’d have laughed at them.

The Allman Brother’s record Eat A Peach is spinning, specifically on side 3, and I’ve listened to it now 4 times tonight…twice before I started writing this, once while I thought hey, maybe I should blog about side 3 of Eat A Peach, and now, I’m playing it again, while I blog, as loud as my old tube amp will let me play it. I’m sure I’ll play it two or three more times before I’m done.

Side 3. For the few of you still listening to records, you know what I’m talking about; for everyone else, it’s the five songs that start with “One Way Out” and end with “Little Martha”.

Sometimes I hate admitting to being addicted to vinyl, cause there’s this kind of snobbery now that comes with that territory – both a musical snobbery as well as the one almost all audiophiles carry with them. And I poo-poo both every chance I get. I like records because that’s what I listened to growing up. That’s about it, really. I like their oversized packaging, cause since 1985 I’ve been buying CD’s, and you know they’re way smaller than a 12 inch record, and I really like gatefold packaging (the records that fold out when you open them) and I love the booklets and shit they put in there, and the a lot of the art work and liner notes and pictures that came in the gatefold, cause now all that shit is gone with CD packaging.

Well, most of it, anyway.

But what I need to talk about is Eat A Peach, and specifically side 3, cause there’s a great story behind the record, and I think side 3 encompasses everything that’s great about the record…a record so great Rolling Stone threw it in their top 100 list of all time…if that sort of thing means anything to you at all.

“One Way Out” is all about infidelity, and being lonely, and it’s something I think we all know about; “Trouble No More” a Muddy Waters cover song that, if you know about Muddy Waters, doesn’t need any more commentary than that; “Stand Back” is about failed relationships, and again, something we all know about; “Blue Sky” does an about-face on the previous three songs, celebrating love and relationships; and the final song, “Little Martha”, is Duane Allman’s acoustic masterpiece, and he’s its sole author…something that’s never happened on an Allman Brothers’ record before or after.

Ending side 3 with that song was Greg Allman’s tribute to his brother Duane, who was killed not too long after it was recorded.

Of course I can’t be sure of that. But I do know that Duane was killed while they were making this record, riding his motorcycle in Georgia, where he lived…something I’m sure he loved almost as much as playing guitar, and it’s said Duane wrote “Little Martha” for a groupie he was banging at the time, after Jimi Hendrix showed the song to him in a dream…and it’s named after a little girl who died seventy some odd years before Duane did; they both ended up in the same cemetary.

I dunno how much of what I learned about “Little Martha” is true, but listening to that song, and imagining that everything I know about it is true…well, maybe it’s the reason I’m not out looking at topless porno girls while CCBill buys me booze.

And somehow, as a whole, side 3 pulls me out of where my blue funk, and makes things seem a little better, and I think it’s all cause of that about-face that Greg pulled with “Blue Sky” and “Little Martha”.

OK, I’m all done, and so is side 3. I promise, tomorrow, to get back to cum splattered girls and greasy, gooey handjobs.

I promise.