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The Bad News
Hello, you dearly neglected Money Shot Blog readers. I am not your usual host. My name is Julius Hoffman. But you can call me “Ray”.
I come to this here esteemed porn blog with terrible news. Your esteemed porn-blogger, and my dear friend and business partner, is dead.
Sherman McCoy is dead.
A Chorus for the Dead Hash Smoker
But before we go on… Here’s some transcendental reading music. Yeah, it’s Guns-N-Roses, but also Julian The Angel, which is both like me, since I am Julius, and like Sherman, because he is dead like a fucking Angel.
Perhaps you want to know how it happened…
We were having a fine time in Copenhagen. Smoking lots of hash. Putting together plans for the building of a series of wild and innovative new porn sites. Meeting and chatting with other producers of porn, most of whom spoke with these funny hoodie-hoodie Nordic accents.
What Killed Sherman McCoy
Then Sherman started to feel unwell.
At first he thought it was just some allergies. Or maybe a cold. Or maybe just a physical manifestation of his existential angst– he did, after all, summon up the dead spirit of Søren Kierkegaard and practically beg the old existentialist to pitch him a philosophical fastball.
But by the start of July, he was convinced that he was really sick. More dramatic ideas started to come to mind: Swine Flu? Some sort of nasty, life-threatening virus caught from a Tijuana whore-girl?
Turns out that it was indeed some sort of infection that killed him. Nobody knows precisely what it was, and nobody knows precisely where he got it from. The doctors labeled it a “generalized systemic infection”. That sounds all generalized and systemic and not the least bit like the lethal microbial beast that it was.
Kicked Out of Denmark
As the month of July progressed, Sherman turned into a total mess. He even tried to come back to porn-blogging, but he just couldn’t do it.
He did keep on smoking hash though. Perhaps it was the hash smoking that alleviated his discomfort somewhat and allowed him to convince himself that his health problems were not as serious as they actually were.
He was taken to the Kingdom hospital in Copenhagen on July 22. When the Danish authorities realized that Søren Kierkegaard was about to drag his summoner back with him into the afterlife, they promptly put us both on the next Continental Airlines flight back to Newark.
They even sprung for first class! People get awfully generous when they’re dealing with a walking zombie.
We never made it back to California. Sherman was transported to Mount Sinai in New York City as soon as we got off the plane. All his family from upstate came down to be at his bedside. He expired after a week of heroic efforts by the doctors.
Guess Who Ended Up With His Ashes?
Sherman’s body was cremated. And is it any wonder that yours truly has ended up with his ashes? Here they are, right here in this fucking Folgers Coffee can (à la Lebowski) on my kitchen table, looking at me as I write this to you.
We talked on the plane about what to do with his ashes if he were to kick the bucket. He wanted them spread all over the place, and I am happy to oblige.
Some of his ashes he wanted thrown off the end of the Oceanside Pier at midnight on the date of the new moon. That was the night of August 20, a few days ago. Done and done. It probably looked a little wierd… but, eh, whaddayagonnado?
You can now swim with the fishes for all eternity, Sherman!
He also wanted some ashes sprinkled atop the graves of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and Sartre. Apparently Sherman wants to spend part of the afterlife in good existential company.
Kierkegaard is no problem. I know where his grave is because he’s the fucker who started this whole death-spiral. I’ll be going back to Copenhagen in a few weeks to take care of that.
Sartre should be easy; I don’t speak French but I’m sure I can find it.
Nietzsche might be a little more difficult.
And As For The Porn Blog?
Well, dear friends… I’ve inherited it!
No sense in wasting a perfectly good domain just because the blogger is dead, is there?
So I will, in the spirit of my good dead friend, build this blog up from a very crappy and neglected porn blog into a real good fucking porn blog!
I start with the tagline. You can see it atop this page now.
The Porn-Blogger is Dead. Long Live the Porn Blog!
What more is there to say, really?
6 Comments
What an sad news to hear about sherman!
May he rest in peace!
True words:The Porn-Blogger is Dead. Long Live the Porn Blog!
hmmm. I smell bullshit.
Well, I for one, am glad that shitty little shit is dead.
Sartre lies in Montparnasse Cemetery in Paris, not hard to find.
I would have thought he would be carried away by a severe chill in Paris. Or maybe he was found out.
Oscar Wilde said it best:
Algernon: [Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.
Lady Bracknell: Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have been extremely sudden.
Algernon: [Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this afternoon.
Lady Bracknell: What did he die of?
Algernon: Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.
Lady Bracknell: Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.
Algernon: My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean—so Bunbury died.
Lady Bracknell: He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physicians. I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice. And now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?
Many good writers die in similar circumstances. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, etc. for example. Manic depressive, Obsessive Compulsive types often rely too much on medical opinion. They also make good writers.
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