It’s actually only Mid-Winter. But it has been warm here. It has felt like Spring the last few weeks….

So I think the time is right to revamp this here esteemed porn blog. That’s what I’ll be working on this weekend. It’s Super Bowl weekend in the U.S.A., after all, and I ain’t no fan of football.

Visit here again after the weekend to see the new stuff!

It’s not only the weather prompting this, though…

A New Abby Winters Site

One big change is that I’ll be moving all the Abby Winters material to a new site. I have to do this because, earlier this week, a half-naked crazed bazooka-toting woman showed up at my office, introduced herself as Abby Winters (yes, Virginia, there is an Abby Winters!), and proceed to tell me that my writing was shit and that she was on a Terminator-style mission to destroy it.

Just a generic bazooka chic. I didn't snap Bazooka Abby.

I’m a Republican. So naturally the massive weapon was a total mega turn-on.

One thing quickly led to another and, shortly thereafter, we fucked. WOW! That was a wild mind-blowing carnal experience. Abby Winters is the best fucking lay that any man has ever had. Ever. EVAH!!! It was epic. It was legend. It was like a fantasy that I never knew I had… come true!!!

I still tremble when I recollect it.

Post-Coital Tenderness

But after sex it was back to the bazooka for Abby. She shoved it in my jaw and told me that although we just, ya’ know, did it, she still detested my prose and I would have to do certain things if I wanted to avoid having my mind blown, this time literally.

I must delete all Abby Winters pictures for one. Second, I must delete all Abby Winters links! I must also make sure that I am NOT bringing any creative writing talent to any promotion of Abby Winters’ namesake site anywhere on the Internet. And I must read a book on how to sexually satisfy Aussie women!

Abby reiterated that my writing sucks balls. She promised that if I got anywhere near her site with it, she would return with the bazooka and settle my account the way they do in the bush…

Yikes! Abby gonna go all Crocodile Dundee on my ass!

No Spice!

I promised Abby that, on my new promo site, I will be writing without any spice whatsoever. There will be no provocation. There will be nothing that could conceivably offend the nutty Aussie chic with the bazooka!

It will be boring as all hell. It’ll be bleak as Northern Europe in February. There’ll be some good pictures though. Just try as best you can to enjoy the pictorial bliss and overwhelming amateur lusciousness. I know you really want the articles, not the photos. I understand. Truly, I do.

But the chic had a bazooka! And she was hot! And she was mental! And she was Aussie! And she was… Oh, nevermind, you get it.

What choice did I have?

Another One Bites the Dust

I post this with great sadness.

Well, sorta…

I regret to inform you that Julius “Ray” Hoffman, keeper of this esteemed porn blog, walked out onto the beach in Oceanside, California and kicked the bucket.

Actually, it was more of a “pail” than a “bucket”. One of those plastic sand toys, left behind by some negligent vacationers. Probably a family from Wisconsin– all Wisconsinites are assholes, you know.

Ray kicked the little plastic shovel too, for good measure…

Like Sherman McCoy before him, Julius “Ray” Hoffman is DEAD. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead fucking dead. Dead like Steve Jobs. Dead like Michael Jackson. Dead like freedom and liberty in America.

Death in the Modern World

Back in 2009, when Sherman met his demise, it seemed okay to record his undoing in somewhat flowery detail.

But no more. Those days are gone. Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone fucking gone.

Now is the time of austerity, the era of the trim and lean, the epoch of thrift. Brevity!

All I’ll say is…

It Was the Vodka That Did It

Ray had just finished the last post, in which he vowed to forge ahead Bigger, Faster, Stronger with this neglected publication. He stepped out of his Pacific Street home to survey the lovely afternoon panorama of sand, sea, sun, and sky that stretched out before him.

As he gazed away into the distance, something flying overhead caught his attention.

What was it? A bird? A plane? Newt Gingrich?

It came closer. It glimmered in the sunlight. Ray could see that it was partly clear, partly golden… Was it an angel?

Thump. It landed in the sand, right in front of him.

He picked it up. It was a 1.75L bottle jug of Tito’s Handmade Vodka. Sent from God, apparently.

A Jug of Vodka A Day Keeps The Doctor Away

Ray carried the divine vodka inside.

Begotten, not made, he thought. One in being with the father. Through him all things are made. Like this here jug o’ vodka.

He wasn’t a fan of alcohol. Marijuana yes… booze no.

But Ray figured that if God had sent it, then he ought to drink it.

So, doing his best Amy Winehouse impersonation, Ray drank it up– all one point seven five liters of it. The whole fucking thing. In ten minutes.

And it killed him. He won’t be needing any doctor ever again. (Therefore the doctor is officially “away”? Get it? Do I really need to spell these things out for you? If you’re gonna go along with this esteemed porn blog henceforth, then you should bring your A-level reading game to it! I ain’t gonna coddle you for long!)

A Cautionary Tale

If you’ve ever tasted Tito’s Handmade Vodka, you know how exceptionally pure and smooth it is. Therefore, no gag reflex or anything like that got between Ray and his appointment with Doom.

There should be a moral to this story, don’t you think? It would be a shame if Ray expired without leaving something– besides porn– behind for humanity.

I guess the moral is this:

Tito’s Vodka is killer, dude…

Or perhaps:

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

You can take y’er pick, I guess.

I still don’t know anything else about what particular Apple Store I’m in. I tried to ask one of the Apple-shirted dudes but he just laughed at me. Maybe he no speakie the Engrish?

There are certainly lots of foreigners around! Some of them have got backpacks on; some look like they’ve been sitting in front of these Macs for hours. Is this some sort of Apple Store cum Internet Cafe… without the coffee?

Maybe I’m in Prague? I always thought if one were to exit the Underworld through the door marked “EXIT” then one would end up in Prague.

Anyway… Foreigners are cool! Sometimes they’re sideways but you’ve still gotta appreciate the way they often cut through the bullshit:

Four months is pretty fucking bad. Not as bad as Lex Konrad, who has gone almost a year without posting anything except a giant stone baby head, but still bad…

I’ve got an idea! How about I give you a gratuitous shaved naked gun-toting midget and we call it even? Sound good?

Here ‘ya go:

Now down to business…

Where the hell am I? I came through the door marked “EXIT” and into this place that sorta looks like some sort of strange internet cafe. Lots of people speaking foreign languages. A glass-enclosed staircase in the middle of the room. My eyes are still adjusting.

Coffee please!!! Where do they serve the coffee? I’ve spent four months in the fucking Underworld– I need a fucking cup of coffee!!

What?! No coffee bar?! Just a Genuis Bar?! What the fuck?!

OMG! I just came out of the Underworld and into…

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?

It’s June 30. 7PM as I write this. Or 19:00… what-fucking-ever. It’s been an unusually hot and sweaty day…

Hear that rumbling in the sky, Denmark?

That’s our good dead friend Mr. Kierkegaard coming back to the land of the living.

He is going to be joining our neophyte porn company.

His position? Chief Dead Existentialist. Every company needs one of those.

Nobody Gave Him A Chance in 1849

Only a dead man can dominate the situation in Denmark. Licentiousness, envy, gossip, and mediocrity are everywhere supreme. Were I to die now the effect of my life would be exceptional; much of what I have simply jotted down carelessly in the Journals would become of great importance and have a great effect; for then people would have grown reconciled to me and would be able to grant me what was, and is, my right.
– Søren Kierkegaard, 1849

Wow was he right.

But times are different now. We aren’t so hostile toward new ideas or new ways of thinking. In fact, we invite them; or at least the smart people and the creative people and the conscious people do.

Anyway, you get to go another round, Søren.

This time there’ll be much more hedonism involved. That much is sure.

The End of June

Ray and I agreed that we would take the month of June easy.

Brainstorm. Think of every possible idea. Look at even the most basic concepts in a new way. Unwind in a different environment.

I was making coffee when Ray stumbled out of his room this morning.

Coffee?

Yeah.

Ray opened the fridge, browsed, shut it.

Do we have any hash left?

We didn’t have any hash left and I told him so. In consolation he could have the last piece of CHOKOLADE KAGE if he wanted it. Chocolate cake for breakfast just like Bill Cosby makes for his kids…

And anyway it was time for us to get going. It was time to start the project. No more messing around.

Time to really begin the next chapter of our lives. Time to Yell Fire! Time to do something god-damn important! I was beginning to psych myself up…

Are you with me, morning boy? Are you with me?

He was with me. I explained that he should take the day lightly. Rest. De-tox. Whatever. Just stay here and sober up so we can look at the plan with fresh eyes tomorrow.

I was going for a walk and then I was going to write.

Hey Ray… Stay off the hash for a while, OK?

OK. You too, right?

Right.

Walking in Copenhagen

I walked.

I walked down to Christania and it was really crowded because the Roskilde Festival was beginning and I went to our usual dealer’s stand to buy a super-hash joint.

Some new dude was manning the stand.

You want the small one for fifty kroner?

Or this one for eighty…

Another dude standing with his back to us turns around and it is one of the normal dealers and he recognizes me and I look at him and shrug and he looks at the new-dude dealer and then hands me the super-hash joint that normally costs 120 kroner but we get them for the 100 kroner ‘cuz we’re such fucking good customers.

I walked. Smoked. Thought. Wondered if Ray would show up.

…at Søren Kierkegaard’s grave.

Those are my iPod earpuds laying there on his final resting place.

I wanted to give him the chance to hear some good modern music. He was listening to Silversun Pickups when I took the snap. Growing Old is Getting Old. Somehow that seemed appropriate…

The Sex Life of Dead Spirits

When I got to his grave, there were two touristy-looking young women staring down at his old dead existentialist bawawa…

I took a little stroll around the old part of Assistens Kirkegård, waiting for some time along with him.

I wonder if Søren’s spirit haunts this place.

Does he, in the night, wander around?

Is he… perhaps… looking for a drink?

Does he ever get horny?

These are important questions.

As I’m pondering this, I come across the grave of one Miss Ellen Margrethe Seknner.

She died back in 1871. Was 22 years old.

Does the statue look like she does?

I mean… it’s angelic and graceful and all that… but still…

She’s sorta hot. In an angelic-dead-marble sort of way.

Betcha Søren’s spirit is fucking her.

Every night he probably strolls over to her, looks down at her sweet angelic face, and…

What’s it gonna be, baby? Either we’ll make love together in a wonderful sensual merging of our long-dead spirits… Or I can just slam you round and do it rough in your heavenly ass.

No… Not really. I just wanted to get that in there. That, of course, is a line from yesterday’s episode of Breaking Bad.

Grabbing the latest Breaking Bad has been a regular Monday morning experience for me. I don’t own a TV so I download the episodes from iTunes… each new one is available online a few hours after it airs Sunday night.

It’s a really great show, don’t you think? I love the moral ambiguity. How contemptible is Walter White, if you think he is contemptible at all? I don’t think he’s a terrible man. He makes a drug that people buy of their own free will; the consequences of its use are not his responsibility. And he had to waste that Crazy Eight dude because of the “kill or be killed” situation. I think the lies he told to his wife and kid are the worst aspect of what he’s done. And he really owes poor Jesse Pinkman a lot for all that he put him through… $672K ought to cover that tho’.

Another reason I love the show is because of the fact that Science is always looming over the characters like some sort of Olympian god. Being a former science/math geek who has turned to a less “mainstream” career myself, I can identify with Walter White’s situation, and I can appreciate the character’s deep feeling for the power of science.

And it takes place in New Mexico! I did my post-doc at SFI right there! I can remember all the distinctive smells and the distinctive sights… and I remember it all being permeated with ideas of complex systems and chaos and Coyote and the javelinas and the fucking jackalope and Ten Thousand Waves and Fat Man and Little Boy and Georgia O’Keefe vagina paintings and working through all the volumes of Landau & Lifschitz and all the wonderment that goes along…

One of the best things about Santa Fe was the people. Within the complex systems crowd, you could talk about anything and it would be open for lively mindful discussion and possible action. Any crazy fucking idea that popped into your mind! Anything at all, no matter how nuts it seemed, was fair game…

Let me tell you how much of a math geek I am: Some people have memorized the first few digits of PI, but I can tell you first 20 of the Feigenbaum Number! (It was actually Professor Feigenbaum and his googley insane eyes that led me into the porn business, but that’s another story for another time…)

Time for a road trip to Santa Fe? No… Not now. Maybe in the fall. Besides… I’m getting ready to head back to Copenhagen at the end of the month. Gonna be in Denmark through the summer. My pal and business partner Ray Hoffman has finally got his international legal shit sorted out and is ready to shoot some porn… Why, exactly, we need to travel to Europe to shoot it when we both live in Southern California- the porn capital of the fucking world- is beyond me. But, eh, the pot there is good, and the summer days are long, and the air is fresh, and the girls are hot… So I’m not complaining.

The first time was Saturday… the Saturday before last. I quickly found myself fucking a lovely young-looking and extremely petite hottie who had just arrived that day from Mexico City. She said she was 21. Sure, baby…. whatever you say!

After that I walked down Revolución. Partook in a stimulating and totally non-sexual massage at VivaMex. Had a nice meal at the Hotel Nelson restaurant… the Combinación Mexicana is yummy and goes well with a Margarita or two or three or five.

Then back to Zona Norte for more fucking. This time a 19-year-old with lush supple tits. I fucked this whoregirl on a previous trip and had been looking forward to doing her again.

Outside Adelita Bar in TJ's Zona Norte

Always safe sex, always using a condom. I am not fucking stupid. One reason I am especially careful is that I’m only a level 5 or 6 Tijuana Whore-Mongerer. Some of these guys, by contrast, are up there at levels 8 and 9 and 10.

Anyway back to it…

I was only slightly worn out after the two fuck sessions and the one massage session and the scrumptious meal and tasty Margaritas. And it was still early. Real early- like 7PM! I have over-optimized this whole hedonistic process!!! Got all the pleasure I came for and the sun hadn’t even gone down yet!

So I stumble toward Hong Kong Bar. And there I realized that Hong Kong Bar was not only the finest strip club in North America– hands down– but that I had found a new religion: The dragon was my god, and the Hong Kong fuckbar was my temple.

Guy at the Hong Kong door demands $3.50 for a can of Tecate. Some sort of entry fee or cover charge or what-have-you. No fucking way! I object on the basis of principle. I try to tell him that I am a loyal customer and esteemed porn blogger but he’s Mexican and he’s just the doorman and he doesn’t give a shit.

So I give him a $5 and tell him he can keep his gross Tecate and I step inside. I take a little walk around; the place is fucking big after last year’s renovation and there’s always stuff going on in all different sections.

Oh my god.

Is that a three-way lesbian show?

Oh my god.

Are all three girls…. covered in whip cream?

Oh my god.

Are those lit candles on the stage?

She’s not going to pour the hot candle wax on… Oh yes she is!

And then she takes the burning candle and shoves it into her pussy. One of the lesbo girls licks her tits. The third girl gets behind Miss Tit-Licker and starts to eat out her ass.

Holy shit! I gotta see this up close!

The cream-covered girl with the candle burning in her pussy who is getting her tits sucked takes a bottle of beer that’s been half-drunk and raises it over her body, pouring it out onto her tits and her stomach and the beer splahes over Miss Tit-Licker’s face as she’s getting her ass eaten out.

Then the burning candle comes out of the pussy and into her…

Oh my! I don’t think I’ve even ever seen that in porn, much less live.

There’s a few minutes of additional three-way action that blow even my rather pornofied mind.

Then the girls line up. In a fucking chain. Each girl’s ass is in the face of the girl behind her. They’re all covered in whip cream and beer. They look all around and then they plunge, with their tongues, into each others’ assholes. A cream-and-beer covered chain of ass-licking hotties.

I sit down. Have a few beers– Dos Equis, thank you very much. I don’t always drink beer, you know, but when I do I prefer Dos Equis.

The wait staff all recognize me, of course. I ask one of them a burning questions that flashed into my mind; something that would really make the evening complete: “Can I buy a joint to smoke here?”

No. Can’t do that. You can buy marijuana outside, he tells me, but can’t smoke it in here. It’s illegal, he explains. Cops would shut us down.

The Dos Equis multiply and pretty soon they become 12 X’s all together. Combined with the Margaritas from Hotel Nelson I am toasted. All the while some of the most amazing debauchery has been going on around me. I look up at the dragon over the bar. God I could go for a toke.

I’ll take you, man. You can be my god. And this will be my temple.

My temple is the best strip club in North America. Even without the ability to light up.

I mean… really… there isn’t any comparison. Nothing in the U.S. qualifies because you can’t actually fuck the girls. Here you can fuck pretty much any one you want. What’s the point of a strip club where you can’t fuck the strippers???

There’s this blond-haired girl dancing on a mini-stage over near the north entrance. She’s got the most incredible tits that me and my 12 X’s and five Margaritas have ever seen. I slip a dollar in her crotch and grab her tits and smoosh them on my cheeks as I bury my face between them. I would fuck her if I were more sober and hadn’t already came twice.

But those perfect perfect titties! Oh so yummy. So yummy yummy yummy!!!

Totally Unrelated Christmas Harem Pic

Goodie-goodie… Christmas is over. And what a fucking Christmas it has been!

You might wonder why yours truly has not blogged nuthin’ for almost all of this month.

It’s because I was in fucking Iceland! Bankrupt decrepit Iceland!

Early this month my pal Ray, who lives in Oceanside, called me up and asked me to come over. When I got to his Pacific Street place he told me that his ex-wife had secretly upped and moved with his two young kids to her home country of Iceland in order to, essentially, spite him. She took the law into her own hands instead of taking it to Divorce Court, giving Ray an international child abduction as an early Christmas present.

So Ray said he was going to Iceland to get his kids back. And I asked him if he wanted some company. The next morning, we landed at Keflavik with wads of cash in hand, ready to hire a lawyer. I told Ray that we should go all Warren Zevon on that bitch and get some guns too, but Ray is much more calm than I am and decided to cap the effort at lawyers and money.

Anyway… it was not a pleasant experience. It is not so easy to be on the receiving end of an international-child-abduction-for-spite thing. Ray, of course, is the innocent bystander who just got stuck in the mess, and now he’s certainly down on his luck in an emotional sense. And the Icelandic justice system moves slow at Christmastime, mostly because everyone involved is in a stage of either drunkenness or bitter depression.

Icelandic Lawyers in their Natural Habitat

The issue will take months to resolve. Months of legal wrangling. And Ray will be cut off from his children in the meantime. Of course he is distraught about it. I told Ray that he shouldn’t force himself into pain and sorrow like there is no tomorrow. But he should use the pain and sorrow to fill him up with power because, after all, life is both sweet and sour.

Ray gave me an evil look. Must have reminded him of his ex-wife or something like that.

Iceland was overall quite depressing. People there held a general mood as black as the December sky. It’s almost like they had known, long ago, that being the country that incubated Sigur Rós was too good to be true, and that there would be an eventual reckoning.

The “Blue Lagoon” thing was pretty cool tho’. A little touristy but I’d still love to have a geothermal pool like this in my own backyard.

We flew back to the U.S. on Christmas Day. Ray’s kids are still being held as emotional hostages in a country that has been essentially whacked by the financial fallout.

The whole thing was so depressing that I had to go fuck a Mexican street whore (two of them, actually) on the day after Christmas to cheer myself up.

Ray is so depressed that he’ll probably need to buy himself a sex slave. I keep on telling him that he can get one of those barely-legal Mexican girls as a sex servant, and then when he’s tired of her he can just send her back in a taxi to the border. It could be a Christmas present to himself. A little human trafficking and a case of Bailey’s will make the holidays much more bearable.

But for now: I’m back! And there’s plenty of postmodern porno blogging to catch up on! Here goes…

I’m back here because I have an existential quandary… a life question to answer… a fork in the road, if you will, and the only way to pass it is accept that there is no fork and indeed there is no road, and that any idea of any path at all is just an illusion.

An Existential Question

I came back to consult with The Porn Guru. He works from the Kearny Mesa section of San Diego. He is Existentialist, Ph.D., guide to rich men and Dostoevskian Idiots like me. He introduced me to the whole Existential philosophy, and indirectly to postmodernism too. I trust him more than anyone.

Of course, The Porn Guru will not give me an answer to my question. He does not give answers. He will only help me realize things that I have not thought of. And he is very good at that.

Today– my first full day back– has been a beautiful day. Bright and sunny, the slightly salty smell of the warm sea air providing the life breath to lungs and to mind… and also to loins, of course.

I sat at the front patio of Starbucks at B Street and 28th, in Golden Hill, for a couple of hours. Reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. It is a spectacular book. Sure, it stretches plausibility sometimes, and Rand is a much better dramatist than a novelist. The best way to regard it is as a thought-provoking mini-series in book form. And its most potent effect is what it inspires you to think about, not the plot or the story it feeds to you directly.

I should have read it when I was 17. Well… I’m 34 now, and that’s double 17, and anyway there is never a reason not to seek out inspiration. Perhaps when you stop seeking inspiration, you die, one way or another.

Problem is that the book is so fucking long. My copy has 1,069 pages of text. The plot is revealed on page 677. Page 677!!! Luckily there is plenty of juice to keep you interested- and thinking- along the way. Rand writes about sex… lots and lots about sex… and about power and sex… and about submission and sex… and about achievement and sex… and all that sex-writing is quite thought-provoking in itself.

I realized, sitting there, that I needed to get up and take a walk. Walk and think. I had been reading and thinking and reflecting there on the Starbucks patio far too long. So I decided to walk downtown.

As I’m walking down B Street, the Symphony Towers overhead, I stride past a 30-something black dude walking with a toothless, worn, wrinkled woman who is only slightly older.

He looks at me. “How you livin’, man?”

Huh? What’s that? It takes me a minute to escape from my thoughts about Dagny Taggart and how the three leading men of the book want to fuck her… neigh, to own her, sexually and in every other way… because of her ability. “Wha..?” I mumble to the dude.

“You look like you livin’ large”, he states, assuredly.

How could he know? Is that why is he commenting? Does he see it in my gait? In my face?

A moment passes. And then I respond, “No, man… I’m living… free.”

“Living free, huh? Dude here is living free.”

I have the novel in my right hand. I had walked rapidly passed him and the woman during the exchange. I turn, point my hand with the fat book in it at him. “That’s right. And living free is better than living large. Living free is better than anything.”

Without missing a beat, the black man replies, “You got that right, man.”

I turn back around and walk on.

I came to the conclusion that it was too much thinking. I needed to kill some brain cells. Alcohol was an option. My fridge is stocked full of Prince Charles’s Select Ale, which I still regard as the best beer in the world.

But for a while now, I’ve intended to go and buy some pot. I’m no marijuana connoisseur– I’m more interested in the right to smoke it than actually doing so. But I was curious as to how buying it in Denmark would compare to getting hold of it in California, especially since California’s effective legalization of it… for HAHAHA “medicinal purposes” HAHAHA.

Christiania is a hippie enclave in Copenhagen. Many years ago I went to its famous “Pusher Street” and bought some joints at one of its many joint-and-hash stands. But I heard the government had since clamped down. I heard that Pusher Street was now just like the Union Square Farmers’ Market– all clean and commercial and pot-free.

Christiania's Pusher Street

Hmmm… So I went down there this afternoon. Past the sign proclaiming the independence of the Free State of Christiania, past the squatter barracks, past the open-air market that did indeed resemble any Blue State America Farmers’ Market, past the many “no photos” signs. And there… right in the middle of Pusher Street… were a whole variety of hash-and-joint stands, just like there used to be. So much for the purported crackdown.

I buy 4 joints for 100 Danish kroner. Seller is some very thin 50-ish dude with few teeth who looks like a heroin addict. I pay, and then after I pay I ask him if the folks on Pusher Street are open to negotiation… Did I overpay for my pot??? He assures me no… there is no negotiation… I already got the best price.

Sure. I don’t believe him one bit.

Anyway, I bring the joints back to my place. I light one up. Tastes horrible. Like a fucking cigarette. And it really doesn’t kick. In fact after I smoke it I don’t feel much of anything at all. Am I smoking it wrong?

I turn to the one place that should help me answer my question: Wikipedia! Look up “joint”. Says that Europeans consider a joint to be marijuana mixed with tobacco. Ouuuuuuuuugggggghhhh tobacco- that’s so totally gross! I just smoked fucking tobacco. YUCK!

And yet Wikipedia doesn’t really offer any help. I still don’t know whether I am smoking it wrong or not. So I turn to YouTube. And I find this:

That was actually helpful. So I light up joint #2 and smoke along as I’m watching. And at the end there’s still not much of anything except a heavy craving for some carbs and an intense thirst. Joints #3 and #4 quickly disappear too. I feel nothing but hungry and thirsty and slightly oxygen-deprived and very tired of the cigarette taste in my mouth.

The 7-Eleven Blow Job Hot Dogs Special

I go to 7-Fucking-Eleven and buy 2 hot dogs for 30 kroner. They are Franske Hot Dogs… that’s Danish for “blow job hot dogs”. And the name sort of makes sense because it’s a sausage penetrating a bun that has a hole in it, and the mayonnaise dressing stuffed in the bun resembles cum. Anyhow, they taste good. And two of them for 30 kroner is a fucking good deal. Tons of people in line. Have to wait like 10 minutes. Much more difficult to get the 2 blow job hot dogs special from a 7-Eleven in Copenhagen than it is to buy sucky joints.

Pig meat must be in high demand. Getting high… apparently not so much.

Should I try hash? What do you do with hash… Make brownies?

And I think that, in the annals of history, it might go down as one blog post that could change the world! Despite its potentially boundless impact, it will be appearing here on this esteemed porn blog between a photo(shopping) of the fucking Republican presidential ticket and a bunch of BDSM sluts presented with a cheesy ice cream joke.

Such is the way of the world: If you want fucking wisdom, you gotta take the fucking too.

Anyway, I should not toot my own blogging horn until I have blogged something to toot about. So let me begin back in Europe. I left there on Tuesday. Early morning flight. And right before I left my Copenhagen apartment for the airport, I was posting galleries. In particular, I got this Red Hot! gallery up–

–on my esteemed porn portal at the last possible moment, then I packed up my laptop and grabbed my already-packed-up luggage and within two minutes of posting that Sizzling! gallery I was out the door on on my way back to America.

Sizzing Red Hot girl was all I could think of as I passed through the lovely Porn Capital of Europe and through the isle of Amager to the modern little airport, then on the plane and back to America! I couldn’t wait to have a yummy fucking Starbucks triple grande wet cappuccino. And maybe I would fuck a Tijuana street whore when I got back too. Ahhh… the comforts of home!

So I get to Chicago. Had to wait a couple of hours for the next plane- the one to San Diego. I get my coveted cappuccino– unfortunately there are no barely-legal Mexican street whores at O’Hare so I couldn’t fulfill the other part of my desires– and I sit down in one of the laptop stations and plug in and log on to the fucking pay-to-play airport internet.

Hmmm… the little light on the side of my Mac is not on- the one that shows the power is flowing… Let’s see… it’s plugged in… WAIT! What’s that?

I see smoke rising.

I follow the trail of smoke with my eyes down to… the power supply! My Mac’s power supply is… RED-HOT! Sizzling! ON FUCKING FIRE!

Yikes! That Red Hot, Sizzling! gallery really fucking was!

So I unplug the power supply and pack my juice-less laptop away, then wander around in some semi-stupid boredom for two hours, looking at idiotic books in idiotic airport bookstores as I kill time… DIE TIME! DIE! DIE! DIE!… and finally get on the flight to San Diego.

When I get to San Diego in the late afternoon, I realize that I’ve got to go to the fucking Apple fucking Store to fucking buy a fucking new fucking power supply for my fucking laptop. As I’m thinking about this, exiting the airport, I pass the limo driving dudes with my energy sapped by a very long day so far that begun nine time zones ago… And then I notice that one of the limo dudes is holding a sign that says…

“PORN.”

What? I squint. Look again. He’s holding a sign and the name on the sign is…

“PORN.”

Huh? I was going to ask him about it… I was going to say “hey that’s me but I didn’t order a fucking limo”… But would that be rude? Would it be obnoxious to inquire? Maybe there is… somewhere… a real guy who’s real last name is Porn. I had a neighbor at 666 Up Ass Street whose last name was “Deatherage”. Actually it was a couple– Mr. and Mrs. Deatherage. They were fighting every time I saw them. I understand they are in divorce proceedings now.

I decide to leave Mr. Porn’s driver alone and just go drop my fucking bags off and then go get that fucking power fucking supply.

So I get to Fashion Valley. That’s a fucking mall in the fucking Mission Valley shopping area of fucking San Diego.

I hate Fashion Valley. It’s so fucking fashionable. As I walk through the mall to the Apple Store, a bunch of 90210-looking girls are woman-ing a table and they are soliciting shoppers to come over and suck on their luscious sales pitch… “We’re helping missing kids,” the tall blonde girl says. Sure you are, honey. Sure you are.

Actually, you bitch, you are selling something… I don’t know what… and I don’t want to find out… but you’re selling something and you are using “missing kids” to do it. Nice. How fucking Fashion-Valley-ish of you.

Some 90210-looking dude is over there at their pitch table talking to them. Yeah, like you care about missing kids, bozo… you just want to fuck the airhead blondes, don’t you, California Boy???

Oh no matter. I get to the Apple Store and the place is like a lush geek oasis in the middle of Vapidland. Gawd, I love the Apple Store. Busy as hell too. Lots of Russians. There are tons of Russians in San Diego, but that’s another story for another time…

I get the replacement power supply and as I’m leaving Fashion Valley I pass by the same “missing kids” table and airhead 90210 blonde gives me the same “Do you want to help missing kids?” spiel that she did the first time, unaware that she already subjected me to her attempted trickery. UGH! I’m frustrated now and compounding the frustration is the fact that since I’ve come to Fashion Valley I’ve seen lots and lots of really hot blonde California girls and I’m really getting sexually charged and having been going for so long is compounding the horniness I’m feeling. And then there’s the warm California weather which of course brings all that testosterone to the head…

There is only one solution: I MUST go and fuck a barely-legal Tijuana street whore.

18 years old. 19 would be OK too. Not too thin and not too short because I want to fuck her up fucking deep and I don’t want one of these girls who is not capable of being penetrated intensely.

Is this TMI? I hope not. I mean… there really is a difference between fucking and FUCKING, between a nice little gentle rhythmic “intercourse” and a fucking all-out voraciously intense and somewhat rough mega-penetration. I wanted the latter. Since I don’t like MILFs, who are generally pretty good at that sort of thing, I decided to turn to a young female professional and a small transaction of international trade. Plus my passport was already in my back pocket.

I decide that I will take the trolley to the Tijuana border. I drop off the power supply at the apartment and hop on the trolley toward the Mexican border… and I soon find myself surrounded by bunches of Mexicans.

As the trolley rolls through National City and Chula Vista on the way to the City of Debauchery, I start thinking. I think about how I had previously resolved to not fuck any more Tijuana street whores.

But that was a long time ago, I reason. That was in an “up” real estate market. Now we are in financial turmoil. Everything changes in a down market!!! Ergo, I can go ahead and fuck a street whore.

Or another line of reasoning: I’m a fucking post-modernist. Post-modernists don’t believe in rules. So I should be breaking my own rules first of all. Only thing is that a rule about breaking rules would itself still be a rule. And certainly we can’t have a rule about that.

So I start thinking about rules. What is this rule that I came up with so many months ago… this idea that I should not be fucking barely-legal Tijuana street whores??? Where did it come from? Who is enforcing this rule? Who is going to put me to judgment based on this rule?

The answer comes to mind right away. And the answer is God.

That’s fucking right! God gave this rule to me. God is going to enforce it through some divine dishing out of bad luck or something like that if I break it.

God. God. God.

What a giant boatload of smelly shit that is.

Of course this rule… this idea… did not come from God. It came from me and my own feelings. I might not be able to elucidate those feelings so well, and I might not even understand their complexity. But it’s all there- I could delve into it, say with the help of a therapist, if I wanted to.

And the reason I think God is going to enforce this rule of my own making is that I don’t have anyone else who I can say is going to enforce it. A rule needs to be enforced, right? So I invent a personification to do what I need somebody to do, just to keep together the logical consistency of the thoughts in my head… and I call that personification “God”.

Oh my God! Finally it dawns on me: God is just a fucking kludge! And I don’t need no kludge!

That’s all God… all that religion… is: Just a first-order approximation! A fudge factor! God is what we use to fill in the blanks when we have something that we don’t understand, or when we need a personification to allocate something to in order to keep together the logic of the thoughts we have in our head! God is the first term in a power series expansion! God is the C when we + C to the equation. God is the first guess that we offer towards the world in our childlike and unevolved way of viewing it.

And isn’t this what we have always done, throughout history: We don’t know how the Earth beneath our feet came into being, so we say that it was the work of God. We don’t know why the sun appears to travel around the Earth, so we say God makes it so. We don’t know how to resolve the unavoidable sense of our continued existence with our knowledge of inevitable death, so we say God gives us an afterlife. We don’t know what meaning to ascribe to suffering, so we say that God will give us that meaning in time.

But it’s all fudge! It’s all just a placeholder for a better explanation that we could have with greater knowledge or greater awareness or both!

This reminds me of the time in Freshman Physics Lab in college when my lab partner Jim Delaney and I were supposed to measure the speed of light. There was some experiment with a mirror rotating at high RPM… and we really fucked up the experiment. So when it came time to do the calculation, we were screwed. We ended up with a speed of light that was half of what it should be, but with a margin of error double that! So the speed of light could have been negative but of equal magnitude.

We followed the procedure. We propagated the error of measurement through to the final calculation. We got a ludicrous result. We were too lazy to go back into the lab and redo the experiment. We got C’s on that report. We should have gotten F’s.

But we were lazy and it was a first approximation and we didn’t really care to get a better result.

And so it is with God!

Come hither the Übermensch! He has no need for such silliness! The Übermensch doesn’t need to resort to the God superstition as a first guess… he skips it altogether because he knows it’s never the right answer!

So it was with this great realization that I disembarked the train at the Tijuana border and made my way to the Zona Norte, where I proceeded to quickly find and fuck an entirely unsuitable 20-year-old. Thought she would be close enough to 18… but no. Wasn’t any good at all. And I thought about physics and religion the whole time and couldn’t even cum. Terrible. Terrible.

I went to Hong Kong Bar and had a drink and a girl with a very ugly face but some of the best tits I have ever seen danced on the stage in front of me. Hong Kong Bar was renovated while I was in Europe. It goes all the way though the block now. It’s huge. A huge beautiful den of debauchery.

I had a Kaluha. And I realized that I… like you, my friends… don’t need no fudge-factor first-order-approximation God no more. He is no use to us. Let us take one step towards the Übermensch and not invoke such silliness in our thoughts any more.