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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
“If we are here not to do what you and I wanna to do, and go forever crazy with it, then why the hell are we even here?!! DAAAA!!!”
For last few days I listen to Super Taranta!. Is from Gogol Bordello– that is hottest Gypsy punk band of… ummm…. 2007.
I am little late. Usual case. Trend train already left station. Arrived at fucking destination long ago while I fucking spend time fucking Tijuana whores.
Guys in band are genius. Totally existential. Confronting serious psychological and philosophical issue with smart analytical rational thinking.
And there even song of Grand Unification Theory. Will titillate your inner physics geek!
Is music that help navigate you the absurdities of stupid modern American life… with vodka and marinated herring!. In face of so much existential absurdity, what can possibly ask of art except that it be helpful?
They become with Silversun Pickups one of my favorite band. Check out performance with Postmodern Queen herself from 2007 (just first part of video). And also session on show of clueless David Letterman.
(I think Madonna performance is one best things I’ve seen in year… I remember Andrew Sullivan blog it many many times ago. I never knew who Gypsy dudes were until now, tho’.)
I came back to San Diego late last night. A very long flight from Europe.
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.
Or, more precisely, a “boulevardier, whore-monger, and drooler over pornography”.
That’s how this review summarizes James Hawes’ description of Kafka in his new book, Excavating Kafka. Hawes was able to get into Kafka’s porn stash and includes copies of this wank material to illustrate Kafka’s humanness, in contrast to the saintly picture that Hawes claims is painted by Kafka scholars.
And according to this write-up in Times Online, it’s not just soft vanilla erotica:
“These are not naughty postcards from the beach. They are undoubtedly porn, pure and simple. Some of it is quite dark, with animals committing fellatio and girl-on-girl action… It’s quite unpleasant.”
So basically it’s the pre-Nazi equivalent of furry porn, plus some sapphic delights. That doesn’t sound unpleasant at all.
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