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.