2006-06-26 - 11:57 p.m.
“My lord, Johnny Darling! Aren’t you DEAD?”
That was the phone call I received out of the blue from a long time friend, who is a regular reader of the blog. How embarrassing! I had decided to take a vacation from writing to you, my dearest Big Blue Blog-a-roo, simply because I had run out of things to say and needed to refresh my sensibility somewhat.
And I do have to admit that sometimes writing the mammoth entries for the Blog-a-licious Blog can be an imposing task. Each entry sometimes takes hours to write, and, sad to say, the past few months every time I would sit down to write to you, I would be assailed with this odd and dismaying sensation of palpable dread. The experience of writing these Three Act Blog Operas began to possess the feeling of having to take a bitter pill, several times a week. And so I figured I would take a little break to refresh myself and figure out in which direction I wanted to take things.
For the longest time, I always believed that this blog was basically a writing exercise, an attempt to say just what I wanted to say when I wanted to say it. I seriously don’t give a fuck, you know, and I am frequently so full of anger and rage that it gives me a fairly unique voice. It’s just my column, giving my few readers the opportunity to read the ranting craziness of a personality and a mindset that isn’t heard so much.
Oh, it was just a folly: I didn’t have any strong goals of making any money from this. It was just practice in writing precisely what I wanted to write, with no concern for what other people think. And I do think that was healthier. If I had any long term literary goals in this blog, it was not as anything more than perhaps a template for some book that might be a collection of the weirdest entres here.
But then I started looking around at all the other blogs around the net, and I simply became depressed. Seriously. I fell into a total “oh what’s the point” clinical depression. It’s not that I thought for a moment that these other blogs were better written than mine. Absolutely not. What depressed me was just how DREADFUL all these blogs are. They are TERRIBLE! Oh my lord – I would not read them with YOUR eyes.
They were atrocious diaries, written by beautiful fools who seriously had less than nothing going for themselves. They might be the sort of person you want to see at a club, or want to slip a buck to on the Go Go box, but they have nothing to say. Nothing. I would tremble with disgust at their recitations of the events of their disgusting and pointless lives. But, you know what, I would explore further and I would discover that each and every one of those loathsome blogs had something like 80,000 hits a day.
Me? I feel lucky for the days in which I was getting about 35. But these other blogs were written by guys who had mastered a number of skills that frankly seem beyond me. Their visuals are so fresh and catchy. Their stuff is so easy to navigate. And yet -- I don’t want to fill this blog with photos of Hot Boys. Nor am I frankly a Hot Boy myself, so I have absolutely no desire to pepper this site with photos of myself in my underwear. (Believe me, dear Blog-a-licious Blog, you should be grateful for that.). I do wish this site were more catchy looking, but really all I have to offer is paragraphs of klunky language.
The low point came when I entered my blog in some “blog share”-y website that calculated “How Much Your Blog Is Worth!” I had seen that several of the blogs I had been reading were worth huge sums -- $25,000 for one, for instance. $1.5 million for another. Mine? Mine came to twenty five bucks and thirty cents. And that’s with all the three or four years of content available in my archives!
And so I had a big of a bloggy breakdown. I just briefly came to the conclusion that there was no point or use in writing to you, dear Bloggarrific Blog. You weren’t taking me anywhere. And I often felt as though I was saying the same thing again and again and again.
But then it occurred to me.
“Fuck you!” I said to myself. “Who the FUCK am I writing for?”
YOU? Am I writing for YOU? Well, FUCK you. I am writing for ME. Me, me, me, and only ME! I don’t give a rat’s ass about YOU. I could not care if you leapt off a bridge into a river full of alligators. For all I care, you can drop some acid and step into a gigantic wood chipper, a la FARGO. Drop dead all of you. Leave me alone. Don’t come back. Or come back and read me every week. Like I give a rat’s ass.
Henceforth, this blog shall be written simply to please me, with no view to posterity. I suspect that entries might be shorter, and hopefully more frequent. There might be less descriptions of sex – or there might be more, I haven’t decided. I might write stuff that is actionable towards people I know – or I might never talk about myself in the real world ever again. I just don’t know. But I no longer care about you or about how my blog is received in the outer world. I am taking the Big Blue Blog-a-roo back to when I started out and I could not give a rat’s ass about anything. And I hope I shall enjoy it more.
I was sitting in my living room, logged into this new porny site called “Fratpad.com,” a cam house-type site located somewhere in Los Angeles – rumor has it that it’s on the second floor of a Baja Buds restaurant on Sunset and Cahuenga, which would place it right next to CNN’s Los Angeles Bureau, I suppose.
These voyeur dorm-y webcam houses are a dime a dozen these days, but what seems to distinguish this one from the others is the fact that the boys they’ve hired are totally straight. Like, seriously straight. Not straight-acting – straight. Which I suppose might be to the taste of some. Me, I find it faintly disgusting to have a site in which the straight guys are so overtly there just to milk gay guys of their cash. For some reason, I can’t help but think it might be different if the guys on cam were gay – somehow it would be marginally less homophobic.
And how creepy is it that so many visitors to the website log into the chat room under girls’ names, and pretend to be women so as to turn on the cyber-performers? How’s that for gay pride: A middle aged gay man pretending to be a 23 year old girl named “Sally” and talking about letting the straight guy lick her pussy or tits, while paying him 60 bucks. Geez, that’s just gross.
It’s clear that whoever runs this site has been a sly and clever recruiter down there in the American heartland. For the site is filled with fellows who hail from these ridiculous places – Suburban Tulsa, for instance, or Goats Neck, North Carolina – who have been shipped out to the singularly hideous condo in Los Angeles to be a sex slave for twenty hours. The fellows there, while admittedly cute in the requisite All American way, fall under the heading of “silly boys with huge cocks who have been lured to get into trouble.” You sort of wonder just how these straight boys were convinced to get into such a weird business where they have to sit on leather couches in front of each other and jerk off, sometimes six times a day, seven days a week.
Can you imagine the creepy porno recruiter approaching the kids at the High School homecoming game in Doopy Doo, Georgia, and telling them that they have won an all expense trip to Los Angeles where they shall become Models? And imagine the kids’ despair at discovering that they are in fact Porn Models – and Gay Porn Models at that. What’s funny is that the guys on the site act towards their viewers with a less than thinly veiled contempt that borders on homophobic hostility. And who can blame them? They’re not supposed to even be in that situation.
Of the five boys in this Fratpad Condo, two have already fled home in terror. And one can’t help but think that the site’s next generation of masturbating straight guy is going to be some crackhead off of Santa Monica and Wilcox. But on a personal level it’s fascinating – and not just because of the chance to see these ridiculous, stupid, straight 19 year olds jerking their hoses.
