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Monthly Archives: March 2012

The Equinox Yoga ad


I have a confession to make.

I do yoga. Been doing it for a couple of years. Love it. It’s changed my life and made me younger (not that I’m that old to begin with, but it’s nice to feel younger.)

There are many advantages to doing yoga: You’re not beholden to monthly gym fees, you can choose to practice (you call it practicing) at home, you don’t even have to buy a mat if you have a carpet that your hands can grip, you learn to put your mind at peace, and you get asscheeks of steel. 

I first learned yoga from doing P90X, a set of fitness routines by Tony Horton. In the middle of all the push-ups and pull-ups, the lunging and kicking, I finally decided to do the YogaX routine that he’d put together. “YogaX will work your weak spots,” he orates into the camera at the beginning. “A lot of people are going to say, ‘Man, I don’t want to do no yoga. It’s weird and it’s creepy and they do these crazy Oms at the end.’ Just expand your mind and do something new. I can do things at the age of forty-five not because I do pull-ups…. it’s because I do yoga.” Here he performs a remarkable alpha-male, infomercial nod, and then the routine starts.  

An hour and a half later I was drenched in swear and moaning like a sick baby. I was sore for four days. Clearly, yoga was something I needed to explore. 

So I bought some more DVD’s, looked up all sorts of routines and master teachers on youtube, (such as David Swenson and Mary Villella). I practiced and practiced, got lean and toned, and noticed my stride becoming longer and my running becoming much easier. I was able to look behind myself without shifting on my heels.

Yoga means ‘Union.’ All the poses are generally described by their Sanskrit terms: Dandasana, Uttanasana, Pavritta parshvakonasana (the side-angle pose, a great pose for toning the legs and stretching the back and hips). You start with the Sun Salutations (Suriya Namaskara), which are basically glorified burpees, and then move into the standing poses: lunges, twists, side-stretches, all while doing Ujjayi breath (which is essentially breathing through your nose, while constricting your throat as if you were whispering). Immense heat builds in your body as the breath generates friction: Just try it… breath in deeply, constrict your throat as if you were about to whisper, and then expel that breath through that slightly smaller space in your throat. You will immediately feel slightly warmer. Now do it for an hour and while stretching and working every muscle in your body. You finish with stretching and some relaxation poses, then finally the corpse pose (during which you breath and sometimes nap). This was all great. Then I went to a yoga class. 

This was a huge awakening. As I was male, I was immediately asked: “Have you ever done yoga before?” This was said with an easy and somewhat pitying smile. A lot of yoga teachers do this; I call it  the look of Affectionate Disdain. 

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve done Tony Horton’s routine a lot. It’s got a killer abs section.”

“Ooh,” said the teacher, and again did that same smile with which I was yet to become familiar. “Killer.” 

So here I am, a large, somewhat hirsute male, in a room full of women who are bending over in my face. I’m desperate to: (a) look like I know what I’m doing, (b) try not to look at these behinds, some of which I would swear are winking at me as they go into Downward Dog (Adho Mukha Svanasana). Yoga makes my body younger and slimmer, but yoga makes women’s bodies beautiful. It tones the glute muscles but also the stabilizer muscles around the hips, and the result is an incredibly well-rounded butt.  It targets the shoulders, the back, the obliques. Pretty much everything. Watch kids in a playground – they way they wrestle, crawl about the ground, haul themselves up ladders. Yoga works and stretches the body in the same way. 

After I went a few times, I got used to it and they got used to me. I didn’t leer, although in my head I had but no choice to acknowledge the beauty around me (and much of yoga’s philosophy is about acknowledgement of all kinds). 

My favorite teacher, a forty-something woman with the physique of a young gymnast, has a little saying she uses at the end of each class. “The Light in me acknowledges the Light in you.” This is nice, and it works because it is pleasant without being overly cloy and invasive. 

I’ve taken a few more classes, learned some new things, and now I’ve become aware of  yoga and how it’s changed since coming to North American shores. Lululemon (I’ve got Lululemon mats, shorts, shirts, and even underwear. Everyone’s got at least one pair of the famous tights with the built-in sash), karma payment for classes, psychedelic mats, Baptiste style, Anusara style, Mysore style.  It’s become a way of life, but not in the way of the very devout and serious religious yogis in India; yoga in North America has become about Om tramp-stamps, designer metal water-bottles, footwear, Toms shoes. Woman want the ‘coveted yoga body,’ which I can understand; I really do. Like everything we North Americans have appropriated, we’ve taken yoga, mined it, melted and sculpted it, and turned it into a lifestyle product. Because the only thing we North Americans can’t control is life, so we’ve turned to LifeStyle. Yoga, now a union between longevity, youthfullness, beauty, and earnestness, is the perfect lifestyle product.

Of the many debates in the yoga community (for adherents of a philosophy about union, yogis and yoginis like to argue a lot), the latest is the ad for Equinox gyms, a high-concept, upper-class chain that has released a youtube ad that features yoga. 

A yogini by the name of Briohny Smyth (She’s also a big music star in Thailand) does yoga in a Manhattan penthouse as her lover sleeps in bed. She’s dressed in lingerie, and the wind is rushing in and blowing about the curtains. Her body is… amazing. What I said about what yoga does to women’s bodies is very much in evidence here. Her yoga is more advanced than most people practicing on this planet. See for yourself and try to keep your jaw from dropping to the floor.



Calm and collected again? Right, let’s talk about this. 

There’s been a little friction among other yoga practitioners about this ad: they say it’s gratuitous, that it commodifies yoga into a product that is about profit and sex. Gratuitous? I looked that word up (you should look up all over-used words), and it didn’t really fit the definition. Is it about profit and sex? Well, since most men watching the ad are dreaming about getting their paws on Briohny Smith, and most women want to get a body like hers so men will want them as much as they want her, then hell, yes, it’s about sex. That’s not a bad thing. Profit? Well, Equinox has to sell gym memberships. 

Here’s the problem I have. You need to see the same teacher for years on end, and you need to practice at home a lot; every day, in face. Briohny Smith may have made a trip to the Pune Institute in India, where yoga drill sergeants make sure you do it right or you have to clean the temple with a toothbrush. The ad by Equinox Gyms make you want to do yoga, lust after a devout practitioner of yoga as well as a penthouse apartment in Manhattan with a sexy bedroom, but nowhere in that ad is anything that might persuade you to buy gym memberships. Equinox tried a concept, and did it beautifully, but they did not connect that concept to a product. So this ad is a fail. 

Parisian Women

 

I was in Paris last week. You hear a lot of things about Paris – City of Lights, Romance, food, and all that jazz.

And don’t forget the famed Paris women! Haughty, beautiful, knowing, with that mysterious je ne sais quoi for which they are famous. Everyone thinks that the French manner is a puzzle, as if they might possess something that is ephemeral and undefinable. At least, this seems to be the case in Paris.

I used to think this, until I read the little booklet that came with our apartment.  This is was just a little primer for tourists: help with language, directions, and some tips on culture. One particularly strange thing that was in no other guidebook: it explained smiling.

“Parisians aren’t necessarily rude,” the guide explained. “They are just a little aloof. And  they don’t like to smile. If a woman smiles at a Parisian man, he will likely take that as an invitation and perhaps follow her home. If a man smiles at a woman, she might be angry when he doesn’t invite her out for a drink.” 

I think that explains the allure of Parisian woman. That reluctance to smile has made them unintentional fashion models. Have you ever seen a runway show? Those women look like they’re at a funeral, or studying for an exam. They look unattainable, and part of beauty is unattainability. I just wonder what happens if you’re from a culture that encourages smiling. Do Phillipina women run into a lot of trouble when they travel to Paris?

As for the diet thing – how women can remain slim despite eating fatty foods – that’s easy. It has nothing to do with moderation, and everything to do with exercise. Most people in Paris don’t drive cars. If you have to walk to the store, carry your groceries to the subway and up and down all those stairs, you’re using calories. It’s pretty easy to stay thin if you’re carry all those bottles of cheap wine. And nicotine is an appetite suppressant.

Family Fart Rage

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That Laugh – Gianna Michaels

When I first saw Gianna Michaels on screen, I first thought: Zowie, what a set of hooters! Then I thought: finally a woman who can replace that almost immortal porn star, Christy Canyon. Then I thought: that laugh could bring an army to its knees.

Yes, she is 5’10’, has beautiful pale skin, luminous sapphire eyes, and she has the sort of body that accidentally knocks over the knick-knack stalls at the flea-market when she walks by. But that laugh! It’s a fabulous, relaxed guffaw that she doesn’t use in every scene, but when she does the effect is devastating.

To me anyway, that laugh means she’s bringing the viewers in on the joke that is porn. She knows that she’s naked on camera doing these wild things, she knows that there are a whole lot of guys frenetically choking their chickens as she’s doing it, and with that laugh she’s telling us: “Hey, let’s admit this whole thing – this imaginary, panoptic relationship between me and thousands of people I’ve never met – is intrinsically silly.” That laugh tells us that sex is both simultaneously serious and ridiculous. 

Then there’s the colour issue. Or should I say the colouring? Gianna is indisputably a brunette, not a primped blonde. She’s pale, with barely a hint of a tan. There’s an Irish Rose vibe to her that’s rare in a business that’s all about surgery and fakery.

I don’t expect Gianna Michaels to be around as long as Nina Hartley (although they do share a similar and relaxed manner), but while she is, I’m going to thankful. She’s something special.

Nine Zombie Novels you might (or might not) want to read

 Zombies are big business. A movie version of Word War Z (with Brad Pitt!) is coming out, although I hear unpleasant rumours about production problems, pushed-back release dates, etc. The second season of Kirkman’s The Walking Dead is on its fourth episode. It’s a fine show, with wonderful actors. Not to mention all the books. The many, many books. So very many.
So I thought I would give you a list of zombie books you could sink your teeth into. I’lll try to keep it to a list of ten or less. Or maybe I’ll go over, depending on what I come up with. I don’t generally like zombie fiction, although I will give the devil its due if I’m reading a good book written in a genre I dislike. Why do I keep reading them? Because they’re there, I suppose, and every now and then I’ll get surprised.
Here’s an example of an equivalent surprise. In the early nineties, I saw a porno flick. No, I’m not expecting astonishment or congratulations from you – I happen to be one of those guys who’s seen a few porno flicks. It was called Dog Walker, written and directed by John Leslie (I used google to find this out; I don’t have a pornopaedic memory). Dog Walker is a pornographic melange of Thief, Jacob’s Ladder, and Angel Heart. The movie experiments with dream sequences, simultaneous character reversals, and steals a little from Alice in Wonderland as well. That movie was such an unexpected pleasure! Heads both big and little were very happy. I’m looking for that same unexpected surprise in zombie fiction.

So here are some Zombie books, in no particular order. This is not a top ten list; this genre hasn’t been around long enough for someone like Stephen King to come along and write a definitive version. Hell, no one has written the worst zombie novel either (although some people make an honourable effort). I’ll just tell you if they’re good or not, and tell you why I think so.

———————-
1. World War Z, by Max Brooks(Son of Mel Brooks!) – This one is pretty darn good. It’s just a collection of remembrances of the zombie plague. How does North Korea handle zombies? How about Israel (pretty good, actually), or China? What were some of the big battles lost and won? And how did we eventually beat them back and regain control of the planet? Written with a fine you-are-there feeling, with plenty of detail given to human migratory routes, and the ecological effects of a zombie conflict.

2. The Reapers are The Angels, by Alden Bell – A fine book, if flawed. The author may have read a little too much Cormac McCarthy and Faulkner before starting the book, so some parts come off the literary equivalent of a Las Vegas Mona Lisa. A unbelievably tough little girl roams a post-apoc zombie landscape, as a killer with an almost biblical compulsion to kill her follows behind. There’s more to it that that – Southern Gothic tropes are killed and brought back to living dead life. Fine writing with some real gross-out moments.

3. Tooth and Nail, by Craig Dilouie – A simple war novel about marines trying to fight their way through a zombiefied New York. Great shoot-em-up action, gratifyingly clear prose, and very authentic Marine lingo make for a good zombie novel.  Zombie hordes rushing down streets are likened to a great pulsing river of destruction.

4. The Autumn series, by David Moody – This is a series of at least five books. Just a long, detailed account of the zombie plague hitting England. I never got through the first book; it just didn’t do it for me. But it is noteable, I guess, so here it is. Available in many stores.

5. Cell, by Stephen King – Not exactly a zombie novel by definition, but worth noting here because it’s King, and this novel is a learning experience for anyone writing an apocalyptic novel. Anyone using a cell phone hears a signal that scrambles his or her brains. In about a minute, most people on earth become drooling, homicidal maniacs. No, there are no walking dead, but King has a knack for doing it differently but doing it better than anyone. Action-packed, un-put-down-able. His first real success after his terrible road accident, in my opinion. The threat is fast, lively, and begins to coalesce and intensify as the book progresses. Best and most poignant ending of any zombie novel.

6. Plague of the Dead (Morningstar Saga), by ZA Recht – Sadly, this author has passed away. Plague of the Dead, the first of a trilogy, is a decent take on the zombie saga. In one exciting scene, a million-plus horde of zombies makes its way across a river as a few US marines pour lead at them. In this book, zombies are both dead and alive.

7. The Rising and sequel City of the Dead, by Brian Keene – The Rising is hailed as the book that started the current zombie craze. It’s considered a minor classic in the genre. Is it good? Well… aside from zombies, there are zombie deer, zombie bunny rabbits, a zombie goldfish, endless shout-outs to other writers, and most of the zombies spout punny wisecracks as they attack. The poor writing and general grim, unpleasant outlook make for a depressing reading experience. Sorry, Keene die-hards.
PS. For the record, I don’t think this book started the zombie craze. Max Brooks released The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection for the Living Dead in 2003. The Rising was came out in 2004, and it has only a third of the reviews and a lower overall rating on Amazon than the Brooks book. I think Max Brooks started the Zombie craze, and with this movie he might be the last man standing when it ends.

8. Pariah, by Bob Fingerman -This book works the ‘trapped inside with the real monsters’ trope. New Yorkers are trapped in their apartments as the ravenous, shambling hordes mass outside. Essentially New York in the 1980’s. Good characters, and an interesting twist in the shape of a young girl who can walk unmolested among the zombies.As a bonus, the author is an artist and has included wonderful pencil sketches of zombies.

9. Book of the Dead, edited by John Skipp and Craig Spector – Released in 1989, long before the official zombie craze, This is considered the classic zombie anthology. Fine stories by Stephen King, Joe R. Landsdale, Ramsey Campbell, and Robert R. McGammon. These authors were writing zombie fiction without those present-day bookstore walls of crap pressuring them to do so. These stories are witty, frightening and inventive. Reading this book is  like driving a classic Corvette on a highway full of tarted-up Cadillac Escalades – you just know you’re cooler.

ImagePiranha(2010) is terrible at first. Richard Dreyfuss, channelling Hooper from Jaws, is fishing in a lake. An earthquake opens up a massive fissure to another subterranean lake, a terrible whirlpool forms, in which Dreyfuss looks like a photoshopped bikini top on a teen girl’s facebook page, and prehistoric piranha surge up and eat him. I almost stopped watching.

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    But in another minute, it’s Spring Break in Lake Victoria, Arizona, and the water is covered in douchey motor boats and girls in bikinis. There’s a plot somewhere: the Sheriff’s son(Steven R. McQueen) gets out of babysitting his younger siblings so he can work as a guide for a hyper-asshole pornographer (Jerry O’Connell, yes, that one). Meanwhile, said sherriff (Elizabeth Shue) has to control the drunken Spring Breakers and lead scientists onto the lake so they can investigate the quake. The son, his love interest (Jessica Szohr), the pornographer, and two super hotties (Kelly Brook and Riley Steele) head out on the lake to shoot a movie, and the Sherriff brings the scientists to the place where the earthquake rift formed. That’s the plot, but who cares?Image

What happens next is… astounding. It’s soft porn, exploitation, and pulp, all done on a good budget. People spent money on this thing, and it shows.

Before most of the gore, there’s the nudity. Both Kelly Brook and Riley Steele don flippers and nothing else and frolic underwater like two Sapphic mermaids. Porn star Gianna Michaels is dragged chest first through the water on a parachute ski, and the camera watches the action from below so the viewer can be instructed on the effects of high-pressure water dynamics on an F-cup. Then there is the initial gore: people getting chewed up and sinking below the surface; the odd body being discovered; and the scientist divers getting eaten when they explore the underground lake.

But the showstopper is the attack upon Lake Victoria’s harbour. It’s an astounding ballet of creative gore. The piranhas attack one thousand partying, sin-committing, half-naked and drunken teens. A square mile of water turns bright red. A woman gets scalped by a boat propeller. A beautiful topless girl gets sliced in half by a strung cable. Halves of people wash up on shore. And that’s not all! In one absolute treat of a scene, Jerry O’Connell’s character and his girlfriend are eaten. She falls to the lake floor, completely skeletonized as her breast implants float to the surface. His dick is eaten, and then regurgitated into the camera.

The exploitation formula is faithfully observed. Only chaste caucasians survive. Anyone remotely slutty gets eaten, but the good news is that the actors portraying the sluts look like they’re having the most fun (Jerry O’Connell in particular chews up the scenery). Black characters die whether they are slutty or not, but they die nobly. The hero is always virginal, and saves the life of his beloved (who in this case tries to be slutty for a few minutes before vomiting overboard, as if she’s allergic to sex).

This is a great movie. I suggest anyone looking to watch a movie with friends while drunk should watch Piranha, hopefully in 3-D.

Review – Ted Bundy (2002)

 

 
        On January 23, 1989, serial sex killer Ted Bundy sat down for a televised interview with James Dobson, author, psychologist, evangelist, and founder of Focus on the Family. At the start of the interview, Bundy had fifteen hours to live before he was placed in the electric chair. 
   During the interview, Bundy is calm, detached, almost professorial, as he blames pornography and alcohol for setting him down the path to committing thirty documented murders and perhaps scores of others. He had been a law student (although he later admitted to feeling lost in his classes), a volunteer at a rape crisis centre, and had worked on several Republican campaigns. His way with people was  direct and collegial and one can see how he was so successful at his terrible work.

    What drove him to do it? How could he have done it? One might understand if he had killed one or two women in fits of drunken rage, but how and why did he kill so many? If you’ve ever seen footage of him speaking, whether in interviews, his press conferences, or his court appearances, you would be baffled. It simply doesn’t seem possible. A man that civilized and well-spoken simply cannot be that way.

During his final interview before his execution
   I thought that until I saw Ted Bundy(2002), a film by Matthew Bright. 
 
                  —————————————
 
   Is this film good? It’s been raked over the coals by most critics. They find it exploitative, irreverent, sensationalistic, and some have even said the movie glamorizes Bundy. But I think that Bright, in one of those strange cases of artistic and ghoulish telepathy, has pegged Bundy better than the original Mark Harmon movie and better than most experts.

  The movie begins with Bundy getting out of bed and greeting himself in a full length mirror while in his underpants. “Hi. I’m Ted. Howya doin’?” Then, in one of those odd moments of lucid madness to which more than a few of us have fallen prey, he begins to gibber and make faces at himself in the mirror. He emerges into the daylight wearing a tan seersucker suit and gets into his infamous yellow Beetle.

    He steals plants, TVs, women’s wallets. He masturbates frantically at a woman’s window until her neighbour dumps water on his head. He clubs another woman and steals her wallet. Only then does he call his girlfriend, a wholesome single mom with a young daughter.

   So begins the movie, which at times appears to be directed by Baz Lurhmann in his Romeo and Juliet mode. It’s a raucous, hormone-soaked ride in which Ted bounces from his girlfriend, his classes at school,  the rape crisis centre, and his many, many victims. When in public he is handsome and slick; when in private with his many victims, he’s more a like a maniacal, sputtering child as he appears to kill as if his life depended on it.

   The movie goes into Hostel mode at times: during a musical montage number that chronicles his killing spree through the state of Utah, in a scene in which he carries a body wrapped in a sheet to his car as a group of students walk by with their dog, and while stalking and killing two women during one sunny day at the beach. At one point he is shot putting make-up on a severed head, in another he is seen relaxing in a sleeping bag with two rotting bodies.

   Ted is portrayed (and wonderfully acted by Michael Reilly Burke) as a shallow man with a mind as complex and attractive as a shiny cigarette wrapper. He rhythmically shrieks obscenities as he rapes his victims, and laughingly runs through the trees wearing his tennis whites and chasing his concussed victims. The portrayal of his crimes  seems horribly cruel and inconsiderate, but perhaps this was how Bundy was: not complicated or mysterious, but a man who was just miles crueller than the rest of us, someone who was at the bottom of the empathy scale because someone has to be there.

Michael Reilly Burke as Bundy

   The end is just as sensational as the rest of the movie. The writer and director departs from reality and throws in a posse of guards  right out of Deliverance who hold Bundy down, shove several pounds of cotton up his rear end (“So’s you won’t mess yourself. They all do. You will too.”) and fit him with an adult diaper. Throughout, Bundy is so paralyzed with fear he appears crippled. The moment of execution is quiet – merely a hum of the transformer as his body strains against the leather straps of the electric chair. In a final stroke of pulpy rudeness, the executioner takes off the black clothe mask to reveal a stunningly beautiful woman with long raven hair parted in the middle. That was Bundy’s type, which he always sought when hunting his victims.

   Bundy’s been dead twenty-two years. He is among the most famous of serial killers because he was handsome, ostensibly functional, and charismatic. This movie might do the world a favour by pulling away the veil and revealing to us that murder is always a small, cowardly act with great consequence.    
  

‘Incubus,’ the book and movie, and Scotch

WEDNESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER 2011

Incubus, the book and movie, and Scotch

   I’m going to write a lot about my early life.  A lot of crazy things happened to me between the ages of five and twenty-eight, and people laugh when I describe them. I get some horrified looks, too. Not bad horrified – more like Oh my God, I can’t believe you just told me that. You wanna tell me some more I’m not going anywhere. One of these days I’ll recount how I lost my virginity. It was a very dark day (night actually), full of shame and completely unsafe behaviour, but it’s an awesome and horrendous story.
    But onto this one. A story of my youth, with the mandatory horror element.
   I was seventeen. A brash and privileged seventeen, and I had the lead in a school musical. I was single and horny, and not all that choosy about whom I wanted.
   So I picked a girl  who had been mooning over me for a few years. I’d never really given her a second look, but over that past year she’d lost weight, coloured her hair, and began looking like a grown-up. Also, when she’d lost weight, she’d kept it on her chest. Sorry, but that’s an important factor for teenage boys. One night at a school dance, between rehearsals, I got her alone long enough, kissed her a bit, and the next day in school some of my friends were giving me odd looks and saying So you’re together? With her? O-kay…

 
 
 Over the next week and a half we dated, kissed a little by my locker. I could already see that things were probably not going to last – whenever she stopped talking she would stick her tongue out of her mouth at me and roll her eyes. She may have thought that was cute; I’ll never know. I didn’t know her all that well. One of my closest friends had already told me that “She’s not worth a bag of milk.” I didn’t know what that meant but I figured it couldn’t be good.
    My parents were divorced and my mother went on a lot of business trips, so I had her house to myself a lot of weekends. She had a cozy living room with a tiny love-seat and a beautiful wood-stove that threw off almost tangible warmth. That living room became a passion pit for a second-rate teenage Romeo, and I’m sure my mother knew and didn’t really know how to stop it.
    I invited her over to watch a movie on a Friday night. I don’t remember the movie, because we were all over each other less than a quarter of a way through. She was really digging all my cheap moves: the ear-nuzzling, the biting on the nape of the neck, the just-hard-enough tugging of her hair for that element of non-threatening danger.
  She’d begun moaning and I was ready to do something joyfully irresponsible when the phone rang.
  “Hello,” I said impatiently after I’d disentangled my tongue from hers and staggered to the phone.
   “Mac, we rented Incubus!” yelled my best friend down the phone. “We got a bottle of Scotch and we’re coming over!”
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      A word about Incubus. It was first a book by American writer Ray Russel, written in 1976. It was pure, sensational, but quite well-written, pulp: A small town full of attractive women. A mysterious supernatural creature has been killing them. How? Well, it has a high sex drive, and an endowment that would make an elephant jealous. It doesn’t kill them intentionally, if you know what I mean. The murders are described in graphic detail. The business end of this thing’s member is described as akin to a ‘drooling grapefruit.’
   The hero is a handsome anthropologist, and he’s assisted by the local doctor, who has to pour the hero a glass of Scotch whenever they begin pontificating on the nature of man and sex. When the monster isn’t killing, the two protagonists are usually drinking their faces off.
     This was intoxicating stuff for teenage boys: to think that a regular, respected writer would make up stuff so primal. To make up a monster that was the very essence of young male sexuality. That book was passed around among us like a joint at a party.
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  So when one of them told me over the phone they’d they’d found the movie version (1982, with John Cassavetes in the role of the doctor), and that they were bouncing around the city looking for a house and a VCR, I felt honour-bound to say yes. Think of those skeins of friendship, honour, and sexual mythos involved in that short phone call, and you might understand, as disrespectful as I was to this poor girl.
  So my three friends arrived with booze and a movie. They were big loud guys, not really used to spending much time with girls. They went to my mother’s kitchen and fetched the big milk-glasses – the kind made for growing teenagers. They filled the milk glasses with Scotch, shoved the movie into the VCR with an almost sexual intent, and got down to some very serious teen binge-drinking.
  I don’t remember much of the movie, other than it seemed awful and contained none of the salacious elements that made the book such a hit. The girl watched my friends drink pint after pint of Scotch. They made very rude in-jokes, and gradually the room began to smell like a peat-swamp. The girl and I sat side-by-side, all passion gone. Occasionally they toasted one another and drank whole glasses in one go.
    The movie ended and they made her drive them home. I was told they were very civil to her when they were in her car, other than making the air flammable.
  Not surprisingly, we broke up soon after.

Top Ten Male Porn Stars

    Here’s the thing about porn. You can’t help notice that the women in porn are legion; the men not so much.
    It takes a special sort of man to be a straight porn star (I know nothing of gay porn). You have to be so potent that you can perform in a room full of people; only one or two people in that room are female. The rest are men who operate the cameras and the boom mike, who build the set. Could you get it up and off in front of three guys fat guys eating Mexican take-out? I couldn’t. Only a few men could. This is why you watch porn and say, That girl is hot, and oh and banging her is that guy with the gang tats and the mole on his dick. I’ve see him five times already. Five times today.
    So here is a list of male pornstars of note. They’re here because they’re iconic (yes, a few male pornstars have gone beyond being a life-support system for a reliable erection), long-lasting, particularly super-human, or, like Ben Affleck, they’ve become directors.
1. John Holmes. – Yeah, had to go there. PT Andersen and Mark Wahlberg made Boogie Nights, an epic movie about this colossally endowed star of 1970’s film porn. If you watch his stuff now, you become depressed – most of it’s grainy, with ancient cheesy music, and he usually sports his trademark 70’s porn ‘stache.
    His endowment was anywhere between ten and fifteen inches, but no one knows for sure: all the cocaine and rough living often made it floppy and unreliable. He was allegedly present during a gang-related mass murder, and towards the end of his career he did gay porn out of desperation. He died of AIDS in 1988 and he was the first porn star of any kind.
    By porn standards, he was a brilliant actor. His most well-known character was Johnny Wadd, porn detective, who was modelled after Phillip Marlowe. You can still find his work floating around on streaming sites and in the ‘classics’ section of the few remaining adult video stores.
Back, Ladies! Get ahold of yerselves!
2. Ron Jeremy aka ‘The Hedgehog.’ – This guy has almost single-handedly founded the old saying, ‘Why are the men in porn so gross?’ 
    He started doing porn in the late ’70’s, and by his own admission has never had a real adult relationship.A study in contrasts found only in porn, he came from a respectable Jewish family, has a Master’s degree in Special Education, and yet has been dogged by rumours of rape and terrible body odour. He looks a lot like the older, moustachioed, and heavy guy your mom inexplicably dates after she first splits up with your dad. Additionally, he can suck his own dick. It’s been filmed.
   I first saw Jeremy when my friends and I were renting porn flicks from the East Indian grocer across town, which was notorious for never checking if you were underage. Of course we noticed that all the men in porn were disgusting  and who at best looked like substitute math teachers, but Jeremy took the cake. Watching him plug beautiful women as his massive, kinky-haired butt-cheeks plunged back and forth was traumatizing, but he was ever-ready and good with the one-liners. Although to be fair, if you watch his earliest films he looks reasonably fit and almost handsome. Almost.
    He’s now a star in his own right: he’s done reality shows, starred in real movies, sung publicly with British Cabinet ministers, and been in countless music videos. He’s become a cultural condiment – if you need your TV show or movie to take a dive into the surreal and filthy, just add a pinch of Ron Jeremy.
3. Peter North – One summer when I was home visiting my mother in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I worked out at Gold’s Gym on Quinpool Road. One day Peter North was there. It turns out that he’s a Canuck, and he’s from my home town! He looked exactly as he does in his porn films: tanned, smooth, and sporting that familiar preppie wedge of concrete black hair. Every man in that gym was pretending they didn’t know him, but Peter North looked uncomfortable. It must be strange to be recognizable as Leonardo Dicaprio but for all the wrong reasons.
He got his start in the early eighties. He did gay porn at first (He doesn’t like to talk about this), and then went straight and has been at it ever since, although he’s more into directing now.
     Although he would be well-known enough for his musculature, his hair, and his resemblance to a brunette Ken-doll, he is most famous for his… um…. fluid volume. That’s right, folks, he shoots pints of splooge for great distances, while moaning like an action hero in a cheap sci-fi TV show. His female co-stars probably have to wear water-proof makeup or he’ll blast it off. He’s sold herbal formulas that ostensibly will give you his ability but I’m guessing his gift is God-given.
    4. John Stagliano aka ‘Buttman’ – Porn wouldn’t be the same without this dedicated visionary. As a porn actor, he was of strictly average ability and endowment. But as a director, he revolutionized the genre. He created a porn genre called ‘Gonzo’: shot from the camera’s POV, he made the audience into hormonal and obsessive-compulsive midgets who see women primary from a rearview upwards angle. As his nickname would indicate, he was about da butts. His viewpoint explored the female posterior like an astronaut traverses across a mysterious planet… A taut, tanned, perfectly round and fleshy planet.
   But that’s not all, as the salesman says. He chronicled his own house burning down in the Malibu fires. He took the buttman concept to Brazil, London, Prague, Rio, and Paris. He tested HIV+ and now stays behind the camera. He’s a staunch Libertarian. His entire schtick was simply being the mousy, normal everyman lusting haplessly after women who seemed to be too pneumatic to be real. Best of all, no actress needed silicone implants in his movies.
    He helped introduce the average North American pervoid to a handsome Italian guy named Dario, also known as Rocco Siffredi. We’ll get to him next.
    5. Rocco Siffred – Most male porn viewers, when watching porn, will think: ‘I’m just as good, if not better, than that ugly-ass roid-monkey up there on the screen.’
    Rocco Siffredi is the exception. Handsome, well-built, frighteningly endowed, and seemingly blessed with an Energizer battery up his butt, he excites and then completely exhausts his fans and co-stars. He’s had sex with ten women at a time, and in one infamous scene he forced a woman’s head into a toilet and flushed it as he was sodomizing her. One of his nicknames is ‘The Italian Stallion.’ One blogger referred to him as ‘Rocco… my true father.’ He’s starred in romantic roles, but when he directs himself he’s outlandish and violent.
    If you’ve thought of something sexual and cartoonish, Rocco has probably thought about it first. In his movie ’30 Men for Sandy,’  he sets the stage by directing the camera towards the eponymous female star. She writhes, looks pretty, and meanwhile, a busload of horny Italians are coming her way. Rocco gives them football scarves and actually packs them on a bus. He’s had gang-bangs on soccer fields, walked onstage during a concert as the band plays a song in his honour, and he’s been up more assholes than a Manhattan proctologist.
   Most importantly, he somehow makes the audience believe that the women in his movies want to be degraded in all the insane ways he envisages. It’s probably not at all true (How can it be true? Rocco isn’t a magician), with the sole exception of Kelly Stafford, an innocent-looking British porn actress who’s even more hard-core than Rocco.
    5. John Leslie – This guy started doing porn in 1973! He’s now 67 and has won a mind-blowing thirty awards for acting and directing. In the 70’s and 80’s he was a stalwart (if not particularly impressive sexually) performer, and in the nineties and the new millenium he was a director. In 1994 he wrote and directed a porn flick that was a deft and surreal mixing of Jacob’s Ladder and Thief. Dog Walker was an astounding meditation on consequence and death, and it was exceeded only when Baise-moi came out of France and shocked everyone.
EDIT  - It seems that poor John Leslie died of a heart attack in 2005 at the age of 65. I’m not sure how I missed that and I sincerely regret making that error. My apologies.
    6. Lexington Steele – Tall, bald, humungously endowed, and so hairless and smooth all over that he looks like a giant liquorice dick. He’s a real horn-dog, and you can hardly believe that he was originally a smart-pants financial analyst before he decided to grace us pervs with our presence. He seems like a nice, easy-going man, and it’s hard to take him seriously when he goes ‘OOOOOOGH! OOOOOOOGH!’ as he climaxes. Every time. Actually likes to dress well, with nice shoes, silk shirts and dress pants when he’s on camera, as opposes to basketball sneakers and gang-bang duds like some of the douches on-screen these days.
    7. Seymore Butts – His real name’s Adam Glasser, okay? Sheesh. Anyhow, Seymore’s another great Gonzo actor and director, but here’s how he’s different from Buttman: he’s gotten personally involved with the actresses he works with, lending his films a great warmth and sensuality that are missing from… well, just about every other porn film out there. He starred in a reality show called Family Business, in which he chronicles his problems with being a single dad and working in the porn biz. He seems like a smart and level-headed guy. I’m getting more modern in my choice of actors, and pretty soon we’ll be moving into the purely internet companies with no plot, and no acting required. Not sure how I’m going to proceed, save that I might be describing porn actors I dislike from now on.
    8. Manuel Ferrara – Nope, saved! This guy is a real dynamo, and the closest thing to Rocco’s heir apparent. Believe it or not, but he looks like a beefier Jeff Buckley. Super-energetic, with a massive cumshot that comes out in white death-rays, he also takes his time with foreplay and it pays off. Unfortunately, he’s gone the way of Rocco in other areas – he likes to choke and slap his co-stars, and abuse the nether regions so much that the poor girls probably can’t sit down for a week. But he’s one of the few actors on screen in the past thirty or so years that actually lives up to the myth of the super-human sex machine. Do  some women fantasize about being taken to their limit with men like Rocco Siffredi and Manual Ferrara? I’m not sure.
9. Preston Parker – The lead guy for the Florida-based Bangbros.com. He looks like the guy you’d see sitting in the corner at your university residence party. He’s got strange, high voice, and most of the time he’s behind the camera as he’s getting serviced. Posed for a lot of gay sites before he made a name for himself with Bangbros. But the equipment is truly impressive and the women he works with are sunny Miami hotties who could set everything north of the Mason-Dixon on fire. He’s part of a new breed of porn performer who stars in digitally shot sexual episodes, with no plot or acting. Just: ‘Here’s Maria. Whazzup? Could you bend over?’
  Edit: Incidentally, he shares a name with a NFL player with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
10. Winston Burbank – Oh, I’ve saved the best for last. It sounds like Winston here used the joke formula to come up with his porn name – pet name plus the street you lived on when you were a kid. Mine would be Pooka Preston.
     It’s hard to find pics of Winston’s face. The one I’ve found makes him look like an apprentice garbageman who’s got an uncle high up in the union. He’s well-endowed, and he has perhaps the largest cumshot on record. He stars in a video series called Suck it Dry, and it’s just women, on their knees, servicing him. Your viewpoint is him holding the camera, looking down. Ten minutes or so pass, at which point he jacks it for a few moments, and then lets loose with such a volley that he removes the girl’s make-up, knocks out her contact lenses, and parts her hair. I’m not even exaggerating. Should I be poking fun? He does something no other man on Earth can do, so I should be glad the boy has found his niche. I’m probably just jealous.
    Winston Burbank videos are utterly joyless, purely functional episodes of digitally captured prostitution. I hate to sound bigoted when I write that, but I want to show what porn has become. It used to be work that was made to look fun. Now it just looks like work. Grim and technical work.

Welcome to Devil in the Flesh!

The title of this blog has many meanings.

One, I suppose, is the movie Diavolo in Corpo, or Devil in the Flesh, an Italian movie that had a rare hard-core blowjob in it. These days that doesn’t mean a lot, but at the time it did to me.

The other meaning is me. Devil in the Flesh refers to the demon in me. We all have a demon in us. Why do you think Dexter is so popular? Viewers identify with a man who who feels he has to hide from a world that would never understand him. The trick is to realize that other people are just as strange.

We’re all strange. There’s nowt as queer as folk. People are strange when you’re a stranger. Look around you, and most of the media you see will somehow involve alienation.

So a little about me: I’m a man, a husband, a father of boys, a writer of horror, a reader of pretty much everything. I had a blogspot blog for a little while, but the meta-constraints I’d tied to myself were to constraining. I’d like this  blog to really reflect how I feel inside. A bit of anonymity is very liberating.

So to start, a few images that really tickled me of late. Christina Hendricks, that Everest of redheads, and an incredible and anonymous young woman with an ass that would stop a missile.

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