Porn Valley Observed: Home of Gram Ponante, America's Beloved Porn Journalist

I attended West Coast Productions' "Big Ass Party 2" at Hollywood & Highland's Level 3 nightclub last night. Not having a big ass myself, I was honored to be bussed in.

I was still pondering events this week in which I met people who, even in porn, were not who they appeared to be. It seemed a great deal more convenient. So I wore a string of Hawaiian beads that embodied my great spiritual power. Lurk Ford later asked if they were pagan beads. I told him I knew all along that his Hollywood Judaism was a sham.

I did laud his abandonment of Grecian Formula in favor of other age-denying activities, however.

But before I could get in, I needed to pass through security. While this was not the Vibe awards, the large parties of this type that more and more approximate the kind thrown in Las Vegas for the convention in January attract more and more of a nefarious element. Apparently I looked nefarious.

"I need to pat you down," a guy said. I decided to try something out of character, what with my being a few feet from the Kodak Theatre and all.

"Don't you know who I am?" I said. "This is bullshit, y'all."

The guy let me go in.

The red carpet portion of the event lasted about 45 minutes. Shy Love, Olivia O'Lovely, and Mr. Marcus interviewed everyone who came in. The format of the interview was simple: Introduce yourself, shake your ass, move on. I must have done it thirty times before I got it right.

"Pull your pants down just a little bit," I asked Shy Love.

I spoke with New York-based bondage and water torture chick Erika Kole. She was very sweet. One might point to electrocution-based images on the web and think, "That Erika Kole is twisted," but we talked about innocent things, like turning out art school models into porn.

"It's easy to do," she said.

"Oh I believe you," I said.

Kole said her website was down due to 2257 concerns, but that it would be back up later this year.

Tod-Hunter had emerged from hibernation. His beard was longer. He told me I could take a train to Fullerton if I wanted to go to Disneyland.

Inside the club were various members of the band Digital Underground, who had had a hit in, I think, 1990 with "The Humpty Dance". For as long as I have had this job Digital Underground has been hanging around porn parties. If Digital Underground, why not "Mentirosa"'s Mellow Man Ace? Why not Soul Coughing? Why not Norman Greenbaum or Don McLean? (Oh, that's right; Don McLean had two hits.)

I sat at a VIP table.

"Pass the Couirvoisier," I said to the woman next to me.

"There ain't none."

A bouncer came up to me.

"This is for V.I.P.s," he said. I showed him my wristband and he left.

"Pass the Couirvoisier," I said.

"There ain't none."

Photographer Andy Allen stepped up in my grille.

"Get the fuck up out my biznass," I said.

"What?"

"I'm just playin', dawg."

Media gadfly DCypher, late of HardcoreGossip and now of DCX, told me about all the mainstream projects he's got going on under another name. I asked him to send me some URLs.

"Maybe when we know easch other a little better," he said, touching my nipple.

"You're touching my nipple."

I was reminded of a conversation I'd had with former porn director Mason. She asked me how old I was. I told her and then asked her how old she was.

"I'd rather not say," she said.

Dcypher said, "You can get out of this business and in twenty years get a Nobel Prize for writing something sweet, and porn will still come back to haunt you."

"But at least I'll have a Nobel Prize."

He told me about an idea that I think is one of the world's best porn titles: Beyond Good And Anal. "I try to put a lot of literary references in my movies," he said.

"People have been telling me to dumb down my site," I replied.

"Maybe only three of us read it," he admitted.

At the bar, a small man in a full fur coat asked if I was Jewish, or English.

"Are those my only choices?" I asked.

"You're all right, dawg."

I asked if he was hot in the fur coat.

"Hell yeah."

He didn't want his picture taken, but his girlfriend grabbed my crotch. I wondered ff these things were related.

A photographer who complains about getting pushed in line by other photographers complained about getting pushed in line by other photographers. A topless Trina Michaels looked embarrassed by the outburst. "You should push people back," I suggested, flashing my unfrisked Glock.

I decided to go home and get my smoke on, maybe find someone to poke on, this being the millennium of AfterM*A*S*H. I walked outside and saw the Goodyear blimp. It read: "Gram Ponante's a Pimp."

I gotta say it was a good day.

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