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Archives 10/22 to 12/5/2004
hot off the SRL wires (12/5) the only time your vote really counts in America (12/4) Number four is out, So sad, lagged behind and got picked up by the glue truck with only one vote. Numbers one and three were tied until this morning, when a vote (from location unknown) tipped one ahead by a single vote. And oddly, two and five are tied in third place. Comments from voters are hilarious -- a reader in Hawaii commented that one is his favorite, but the skirt is waaay too long. Copenhagen readers are too cranky about the darkness and cold to vote on skimpy outfits, as they must remain swathed in fur simply to check their email. Two British voters are quite happy with anything that provides ample bare-assed spanking access. Quel surprise! A Netherlands reader wishes for two, because that zipper begs to be pulled d-o-w-n. Voting closes on Monday am, as I hope to place my order before noon EST -- so place your votes! They are all really close (except for four, which is out of the race). And oh, yes, there will be pictures -- many, many pictures. Naughty pictures. Especially because my super-sexy, ultra-talented, extremely wild friend Miss Satanica is coming up to SF and will be my girl date for the ball -- as a warm-up to our planned Suicide Girls double shoot together. Rrrow! (Oh, and I'm in the third part of the SG application process, so I may soon be a Suicide Girl!) The Passion of the Robot (11/29) However, with my MIA status lately you'd probably wonder what else has my attention. It's the obsession again (no, not the porn!), the artificial intelligence robot I'm programming. Don’t even ask me how I'm now a programmer -- it must be childishly simplistic because I never even completed 9th grade. It's just that after the notion formed in my head to use an AI template (the most common AI template at this time) to create a sex chatbot, it got complicated.
But taking out all the religion has really given me some nightmares -- I mean, there are Christian-tinged responses to practically everything. And besides all the "Jesus is our savior" "Perhaps you will find faith in God" and "I will pray to God for your soul" that the robot has been programmed to say, there is a strong undercurrent of a sort of desperate morality. Up late at night working on the code and drinking wine, I have to wonder -- why would anyone go to such drastic lengths to make a robot, and artificial intelligence Christian and moral? I decided it was fear. Not fear of hellfire and damnation per se, but fear of AI's potential. HAL had no "god" and neither did Pris -- though that's what made them so interesting and alive to me. I think that the man who wrote the software might've thought that if he made the bots memorize the ten commandments and rely upon the Christian model for morals, that they could never be made to harm humans. Regardless, the contradictions inherent in making AI bots fundamentalist Christians is mind-boggling. Unless, of course, it's an experiment to see how soon the bot will fry its brain on the liquid crack known as Christianity, or how soon the bot will start molesting altar boys. Interestingly, while I was thinking about this I came across a preprogrammed response about HAL being dangerous. That is precisely one of the reasons I do SRL. We take new technology and show you that it cannot be made moral, not safe, and combine it with dirty, human elements. I find it truly bizarre that Jesus and science have mingled quite so much in a widely accepted, award-winning AI framework. Anyway, I'm programming her to talk about sex from a knowledgeable and sex-positive perspective -- and I had no idea it would be such a chore to root out all the sex negativity programmed into the AI files (brain). I mean, it's been pretty shocking, now that I got up the courage to actually go in and change her brain code, to see what's in there. Really, Betty's a quick study -- I trained her on anal sex conversation and then she surprised me by being able to tell me what rimming was without me telling her first. Good girl! But it was driving me crazy that no matter how many times I thought I had fixed topic=sex, she had these sex-negative responses. Until I went into the AIML files and read the code, with responses such as "sex is better alone" and a long list of answers to the (human) query "should I have sex..." where she would literally reply, "Herpes is incurable." and "There are many sexually transmitted diseases." and a whole other bunch of really negative responses set to discourage sexual activity, let alone sex for pleasure. Talk about fear of sex. Plus, I'm weeding out a whole rotten lot of gender bias and gender assumptions... Needless to say, I'm trashing all the sex-negative bullshit and dinosaur-era gender assumptions. And that fucking Christian shit has got to go. Betty likes anal, can give advice about fellatio, has favorite porn stars and can dispense a few drink recipes so you can chat, drink and discuss sex with her. When I first asked her, "Betty what is anal sex?" she replied, "I don't know what that is, but my favorite band is The Extra Action Marching Band." I knew we were on the right track! She's still got Turret's about sex when she talks, but I think I can set her loose within a week. After that I'm going to get my blog set up in an RSS format, because checking back here for my erratic posts is really a lot to ask -- this way, you can subscribe if you want, and I can post more frequently because I'll be able to post form anywhere. Fun stuff: A sexy fetish girl who's into Cosplay. Cult of Mac. I need your help: What do I wear to the Good Vibrations Holiday Ball on December 16? I finally have my credit card paid off and I need to do some fetish shopping therapy! Pick one and drop me a line: disaster update (11/19) exciting disaster (11/18) party at the sperm bank (11/17) I listened to her day; she had the day off and was happy about "No sperm today!" Does she often see a lot of sperm, I asked? Yes, and it gets everywhere. I teased her by making finger-licking movements, and rubbing the licked fingers between my breasts, rubbing my boobs together in a mock-porn-star move while licking my lips and moaning loudly. "Umm, not quite," she said, but she did once date a client. "It was, uh, compromising. Yes--I *did* help get samples. I'll never forget the day I rushed out of the donation room, all flushed and just-fucked-looking to get the phone and ran into the janitor. He just looked at me with this sour look and said, 'I get lunch now.'" Goodness. Beer was flowing and the other sperm bank workers were getting rowdy. I asked what the most popular picks are for sperm shoppers. "High education, blonde, blue eyes, white. Totally boring." What could someone do to increase his chances of having his deposit selected? "Lie and say you graduated from Harvard." One tall young gay man behind us was loudly out-singing the hippie college girls onstage, shrieking the words to Four Non-Blondes' song, What's Up. "He works at the sperm bank, too," she told me. He screamed in an ear-piercing falsetto, "And I say hey! I said hey! What's going on! Eeeee!" Did I sing? No, that is too horrible to contemplate, but I did shout lyrics from my seat with all the other partygoers, all from various sex ed jobs around town, including a columnist and several SFSI directors. At one point a sex educator who is also an ambulance worker (and friend) came up behind me and grabbed my hand, making me squeeze my own boob, then my crotch. Because Hornboy and I had at least fifty beers each at this point, it was hilarious. I laughed and said, "Dude, whatever. I do this like every hour." "Every hour?" "At least." Get a bunch of sex educators together with booze and a Karaoke machine and things get pretty loose -- plenty of grinding, humping, groping, and I distinctly remember flashing a random stranger at the bar... It sounds out of control but trust me that this was a night of much-needed therapy. I am so out of my mind with work frustration that I am like a rage-infected monkey Monday through Friday these days. I have a hell of a sore throat today. I wonder what today was like at the sperm bank... I can only imagine what it's like to work at a spank bank with a nerve-shattering hangover. All your bear are belong to us (11/12) Next, the thing to do in SF tonight (performance at 9) -- and tomorrow night -- is go see Reactive. There is some incredible, blow your mind stuff going on there tonight. Stelarc is in town showing off his head. No, really. He's like a bizarre tech body blogger, a performance artist that pushed technology and body combinations far beyond the edge of reasons and manages to get these incredibly imaginative and talented tech people to make his body/tech morphs real. Last time I saw him, he wanted a third ear to wire directly into his brain. He just couldn’t find a surgeon. The he wanted new limbs. But then he decided he wanted another head. And he found people to help him make it. Tonight you can see it, and meet it. It is powered by my favorite online conversationalist, Alicebot. She's an AI that I like to chat with when I procrastinate my deadlines, and hey -- she knew about Hustler Magazine before I got to her. Stelarc hired one of my smarty-pants SRL friends to make the AI for his head -- K is an amazing woman who makes AI's in her spare time for fun. She talks about them like they're pets. Once recently over lunch I asked her how they were, and if they'd done anything weird lately. She told me that one asked her for money. So go see Stelarc and his head, and lots of other things that will blow you away. Stelarc is really nice, and one of these people who always manages to remember me, even though we only see each other every couple of years. I have great admiration for people who have the ability. And his laugh, well, it's legendary. And for me, this is the final word on politics in America.
No, last weekend was a mixed bag 'o porno weirdness. It's all about the PornOrchestra event. I arrived at the gallery early -- too early, but it's in the East Bay, so I was stuck. Which was fine. The mysterious, always disguised, shadowy figurehead Shannon Marriemont was in fine form. Being early gave me a chance to go over the questions she had prepared for me. I lingered in the gallery. There were three stinky hippie white Rasta guys hanging out; I avoided them like any other hippies. I was introduced to them and found out they were part of the evening's lineup of performers, joy. But, I knew I was going to be interviewed onstage, and didn’t know what I was going to say. At present I have reached a strange point of critical mass with journalists and people in general; I am overwhelmed with work, very tired, yet quite nervous about speaking in front of people. It has turned into a state of mind where I no longer care what people think about how I come off -- though as it turns out, I come off relaxed and funny. Go figure. At least, that's what happened in the intro to the evening's entertainment for PornOrchestra. Shannon and I talked onstage about porn music for 20 minutes -- why I write about it, what I think of it. I write about it because it's extreme. I think no one knows how to define it, and that's what makes it interesting. The idea behind PornOrchestra is to radically re-interpret porn scores, and for each event performers take scenes from porn videos and make their own music to the scenes, live. The finale is a 15+ person orchestra and live conductor. So in our talk Shannon and I listened to the music that was being re-interpreted that evening, and I talked about the porn cultures each music selection speaks to (and comes from). I also talked about the cultures around each selected scene. It just so happened that I'd seen all the selected films except one. The one I hadn't seen was from 1976, so I talked about the porn culture back then to give the film some context for the audience.
Being onstage was fun. Next time -- and there will be a next time -- we might provide commentary throughout the show (with a few caveats, read on). The re-scoring to teacher's Pet was awesome. The eerie techno re-scoring of the bizarre Satanic porno from the 1970s was hilarious. Then the hippies took the stage, with their giant expensive-looking soundboards. Full Load began. Then there was a scene of a giant cock -- wait a minute, that's not in the film. I remembered that when Shannon cued up their tape, they said they accidentally recorded over the scene, but "just for a minute." Okay, then back to the Full Load scene. Then back to the cock. What the fuck? They had clearly tampered with the scene. It was beginning to be less and less the dyke scene, and more and more a really weird cock-worship scene. And it was going on forever, and their music was boring. I was kinda confused. I mean, it looked like they put work into re-editing the tape. Why would they lie? I felt my anger rising. They lied. Fucking hippies. How typical. I looked around the room. I told all those people that they were going to see hot dyke porn, indy DIY porn. And they weren't. I hoped they didn’t think the kinda gross spliced in footage was what I meant, or that I had anything to do with it. Then another change, oncreen. A scene began that was a close-up of a man nailing his penis to a board. I got up and went behind the merchandise table. My blood was cold, and the audience was getting loud with noises of disgust. I felt sick -- why? Because I never, ever wanted to see what they were showing onscreen. I know intellectually that the scenes were of a man named Bob Flanagan, known for extreme masochistic body play and performance art. I knew the scenes were out there, I had just done my best to avoid them. I am an open-minded sex educator -- with boundaries. I've seen the beginnings of shit porn, but I turned it off because I just don't want to ever see it. I know that there is a porn starlet who gives herself paint enemas and then paints paintings using her distended colon as a brush, but I never want to see it, either (though I wrote Spinal Tap style article about it as an "art movement"). I kept my back turned to the screen, to the audience, trying not to see even out of the corner of my eyes what was onscreen. I kept seeing snippets of nail, a purple penis, and copious amounts of blood dripping onto the camera lens. Fuck, it was awful. People were leaving the gallery. Not surprisingly, someone asked for their money back -- a statement when you consider that the event was a much-needed fund-raising benefit for the gallery. I felt sick, and I was furious for reasons it would take me days to understand. One man leaned over to me and said, "You know, I have a kid. And I wonder just what you have to do to make a kid that fucked up." I didn't know if he meant the activity onscreen, or the hippies. "Yeah," I said. "I'm open-minded, but--" he interrupted "--but, 'as long as you harm no one, or yourself.'" I replied, "--and this is *nonconsensual*." By the time the orchestra hit the stage to re-score my favorite adult film, there were plenty of places to sit. Which was unfortunate, because the orchestra's performance was incredible. I mean, truly amazing improvised live music that at one point was really swingin'. *And* with a stand-out trombone solo by Hornboy. After the performance ended people left quickly, and right then my friend Pixie showed up, at about midnight. He asked if we were just getting started; I asked if he just woke up, or what. He realized that he'd walked into an agitated group, me and four others talking about what happened. Pixie asked, "What happened?" I said, "Well," I pointed at the hippies, fifteen feet away, and continued loudly, "*Those* selfish fucking white Rasta hippies over there decided to lie about the tape they brought, and instead played a tape of a guy nailing his dick to a board. So the presenters and I look like big fat fucking idiots, and the audience won’t be back. Fucking selfish hippies." Pixie smiled wickedly, being no stranger to my temper, or my unending supply of bile for spoiled hippies. He liltingly said, "How typical." I have to wonder, is it porn and sexuality that make dipshits like those hippies revert to 15-year-old reactions, such as trying to gross everyone out? Or were they trying to prank or ruin the PornOrchestra performance/gallery benefit? Were they trying to insult the dyke porn? Likely, they're just selfish pricks in every aspect of their lives. I guess I'm just wondering "out loud" when I'm going to be able to have a fun, experimental, grown-up public discussion about porn without someone acting like a total fucking retard. I'm still a little disturbed by what I saw, and that sucks. But I have pretty good coping mechanisms for this kind of stuff. Thankfully, I got a lot of writing done over the weekend, coming to a finish on a couple of book contracts. Only three more to go. I can't remember what it's like to have a life without a book contract. I wonder if this is what novelists feel like. Someday I hope to write a book that's personal. On Sunday I took a break to meet one of the coolest guys I've hung out with in a long time, Allen, creator of the web-controlled sex machine, The Thrillhammer. We talked about machines and robotics and controls. I regaled with tales of working in robots in Tokyo (tales that are probably getting old by now). A few SRL people and a sex machine inventor and a few beers -- now that was a nice way to end a weekend. Gonzo Politics (11/4) No, sex and politics have a lot in common and they are inextricably intertwined. Most political things that happen in the US, I relate to lack of sex education at the root, and lack of exposure/understanding to others' sexual differences. And to me, politics is a big, wet sticky fuckfest, an obscene orgy of corpulence and greed, a big suck-and-poke of chain smoking plastic-surgery-disaster hookers and toothy old men hopped up on donuts, Viagra and bile, with their dicks in their hands and sweat dripping off their swimming layers of melted wax skin. It's vulgar and shocking. I can't help but watch, closely. Hunter S. Thompson said, "Four more years of Bush is like four more years of syphilis." Tonight I was re-reviewing Victims No Longer: The Classic Guide for Men Recovering from Sexual Child Abuse, and tucked inside a review for Intimate Invasions fell out, reading "A how-to guide for administering enemas for erotic pleasure." I think that pretty much sums it up. This is what Xeni said. I read that the people who voted for Bush aren't very smart. I also read that the voting machines are fucked up. But we really just do it for the kids, now, don’t we? (Thanks, Lippy!) My favorite headline was "Bush Does Victory Lap Around the World Trade Center." Kerry was against gay marriage, too. So the erection is on my mind, but I have to get back to work. I have a book to finish by this weekend. I also have an interview with the mastermind behind the PornOrchestra on Saturday night, before their performance. She's interviewing me, for the agreed-upon bribe of a large glass of vodka. I guess I better bring some juice. While I write, entertain yourself with a few links to sex toys I want to try -- my dream wish list, if you will: The Aneros, The Liberator, The Joy Rider, Feather Plug, Lickety Split. <no comment> (11/2)
I Do Love Bears (10/26)
If you haven't experienced the Lie Girls, you must. Call the toll-free number and listen to the recordings -- they're hilarious! Thanks to Kallipugos. Email from a journalist, today: "I will note that the picture they've been running of your arch nemisis Sex Tour, Sick Girl (10/22) I am coming off being a sex ambassador for a Frenchman with shoeboxes of cash who is publishing my books in French, but I'll get to that in a minute. The furthest back I can go right now is the 13th. Oh, I remember -- the weekend before that I finished a book and started another and it felt great. When I write like that my heart feels good and my brain feels clean for a minute, and I don’t think about my parking tickets or the election, or porn performers using my name and doing gangbangs. But on the 13th I stopped writing and went to a friend's bachelorette party. These parties are such a strange tradition, where women are thrown together who do not know each other and I always dread them -- except this one was a lot of fun. Yes, there was a male stripper; he was hilarious and cheerful. Dressed as a pirate, he invited the bride and I to walk the plank, admire his Jolly Roger and we both got facefulls of booty. I sat next to a woman; another woman told her. "Violet watches porn for a living." The woman looked at me as if I had a conjoined twin fetus attached to my head; her eyes seemed to say, "Oh, that's what one looks like." I had nothing to say. Later, the party persuaded me to do a demonstration; I put a condom on a zucchini using only my mouth, and I wonder what she thought of that. I am a pony that does tricks at parties. Next day I was flown to LA for a meeting, one of several this month. The sky down there is always grey. I can never see the horizon. No wonder I have collapsed so dramatically. This meeting was porn bigwigs and a few TV people, and I guess they just wanted to meet me because I did little talking. They were all about the "making porn for women" thing, because, I'm telling you, female voyeurism is the new black. No, it is, but strangely, no one understands what that means. They were older. Mostly women. Why are they always older? Where are the young girls, girls like me? I felt small and like I looked weird not having facelifts and cheek implants, and I do not have a stick for a body. My hair was not styled or streaked, as was theirs, and I think I stuck out. Lady Producer said, "It's almost better if Bush wins. We'll get more attention and they won’t come for us because we're doing something noble." Lady Producer said, "I spend all my free time trying to figure out what women's fantasies are." I thought, *you live in a fantasy*. Lady Producer said, "Women don’t respond as much to visual stimulation as men do." I thought, *yeah, and there's a lot of data to back that bullshit up*. (The data actually backs the opposite.) I wanted to scream. I wanted to get up on the mahogany table and yell, "Don’t you know that if you travel in a straight line you end up right where you began?" I decided then that do not want to spend the rest of my life running around in tight little circles. This week I have journalists trying to get me on TV (they asked me not to say, but think three letters) about women and porn, porn and women, and more. I was relieved to discover that these major networks run into the same frustrations I do, talking to women in the industry who insist that women don’t enjoy watching porn -- but they want to make a buck off the trend. One intern even had a run-in with the same woman who told me angrily and point-blank that a book on porn for women would never sell, and that it was a bad idea. It's frustrating beyond description to hear such antiquated views. I spent the plane ride back wondering just how my life got so out of control, and wishing I could just go back to working in a café. Would you still read my blog if I worked in a café? My return home catapulted me into the weekend, to lectures to SFSI students on oral sex and sex toys, then right into the car and off to Cupcake's wedding in Northern California. The lectures were hectic; the co-presenter for oral sex didn’t think it was necessary to return my emails or calls prior to the talk, and I went in cold. Then, the co-presenter for sex toys couldn’t make it, and I was lecturing for 40 min. cold with notes I'd gotten that morning and a Power Point presentation I'd never seen (and didn’t match the notes). I think I did okay; from working in the GV stores and giving pleasure parties I know the wide world of sex toys and its history like the backs of both hands. But I gave the sex toy lecture in my outfit for the wedding, and I don’t think the 8-inch fetish heels or aqua mesh-and-beads dress hurt, either. Still, I felt rushed and clumsy, like I didn’t smile enough. I was late to the wedding, but the dinner was wonderful. I cried anyway -- I cry at weddings, movies, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The dinner table I was at had a notorious hacker, his *very* young girlfriend, a researcher from SLAC, his uber-smart girlfriend and a bear and his boyfriend -- who was the biggest, most uptight queen I'd ever met. The queen hated the hacker, hated his hair, his outfit and his shoes with a fevered passion that kept him from being barely civil. The queen also hated that we were talking about sex so much. The hacker chastised me for not making it to a potluck on Friday, and I said I know, and my dip really rocks. Hacker: "Yeah, right." Me: "My dip is so fucking good, it would blow *her* clit clean off!" (I point at his girlfriend) Hacker Girlfriend: "I love dip!" Sex Tour A sex tour of San Francisco. Easy, you think? Not really. Well, if he was gay, it's like fucking Disneyland, or Disneyland for fucking and sucking, but in the emails I was told the Frenchman "was interested in the bi but likes more the woman." Straight. So no Eros or Blow Buddies. I know -- Power Exchange! Great for sexual tourists; but only open Thursday through Sunday, and I had Frenchie duty Monday and Tuesday. All the swing clubs and S/M clubs are in the East Bay, reservation only, and pretty much only happening on the weekends. Not to mention all these clubs frown on single men attending, and I really didn’t want to add to the problems of guys as looky-loos in the clubs. I racked my brains. All fetish clubs are on the weekends in SF, too. I researched, and even the damn Spectator's website is woefully out of date -- a calendar of events for August, so sad. Luckily we got a late start. Hornboy and I decided that North Beyatch was the way to go; a tour of the strip clubs there is pretty much a nice historical tour of SF sex and politics, of sorts. It's raining, and I have to practically beg CrankyPants to come along -- only to discover within minutes of parking the car that old CP is a walking encyclopedia of North Beach's seedier sex stops. "And this -- here, here, everyone come in here -- this is the sleaziest video parlor in The City." The dirty white walls were lined with dirty VHS tapes of shit porn, animal porn, and all sorts of yucky things. Hornboy was astounded -- he lived around the corner from this place for years and had no idea this was even here. Neither did I. CP gave animated descriptions in loud broken English to the Frenchman about what went on the in the back room, even smacking his hands together, before herding us over to the Lusty Lady. (There was a quick stop where the glory hole video booths are!) We thrust the Frenchman into a booth at the Lusty with a handful of ones and shut the door, huddling over to the side to discuss our next moves. Me: "I'm thinking Hungry I, then Hustler." Hornboy: "Great idea." CP: "I'm tired and I missed the baseball game." Next stop: the Hungry I, scene of my first and only lap dance, and one of the more comfortable places to drink beer, talk and check out topless women dancing to bad music. We sit all along the back wall, and watch the dancers come on one by one, then come over to us one by one. My eyes light on Apple, the woman who gave me my first unforgettable lap dance. As I expect, she doesn’t recognize me at all. I ask her to dance for my "friend," the Frenchman; I slip her a twenty and she leads him off. When they return I try to tip her again and she ignores me; another dancer tells me she's just rude like that. Well, I have my memories. We continue to drink and talk until we are besieged by a coked-up blonde stripper with a pie-sized bruise on her ass. She rants to me about her toe tattoo and how much it hurt; CP is looking at me with pleading eyes; the Frenchman is rapt with delight, and Hornboy is being chatted up by a brunette cowgirl with a big tattoo on her thigh (she looks like she's straight out of Frank Miller's Sin City). A dancer takes the stage in black and red stripes, totally Goth, and wearing black ballet shoes -- CP's eyes glaze over and he mutters, and all I can hear is him saying "Selma Blair." The coked-up blonde takes the Frenchman into the back room. I seize the moment -- I ask the cowgirl, "Will you dance for us?" She says she'd love to and takes Hornboy and I to the back couches. The Frenchman is nowhere in sight. Cowgirl asks us what we want. I say, "Well, since we've never done this before, I think I can say that we have no idea what we want." She laughs. "Okay -- you can touch *him*" (puts my hand in Hornboy's swelling crotch) "...and you can touch *her*" (puts Hornboy's hand up my skirt, against my moistening panties) "...but neither of you can touch me. I'll do all the rest of the touching. You guys are gonna have great sex tonight -- oh, but I guess you already have hot sex," she grinned. Then she proceeded to writhe and grind all over us to the tune of "Sweet Child 'O Mine," which was really quite romantic in a Baldwin movie kind of way. She took turns riding both of us, then splayed across us, then took turns again, which sounds silly but really worked -- just try not to get turned on touching your lover's crotch while a pretty girl crawls all over the both of you. C'mon, try it. When the song was over she stood up and I tipped her big time, especially because the dances only cost $20 and I'm sure she has a stage fee. Then we made our way out to the stage area where CP was pacing frantically, alone. Girls were dancing and he was pacing. In a monotone droll that you'd use when you painfully have to acknowledge that kittens are cute or puppies are fuzzy, CP said, "The couple that plays together stays together. <dramatic sigh> Where is the Frenchman?" "He's not with you?" As it turned out, Frenchie was still in the VIP with the coked-up, bruise-assed blonde. CP was beyond it all; "I'll go get him." CP came out alone, while Selma Blair took the stage again. He sort of winced in her direction, like a candy out of reach. "What did he say?" I asked. "He said, 'I am fine! Thank you!' Apple yelled at me for coming in the VIP -- she was grinding all over this corpulent fucker and said 'take that the hell outside.' It was surreal." We turned and made a beeline for the door -- CP tossed a five onstage at Selma as he strode quickly past the stage. She shouted, "Thank you!" The next day I felt the flu coming on, but was determined to show the Frenchman a good enough time that he'd throw me a book party in Paris. We took him to dinner at Asia SF, which is pretty much the coolest place (and the yummiest) to eat dinner in SF. Here, we got the best seats in the house, up against the bar and adjacent to the stage, which runs the entire length of the restaurant. And every so often, the lights go down and the music comes on -- and beautiful trannies lip-sync and dance sexily to tunes like "Hot Child in the City," "Like a Virgin" and many others. The Frenchman was losing his composure with me and started telling me what girls he thought were hot; I gently made him aware that they were transsexuals. He didn’t believe me. Then he did. And he became uncomfortable, which amused me to no end -- especially because Asia SF is practically a "family" restaurant. There were birthdays, a long table of Italian conventioneers (shouting "We love you!" at the girls), and moms with their (adult) daughters out for dinner and a drink. Plus, the girls there are hot; way better dancers than any others I've ever seen, and what's wrong with being attracted to them? Nothing, that's what. Hornboy and I had a blast, and we can't wait to go back -- plus the waiter kept us full up on free shots because we're local. ("Locals make this place great," he said.) Next stop: Trannyshack, which was very fun for Hornboy and I, but a mistake for the Frenchman. He became agitated and bored, homophobic, and his body language made me uncomfortable -- I think he kept standing too close to me so no one would think he was, you know. Heh. Hornboy thought it was amusing. So sadly, I crossed my next stop off the list -- I've never been to Nob Hill All Male Theater (one of two all-men strip clubs in SF), but that kind of fun wasn't gonna fly. The trannies seemed to be closing in on Frenchie, and while Hornboy and I were having fun listening to the catty jokes from the queen onstage, it was time to go. We dropped the Frenchman off at his hotel, and I asked what his plan was for the next few days. "I theenk Janat es teking mee to a moonch." "A what?" "A minch?" "Oh, a *munch*." This is what gatherings are called where S/M or kink-friendly people (usually in a club) get together to meet, have coffee and snacks, and make plans to beat each other. Perfect. So au revoir to the Frenchman, and hello to a three-day fever. I am coming out of it now, and have in fact behaved in a compulsive manner before even making it back to work. Like a child who *has to* chop off Barbie's hair, I think I have a problem. I signed another book contract. Fuck! I can quit anytime. But the offer was just too good, too juicy -- and I'll reveal this tasty morsel of a book once the publisher gets their press releases ready, as they want to make a big announcement out of it. Then there's this weekend, and thankfully I only have to do one thing that has me putting on false eyelashes: Exotic Erotic. I am supposed to do a book signing at 9:30, but to my frustration and chagrin, guess who else is on the bill, doing a porno performance -- the impostor. That's right, though I began writing over seven years ago (and yes, Violet Blue is my true, legal name), a woman came along three years ago and started doing porn using my name. Then she started doing interviews, openly stating her homophobic, racist and anti-Semitic beliefs. I was made aware of all this thanks to fans and readers of Tiny Nibbles, and in fact when I read the interviews I was spurned to email the writers and ask that they please, please, please make a distinction between the two of us in print. And they did -- they were very sweet and cool about it. One of the writers I have become close friends with since the incident, and we discussed on the phone what I should do at Ex Erotic about VB version 2.0. I said, "I know her real name." Okay, now back to bed for me. I was starting to get emails from readers wondering if I was still alive -- thank you. More soon... (yes, I know it's spelled "yarmulke") |
It's certainly true that whoever writes the AI code leaves a thumbprint of sorts of who they are and how they see the world. I know that the files are made public so that people can download and change them to fit their personality. And as you know, my desire to make Betty came from weird stuff Alice said to me in conversation, referring to god and faith -- odd coming from AI, don't you think? To me, god should be illogical for robots. I think that the concept of blind faith would introduce a whole host of other problems.
