Turns out she was just another in the long line of daddy-wound darlings who come limping into my life looking for a soft place to land. The kind of girls who mistake chaos for charisma, who think emotional unavailability is just another flavor of mystery. And I saw it coming. Hell, I practically handed her the red flags myself…
I didn’t set out to write a guide to the Manic Pixie Dream Girl — hell, I didn’t even know what one was until she showed up in my life like a fever dream in fishnets, wrecked everything I believed about love, and left me sobbing to The Cure in a hotel bathtub. Twice.
Somewhere between Bethlehem and bullshit lies the single greatest relic Christianity ever had the gall to bless: the foreskin of Jesus Christ. Yeah, you read that right. Not the cross. Not the shroud. Not the chalice. We’re talkin’ about His divine dick trimmings…
Long before porn went new wave and LA had its plastic-slick assembly line of stepmom smut, there was Behind the Green Door — the film that kicked in the door (green or otherwise) and let hardcore slip into the American mainstream like a cumshot in slow motion. (Literally like a cumshot in slow motion.)
It was 1985. Reagan was in the White House, AIDS was on the rise, and somewhere in a cheap Hollywood studio soaked in cigarette smoke and Aquanet, a genre-defining porno was being born. It had a plot — barely. It had music — unlicensed. And it had a scandal — oh boy, did it ever…
Before Tarantino was jerking off to grindhouse, Anthony Spinelli was already doing it—with his pants off and a real script in hand. Talk Dirty to Me isn’t just a classic…
SCREW’s Film of The Year for 1978, Anthony Spinelli’s SEX WORLD was a beautifully bizarre, full-throttle fuck-fest, like Blade Runner meets Deep Throat, but if it was directed by Kubrick, on coke…
There was a time when porn wasn’t afraid to get political. Or at least wrap itself in a Nazi flag and throw a few explosions in for effect instead of looking like it was filmed in a Pasadena Airbnb…
The Murph was the last of a dying breed. An old-school, fur-coat, cane-walkin’, gold-chain-swingin’ pimp straight outta central casting — picture Willie Dynamite on a tight budget, operating out of a peeling two-story on Grant Ave in Schenectady….
This ain’t your stepsister’s porn, pal. This is vintage heat—ass you can trust, tits that saw the Berlin Wall fall, and mouths that know their way around a cock like Sinatra knew a microphone.