: January 2002:The Industry
all you lonely, creepy masturbators of the greater Portland
area! Just holding a copy of Exotic in your hands
makes you sexier, doesn't it? There's enough jack material
in this issue to keep your bony li'l paws busy for a month.
And lest you grow uneasy, I'm here to assure you that
there is nothing shameful about masturbating to Exotic.
Alright, there's plenty that's shameful about
it, but we butter our bread by peddling the illusion that
being a pathetic, inadequate, sex-starved spud is somehow
redemptive, so go wild, you crazy jerkoffs!
As your editor and personal
guide, I've made it my mission to usher in a new era of
sex-negative literature. In each issue, I plan to print
at least one thing that'll kill that hard-on of yours.
In fact, that's my New Year's Resolution: to render a
dozen of your erections noodle-limp.
It's right before Christmas
as we go to press, and I get a warm, crinkly feeling seeing
all the naked sex workers mincing through the Exotic
office for last-minute photo shoots. Our humble compound
is stuffed with so many freaks, desperados, and drama
queens, one could write the whole magazine without ever
having to leave the office.
EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH Henry,
a k a The
Exotic Distributor Formerly Known as The Real
John Henry, has been working in the sex industry since
before most of you whippersnapper strippers were able
to shave your pubes.
I fondly recall prior
encounters with Henry...the time he showed up in the
middle of the night when I was sleeping on the couch
in the back room, scaring the shit out of me...the time
he confided that I was one of the few staffers whose
face he didn't want to FUCKING SMASH IN every time he
saw me...the manic, hilarious, utterly frightening phone
message where he harangued our beleaguered publisher
with desperate exclamations such as "I'm not your nigger,
Frank!"...and the time he and a lady friend burst into
our office, sweaty and panting, claiming that a rival
publication's distributor had threatened their lives.
Henry is psychotic. He'll
tell you that himself. He's been diagnosed and everything.
Henry has two moods: He's either exceedingly polite
or he's threatening to crush your skull. If it hasn't
happened already, Henry will probably kill someone someday...and
then feel bad about it...and then justify it...and then
feel bad about it again. "In this life, I've lived many
lives," he tells me, and I believe him.
contrast with some difficulties we've encountered with
the award in the past, I'm glad to report that our lucky
winner this month is also an eager participant in the
proceedings who pledges to fulfill his Employee of the
Month duties to the utmost of his capabilities. Not
only did Henry graciously endure a grueling photo session,
he also supplied me with several cartoons, poems, and
background information about himself. Right before we
went to press, he ran into the office insisting that
I do shout-outs to his friends Joanna and Mr. Bohem.
Knowing that I now [plug,
plug] spin country records at Dante's every Friday from
5 to 8 p.m., Henry also generously bequeathed me a stack
of old Christmas-themed 45s, including "Yingle Bells"
and "I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas" by Yogi Yorgesson,
"I'll be Home for Christmas" by child-batterer Bing
Crosby, and "Santa and the Kids" by country superstar
Charlie "The Only Negro in C&W" Pride. I was at
first suspicious of the big white flaky substance that
was caked on most of the 45s. What could it be? Dried
cum? Anthrax? Henry tells me it's soap flakes, which
help keep the records from getting scratched.
Henry also left me a
microcassette player containing a tape on which he breathlessly
recites a ghetto-themed "The Night Before Christmas"--"The
Crips were selling crack on the corner/And the Bloods
were hidin' under their beds/With visions of drive-by
shootings dancing in their heads."
Henry is a fan of The
Redneck Manifesto, so I have no beefs with the
man. He claims that our last issue sold more in coin
boxes than any prior Exotic issue. In an unedited
passage from a Christmas card he left for me on my desk,
he opines about the reasons for this (note--Henry writes,
and speaks, in all capital letters):
"IT'S BECAUSE THERE WAS
A GIRL AND G-- WAS WOMAN AND BOTH OF THEM WHINERS AND
THEY WERE ALWAYS BITCHING AND THEY NEVER SOLD NOVEL
AND AND BOTH ACTED LIKE THEY WANTED ME TO PUNCH AND
ONE NIGHT I ALMOST SNAPPED AND HIT G-- BUT THEN I DIDN'T
BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN'T HIT ANYONE ESPECIALLY GIRLS AND
BOTH WERE GIRLS AND THEY BOTH CRIED LIKE BABIES SO WHO
WOULD WANT TO BUY A FREE MAGAZINE AND LISTEN TO THE
CRYIN' THAT GOES ON FOR DAYS EVEN AFTER THE PERIOD IS
OVER BUT WHAT'S THIS GOT TO DO WITH THE HOLIDAY CELEBRATING
THE BIRTH OF THE LORD JESUS?"
There are no formalities
with Henry. He exudes the refreshing, cut-through-the-bullshit
candor of the truly insane. He's a sparking, sputtering
live wire of restless psychic energy, a whirling dervish
who tends to become so wrapped-up in whatever he's
talking about that he doesn't realize he's being VERY,
VERY LOUD. Looking into Henry's eyes is like beholding
the face of madness. He has the battle-scarred bearing
of a man who's stared into the face of Pure Evil without
flinching. I'm quite fond of the guy.
BYE-BYE, VIVID BLUE
We bemoan the loss of yet another Exotic contributor:
VIVID BLUE, authoress of the much-loved and to-be-sorely-missed
"Sex Around the World" column, recently called our office
all huffed-up about the rude treatment she'd received
at the hands of an unidentified staffer who'd answered
her previous call. According to Vivid, when she asked
the staffer, "Who is this?," she was greeted with a
lecherous, "Well, who do you want it to be?"
Upon resigning, Vivid let it be known that she's written
for such prestigious publications as Swank and Genesis
without ever having to deal with such rude, dastardly,
and unprofessional behavior.
My only previous run-in
with Vivid was a few months ago when she left a serious
of frantic (sexists might say "hysterical") calls to
our office, claiming that she was being stalked and
demanding that her real name be removed from her column.
(Er, if your stalker already knows your real name, what's
the sense of trying to hide it?)
We wish Vivid Blue the
very best and hope she continues having sex all over
the world. Which begs the question: How many more Exotic
contributors will voluntarily resign before we have
to start playing mind games with them over the phone?
WHY ARE ALL
EXOTIC READERS NAMED "MARK" OR "JOHN?"
A man identifying himself as "Mark" left us a phone
message claiming that he'd been fired from his security-guard
position for reading Exotic while on the job.
He added that after being fired, he went and watched
Viva Las Vegas perform at Magic Gardens,
which made him feel better. This should also make Viva
feel better, if not safer.
JUST AIN'T COOL, DUDE The
female owner of a local lingerie boutique recently visited
the Exotic office and made it a point to loudly
assure Bobby Baldwin, our production anchor and
widely thought to be The Only Sane Exotic Employee,
that she had always opposed prejudice in all its forms,
even before it was considered cool to do so. (Bobby
MEANS "BROTHERHOOD OF EVIL" IN
ITALIAN A startling
allegation has recently crossed our venerable news desk,
one which threatens to topple the formidable Exotic
empire. It comes via a musician and former Christian
preacher who fronts what might properly be termed an
industrial/metal-style musical combo. Apparently, Exotic
publisher Frank "Just Pronounce it 'Flatch'"
Faillace and his henchman Reed "One of
the World's Top 20 Coin Magicians" McClintock are
high-ranking satanic priests who sacrifice strippers
to appease the Demon Gods.
What's worse, they then dump the used corpses in a bottomless
pit which is hidden in a "secret" chamber in the basement
of Dante's, a hyper-hip nightclub nestled beneath
the second-floor Exotic offices. Dante's is also
owned by Mr. Faillace. The angular, amiable, fashionably
disheveled Exotic publisher and the shadowy,
brooding, slightly tubby coin magician are said to be
involved in an Oregon sect of Aleister Crowley's
O.T.O. which has made a mission of placing convicted
criminals in high-ranking positions within the Exotic
organization. (Hence, um, me...) The musician/accuser
noted that several of Dante's drink specials are "satanically
themed" and that the club's phone number contains a
damning "666" in it.
Faillace offered a tight-lipped,
"No comment," regarding the rumors. McClintock vehemently
denied all allegations and then tried showing me a
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