Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Pornography is in the groin of the beholder
My friend Liona Boyd, famous guitarist, writes to me every so often.
We used to kind-of go to school together in Mexico, she At Belles Artes, and myself at the Insitituto Allende.
She studied music and I studied novel writing and Spanish culture.
She went on to fame, many world-class concerts (and Pierre Elliott Trudeu as a sometime boyfriend) and I went on to comfortable, self-abusive obscurity.
"Are you still writing about masturbation?" she asked with a giggle.
My blog that week had in fact been about one Mr. Portnoy and his complaints.
"Not just writing," I giggle back.
Did I attain computer literacy just to hit the porn sites?
Liona, you were always more surefooted that I.
You studied Villa-Lobos and Ponce and I went on to become Ponce de Leon, searching for his fountain of youth, not realizing all the while that the fountain of youth is really one's libido.
I finally got a fellowhip to teach at the Instituto.
"It's not what you are saying, your erudtition, so-called; it's that bulge in your pants and the way you move," an old student confided."It's your body language."
"You mean I'm the Tiffany Boy of academia?"
"Something like that," she had said.
MIgod. All that application, all the bad novels. And I have been the Britney Spears of literature.
Friggin' airhead. Exhibitionist. Bouncy-Bouncy. If I catch you, you'll get a piece of me.
Well, Liona doesn't want a piece of me. Just an old friend emailing and old friend.
But she was onto my literary game thirty years ago.
"Are you still writing about masturbation?"
I had said yes.
No small wonder that Liona has stopped writing to me.
Merv the perv.
I am trying to justify myself. I hit the porn site for research--research you understand!
My intention was to do a newpaper article on porn sites and their effect on people.
Stunts your growth, drives you blind--that sort of thing.
Carnal sights. Curiosity.
Gorgeous California girls ingesting huge salamis.
I mean, wouldn't you?
Well, I do need glasses now and I never was all that tall.
Ah, but there is a karma, a price for everytyhing.
Viruses and spam. My computer is wrecked!
My brain is wrecked.
I am the old bum in the woodshed with his Hustler magazines.
My son happens to be my IT guy. He fixes my computer whenever I have problems.
"Dad, I see you have a bad virus in your computer.
"Wonder where it could have come from."
I know he knows all too well where that virus had come from.
"Wet Girls"--tha's where the virus had come from, right down to the unwanted new icon of a very wet, though fetching girl.
I have to make amends. I need to go to Father Confessor; need to do my penance.
I must, like Leonard Cohen, transmute all this into art.
I must, in fact read Mr. Cohen' much underrated novels--he was one of the best.
So I open a page.
It was a scene of separation, loss. A man and his woman were breaking up.
I read the dialogue.
"She watched me masturbate for the last time."
Oh Liona. At least I have something in common with Leonard Cohen.
I will write about masturbation.
So what else is new?