Next stop is Tempe rock venue The Green Room. She can be seen in such highball porn flicks as The Bottom Dweller 5, Devil's Black Jack, Taming of the Screw, Up and Cummers 42, 69 Hours and As Sweet As They Come. She tells me her dad is Eastern European and her mother is Mexican. Raylene has a burgundy mane, dark eyes and dark skin. The bong comes sealed in a box that for Raylene is no fun to carry around. Out of the haze of posters, pipes and other paraphernalia, Raylene purchases a massive plunger-shaped bong. With me tonight are 22-year-old Raylene POPsmear scribe and Street Walkin' Cheetah shouter Frank Meyer the senior vice president of media relations at Island records, John Vlautin and tireless Vivid adult-flick PR flack Brian Gross.įrom the Ritz-Carlton in Phoenix, the night's first stop is the Headquarters, a head shop in Tempe. Tonight the gist is this: A sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll magazine called POPsmear is shooting its Halloween issue cover in Phoenix, featuring porno purrer Raylene and Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, the duo that is Detroit's much media-maligned Insane Clown Posse. Once porn is demythologized, nothing is left but gratuitous anatomy insertions, unsightly close-ups and men who are but life support for their penises.īut we are not here to talk about what we see on television or in the movies or that which we rent at adult arcades. Porn does not belong on the bookshelf or all over Rolling Stone and Entertainment Tonight. For porn to stay fun, it should remain under the bed where it is safe, dark and dirty. And over there is Jerry Springer hosting a harem of pedestalized porn stars, some of whom come across as emotionally damaged and anything but consenting.īut now that porn has rolled over into pop's mainstream wet spot, it has, in the process, also become yawn-inducing. Over here is Ricky Martin surrounded by a wreath of faceless women swimming naked on the cover of Rolling Stone. If you pay attention to the glossed shows and tabloids cramming our lives, you see that porn and pop are the two new, primary cultural colors rattling our collective and desultory brain pans. A cab ride that is a microcosm of that reductive cross of porn and pop. So what would it be like to cab around the city with a record-company weasel, a couple of writers, a punk-rock singer, a porn-PR pro and an adult-film star wielding a large bong in a box?Īn irony-rich ride more fun than a pop-up Popsicle, Daddy-O.
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