When I walked into my local coffee shop the other morning “Same Ole Layne Syne” by Dan Folgerberg was playing. It reminded me that he left this Earth last week. Mara called me the day after to ask me if I had heard. I had not and was devastated by the news. I was glad it was her as Mara and I have been through a lot together - like August 18, the day Jerry Garcia died. Even though we only ever went to one show we lived the life of Gratefully Deadicated, barefoot, pot smoking, acid dropping hippies 20 years too late. Dan did not represent a movement or provide the soundtrack for a generation, but he represented a time for me and Mara that was simple and innocent; our formative years.

Dan Fogelberg was part of my world before I was part of this world. He blared from ma’s 8 Track during my time in the womb and while I sat sucking strained peas from a yellow Pyrex bowl. Even when I started to wear ripped flannel and eye liner Dan Folgelberg, Jackson Browne, Gordon Lightfoot and the like remained in my cassette bag next to Nine Inch Nails, Stone Temple Pilots and Concrete Blonde. There was a station in Cleveland, Ohio called WDOK, 102.1. It was our favorite station; Mara and I used to call Nancy Alden, Cleveland’s Lady in Red, and dedicate songs to each other all the time. Ma listened to that station religiously and it was the backdrop of being with her at home or in the car. Every corner of my childhood was accompanied by the sounds of AM Gold and the 70’s.

Mara and I would sit in the park and many times Dan would be playing from the Skiv and some of our hippie friends would cock a curious head. It wasn’t usual to hear something blaring other than the Dead, Buffalo Springfield or Janis. Amazingly there were quite a few that did not recognize Dan and his soothing, melodic music that Mara and I had come to love.

We got older and exchanged our shag throw rugs, flip flops and KB’s for Keds, checking accounts and coffee shops. Our lives were very different, yet Dan’s music provided a familiar sound to alleviate the stress from our new, unfamiliar way of living.

Soon Dan and his music would accompany me on a difficult journey. My father died of cancer and at the close of his funeral, I chose “Leader of the Band” to play. It was absolutely the most perfect song for my Dad. To this day when I hear that song I stop, close my eyes and say “Hi Dad”; I somehow think that that was what Dan was saying.

That music has been with me for my entire life. No other artist has been so closely associated with so many aspects of my experience and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve lost something. Although he is not of this Earth he lives here with Mara and me, an arms reach and USB cord away.

Download Same Ole Layne Syne

Normally I would not be found out drinking on a Wednesday night, but I had guests and the venue promised strippers in addition to an underwear contest. You may find it surprising that the strippers are what interested me the most. Upon arriving with my posse I took notice of a tall, hairy, somewhat plump looking man flailing himself around the torso of an older gentleman with a vacant expression on his face. I naturally assumed this toad was one of the strippers. As I turned around to return home for an episode of “Sex and the City” and a frozen pizza, my friend assured me that this was one of the contestants getting a “jump” on the event. He explained that the winner is chosen by the reaction of the audience so it pays to gain a fan base before the contest begins.

I ordered a round for us at the bar and discovered the advertised stripper in my line of sight. He was physically perfect. No fat anywhere, not a blemish or a misplaced hair. I immediately hated him and fantasized that he had an eating disorder or recently had a hump removed, anything to give my insecurities some comfort in the hot glow of his flawless appearance. After five minutes of glaring and internal turmoil I thought it best to ignore him and concentrate on my friends and our evening together. While we sipped our Newcastles I began to draw up my chest workout for the next morning in my head.

The contest began and the announcer looked all of 13. He was appropriately dressed in black, square-cut Calvin Klein’s and nothing else. It must have been his first attempt at using a microphone because he held it so close to his mouth that all of his words blurred into a muffled mess. It was hard not to appreciate his enthusiasm though. Amidst the breaths and sighs he seemed very eager to get the crowd into the show or at least into their underwear.

There were three men of various shapes, sizes and levels of intoxication that lined up on the stage ready for their turn to turn it out for the crotch-starved crowd. The first guy was the scary one that nearly caused my premature departure. He had an ear-to-ear Cheshire cat grin on his face and appeared to be really happy to be on stage. I suspect he took notice of his competition and was already calculating just how he was going to spend his winnings.

The second contestant was the smallest and drunkest by far. He was about 5′5″ and 115 pounds soaking wet. A very, very thin man, the sky blue bikini bottoms he chose as his costume practically drooped on his fragile frame. The poor guy almost lost his balance as he undressed in the spotlight. We’ve all been there, right? Trying so hard to be suave and sexy while making extraordinary effort just to remain vertical? He meandered out of the spotlight following his drunken introductory salute and began to walk away. The announcer politely herded him back to his position next to the Cheshire cat guy who was still appearing confident and poised.

Number three was my favorite and the one who got my vote in any category. He too was very short and very drunk, but not as thin. He reminded me of Jim Henson’s Fraggles; short, pear-shaped with bright yellow hair that was sticking up everywhere. Now this guy had set out to win. As soon as he was announced he strutted on stage in a red baseball cap with his bright yellow tufts pointing East and West. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt in the same tone of red that hung to his knees overlapping a pair of shorts in the same style. To cap his Pacific fashion motif he wore bright red flip-flops. He started to remove his pants midway through a turn on his heels and I was honestly looking forward to seeing what was beneath his shorts. Keeping true to form a bright red thong was revealed – much to my delight. I held up my beer and hollered in enthusiastic approval of his thoughtfulness and dedication to the ensemble.

When it came time for the winner to be decided I got butterflies and a wave of embarrassment swept over me. I was nervous for them. I stood there watching them and realized that I was alone in my shallow pool of shame. They were happy to be there, proud even. Who was I to feel anything but happiness for these guys? If they were enjoying themselves then I should be excited for them. When it came time to cast our “votes”, everybody in the house voted for all the guys in claps, hoots, hollers and cat calls.

Somebody had to win however, and it was, as expected, the Cheshire cat guy from Long Beach, California who, by the way, was named Ed.

I finished my beer and thought of how many times in my life I watched somebody in outlandish dress or manner and felt sorry and embarrassed for them. It dawned on me that the feeling of sympathy and shame stemmed from my own insecurities and internal rubbish. We should be so lucky to have the courage to present ourselves to the world without regard for judgment and scorn. I envy them. They are all winners.

To all of those who have written in with questions, please don’t take offense at the sequence in which I answer. It isn’t personal, I promise. Jade wants to know my favorite holiday and children’s book and why.

I will have to say that my favorite holiday is a toss between Veterans’ Day and New Year’s Day.

There is a lack of appreciation for vets in this country. Soldiers and sailors risked their lives for our nation. It doesn’t matter if they wanted to or not or if I happen to agree with the politics behind the conflicts they endured. They returned home, many of them damaged, traumatized and often scorned by those they fought to protect. I think because of Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day many people have learned the distinction between those that create wars and those that serve in them.

Even as I write this our brothers and sisters are risking their lives fighting a war with a purpose that is at best ambiguous. It is disgusting. They are sent to fight a war kept alive by an administration that has no interest in humanity or life, but for the black blood that flows from the veins of a land not theirs. Blood we wouldn’t have a need for if it weren’t in the interests of that same administration.

Liberation is a wonderful byproduct of war. Profit is not. Regardless of the reasons, the servants of war deserve our respect.

On a much lighter note, I think New Year’s Day is the one day my slate is wiped clean and whatever happened in the 364 days prior doesn’t matter. We all make mistakes and it is a great comfort to know that on January 1st I get a chance to start over and forget about the mistakes I made and the things I wish I could take back. I find it more than comforting to know that I can take what I have learned not to do in the previous year and apply that to the next year in the hopes that I can be a better person.

My favorite children’s book without a doubt growing up was “The Poky Little Puppy”. I read it over and over again and it still sits on my bookshelf at home. Apparently finding your own path and adventures appealed to me from the very beginning. I have to wonder how that puppy influenced my belief in karma…

Peters_girl asked me to write a bit about P’town. I would be glad to; it is definitely one of my most favorite places on this Earth that I have been to so far. Here in Palm Springs there are a handful of people that I see that I used to see back East and we all miss that quaint little village on the tip of Massachusetts; especially around this time of year. By about mid September the tourist swell has subsided and the streets empty a bit, exposing those little shops that you forgot were there. The people that you saw and met at the townie mixers in May and June all of a sudden reappear and you ask them, “Where were you all summer?” They respond with the same question and you realize then that you were both here traveling the same path up and down the same street to go to work, but missed each other in the throng of strollers and bike goers.

By October it’s just the locals. You’re hanging out with your “new old friends”, connections are reinforced and friendships blossom unobstructed by jobs, rents and visitors. The air is crisp with the trees waving their leaves of fire above the pubs that all serve “the best” clam chowder. The sweatshirt that you bought in July at half price becomes your favorite item as the days get shorter and you can no longer ride your bike in the “Provincetown” tank top you got the same day.

This is the time where people start asking each other where they will be moving onto. The season is coming to a close and the shops have started to shorten their hours dramatically much to your inconvenience. The trees have lost most of their fiery fingers and have either dropped them to the ground or replaced them with a boring and uneventful brown. As you walk trying to find an open lunch spot you notice that your breath is visible. You wonder about that offer to wait tables in Ft. Lauderdale or whether you are going brave the elements of winter and collect unemployment.

I never was that brave. If I was going to be cold and suffer through winter I was doing it in the city with taxis, bars, my friends and snow plows. P’town was more than beautiful in the winter, don’t get me wrong. I visited it often to escape the congestion and pressure of the city. Unfortunately in winter, aside from the desolate beauty, the only thing flourishing in P’town is ice and alcoholism; a grand combination if not a bit depressing.

P’town was my first real home away from home. I grew up there and I met people there and they would soon become the most treasured people in my life. I fell in “love” there and I fell out again. I partied on the beach at night and relaxed in hammocks next to the black bottom pool during the day. It was there that I met guys from all over the world and now have a place to stay in virtually every state. After three summers working at the best spots in town I will always see somebody I know and chances are it was from those times, on the very tip of Massachusetts, the tiny town that Johnny calls home.

Thanks to everybody that shared their ideas for this new segment on Hazzard Ahead. Our topic this time around came from dtwave who asked many related questions.

1. I imagine you have screaming, balls to the walls sex all the time, but that is probably more fantasy than reality. Give us sense of what the real situation is for our favorite porn star.

People like to think that porn stars are all sex, all the time. That may be true for some. For me sex has always been a very important part of my life - not my entire life. And the guys I meet and keep around are the same way. Is there more sex in my life because of what I do? Who can say? I do know that when I first began I found that I was having less sex than before. Strange, but true.

My life as Johnny took off pretty quickly. I started to become a personality, appearing at events, clubs and launches. While there was plenty room for being “myself” at these things I was still a porn star no matter how you wanted to dress me up or down; I was conceived out of sex and that was my business. It was my job to be sexual, an object, a fantasy, an ideal. When you are doing that for a long period of time it begins to wear on you. After an evening of doing it up Showgirls style to an audience of drunken, moist horn doggers sex was the last thing on my mind. I mostly craved cheese sticks and beer.

2. Does “ordinary” sex with a boyfriend or date pale in comparison to the orgy scene in Bolt? As a fan, I envy the fact that you get to have sex with some of the hottest men on earth. OK, I envy them too, getting to have sex with you, THE hottest man on earth.

I think the Bolt orgy scene is kind of like the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan; most things will seem tame afterwards. While my partners on screen are uber hot sometimes, the hotness usually ends there. This is a movie with direction and lots of it. Chi Chi is known for being the best in the biz and let me tell you, she knows what she wants and will get it no matter what. So there you are, naked on the butcher block three inches from Mr. Do You Have A License To Carry That Across State Lines and you might think about doing something, but you have your boss telling you to contort yourself into positions that make Twister look like a geriatric yoga class. The result? Hot scenes that move DVDs off shelves and inspire guys and gals alike to take matters into their own hands. The process? Work. Not answering phones, digging ditches or changing the world, but still just work.

3. Is it hard to find a guy outside the industry who appreciates what you do for work, and is secure enough not to be intimidated by it?

Porn is a very small piece of my life and I’ve never had difficulty finding quality people to populate my world. While I still have great people around me there have been some intimidation issues related to my porn status. I get it. I really do. Some guys think that because I’m a “professional” that I’m used to some advanced degree of sex. If they only knew what actually happens on set. If anything the sex industry works against good sex. You can bottle a hot fuck, but a chemical connection is not available at your grocer’s freezer. To see a hot fuck all you need is a screen, to feel a hot fuck you need the connection.

It’s interesting to me that this question brings appreciation into the picture. I think very few people appreciate what it takes to do what I do well. There have definitely been plenty of guys in my life who didn’t factor my work into our relationship at all. Whether they understood its significance or not is irrelevant because it just didn’t matter. One of the most important qualities I seek in a man is self confidence. It’s one of the few common features you’ll find in the guys that make my grade. Some people might think of me as some sex crazed guy that “needs” sex all the time. Not true, it’s quite the opposite to be honest because doing a job that requires me to be sexual increases my need for intimacy - not a blow job.

That’s all for now. More chipping away at the fantasy next time…