So, this is how Rog introduces me: “We start September with a true
internet porn pioneer. Jeff is not only one of the masterminds behind the
IAFD and RAME, but he also got me started in this crazy business. Credit
or blame him accordingly.”

I guess I should tell the story of how that happened.

It was the summer of 1982 and Rog and I had just gotten back from a
weekend at Laguna Seca, motorcycle racing with Pauline Kael.

We stopped off at this dusty bar in Santa Somewhere and over too many
cocktails, we spoke about the nature of film criticism. She was on her
fifth or sixth Singapore Sling when she looked at us over her glass and
slurred seductively … “Boysh… in the arts, the only shource of
independent information is the critic. The resht is advertishing.”

She opened her blouse a little, scratched at her left nipple for a moment
and then she passed out.

I looked and Rog and he looked at me.

And we kissed. One of those long kisses you only see in the movies.

I kid. We didn’t kiss. (At least not then.)

Rog and I left Pauline (“Itchy Nipple” as we came to call her) at the bar
(with the bill — Drink-n-Dash at its finest!) and we headed back home.

The dune buggy we were riding broke down in Chatsworth, so we had to hoof
it back to Hancock Park. This was before cel phones, so we actually had
to walk to find help.

We ended up near Stoney Point where we stumbled upon this guy bouldering.

He was in rock-climing gear. He had great hair and a good body. We
hoped he could take us to civilization (sure the 118 is right there, but
christ, is it possible to be so close and yet so far?). He couldn’t, but
he asked us if we wanted to see something cool.

Rog and I were (are!) men of the world, so we said we’re up for anything.

He asked “Anything?” and we said “Sure.” We just left Pauline Kael in a
bar with an $1800 tab — it may have been the mescaline talking, but we
were game.

The guy (let’s call him Al), takes us into this little cave behind this
rock. He drops his shorts and whips out his special purpose. The mesc
must really be kicking in because this guy’s dick is fucking huge. He
touches himself in that special way and the guy cums buckets. He hits
the ceiling of the goddamned cave.

“I’m gonna make me some money off of that.” he says. “I just need me a
name.”

Rog and I stumble out of the cave and squint into the setting sun. We
turn, the orange star on our right. “Al” yells out to us — we can’t
make out what he’s saying… Rog keep repeating over and over “Peter. That
fucking guy’s Peter. Holy shit. Did you see his Peter? Damn.”

I try to get my bearings, but I have no idea where we are. I start
walking. Rog yells after me — “Which way are you going?” I yell
“North!”

Al yells again — “What did you say? I can’t hear you! Did you say
Peter? Hello? What did you say? North?” We were long gone.

Flash forward a couple years, and Rog and I are working on a script
called “Citizen Jane” about a dildo magnate who on her deathbed. She
murmurs “Mr. Thumbs” and dies. The movie is then spent trying to find
out whay “Mr. Thumbs” meant and its not until the end that we find out it was
her piano teacher’s oldest son, and he was so clumsy that everyone called
him “Mr. Thumbs”

We’re grabbing a burger at the Munch Box and in walks Doug Barr, fresh
off The Fall Guy. He invites for beers down at Los Toros. We go, unsure of
where this will take us, but we hope it ends with us cumming in Heather
Thomas’ hair.

Unfortuantely, it was not to be — it was a sausage party that night, and
Mr. Famous TV Actor left us with a $200 bar tab.

That’s when I decided I was moving back east. I couldn’t convince Rog to
come back — even when I told him I thought we might be able to get
adopted (in spite of our advanced ages of 23 and 25 respectively) by a
rich black millionaire with a sassy housekeeper.

Rog declined.

He called me one day, a few months later. I was hanging out on my
balcony overlooking Central Park. Smiley Jenkins, my manservant, brought
me the phone. Said a Mr. “Pipe” was on the phone. I said “You mean “Mr.
Tipe” and he said “No, Mr. Pipe” and I say “I know a Mr. Tipe, I don’t
know any Mr. Pipe” and this argument went on for about 4 more minutes
before I grabbed the receiver and yelled “Why didn’t you want to be my
adopted brother!?! What are you doing with your life?!?”

Rog said he was writing instructional manuals for eyeglass repair kits.
He came up with 15 synonyms for the word “screw” and I told him it
sounded like he’d have a better time using those synonyms as a porn critic.

So that’s what he did. Rog went to work as a porn critic. He had shirts
printed up and managed to get a picture of every chick with tits wearing
one. He’s a marketing machine now, and except for the occasional meeting
for Asian Nachos in Las Vegas, I don’t see my old friend much anymore.

I miss him.