Why is it when you tell a priest, "Yesterday, I talked to god," his initial reaction is, "Of course.  Anyone can talk to god."  But when you elaborate, "No, I had a direct person to deity conversation like you and I are having right now," the priest is the first person to try and dissuade you from even the possibility such a thing took place.  He will even, as delicately as possible, suggest consulting a medical professional, a polite way of saying get to a psychiatrist you crazy sonuvabitch.

At this point I feel a few other details are in order.
 
Last week I was having lunch at the 2-Way Diner Grill on Pulaski.  I remember looking out the window and thinking, "Holy Hell in a basket full of bees, traffic is slow."  Then it struck me.  Nothing was moving.  At all. I could even see a pigeon in mid-takeoff suspended in the air.  I looked around the diner and saw all the patrons stock still as if someone had hit pause on a literally universal remote.  And that's when I saw God.  He was strolling down Elston Avenue looking pretty dapper in a white suit with a black tie and matching waistcoat.  Now, I didn't know it was god at the time.  
 
He walked into the diner, took a seat next to me, and said, "Fuck.  You like women, don't you?"  I was about to answer when he changed into she. And the religious of the world can get all a fluster if they want, but God is a pretty sexy chick, especially in a righteously well fitted suit.  But I digress.
 
God shakes her head and says, "Sorry about that.  I got you confused with a different Alvin Harris.  Gay dentist in Tupelo.  Nice guy."
 
Oddly the first thing I thought to ask was, "What difference does that
make, me liking women?"

God shrugged, "None, as far as I know.  I just love giving people a half chub before I tell them I'm God."
 
"The god?"
 
She snapped her fingers and Chicago was a swamp again.  A swamp full of dinosaurs being shot at by alien big game hunters, some of whom were busy posing for photos alongside giant carcasses.  In the blink of her eye we were back in the diner.
 
"So that's what happened to them," I said.
 
"Not all of them," God corrected me, "But that's not why I'm here."
 
I thought for a second, "You're not going to make me a fucking prophet are you?"
 
She shook her head.
 
I thought a second longer, "I'm not supposed to go on some holy crusade, personal or otherwise."
 
She frowned, "That sounded more like a statement than a question."
 
"I'm not telling you what to do, but I'd really rather not... quest."

She chuckled, nabbed a fry off my plate, and said, "Nothing like that.  From time to time, I like to come down and see what the people think of the world.  Talk to the person on the street.  It makes me feel like less of an observer.  You feel me?"
 
"I guess. What do you want to know?"

"What do you think of the world?"
 
Now, I wanted to give a good solid answer, the best I could muster.  This meant pulling together the totality of my knowledge concerning the world... such consideration leading me to the fact I only ever really watch the news for sports and the weather; if I do come across a newspaper I just read the comics and the movie reviews; and what I sort of felt certain about I wasn't sure exactly how I knew about this or that -- what books, articles, documentaries lead me to the awareness of particular earthly realities.  For that matter, how could I be certain anything I knew was in fact the truth? Hearst manipulating the U.S. into war with Spain in order to sell more newspapers immediately sprang to mind, alongside the fact sensationalism always sells better than plain realities: people are more likely to spend money to read about children being slaughtered than saved.
 
Still, I could tell God wanted an answer, so in order to answer her question I went with my gut and said, "It's pretty shitty."

She sighed. The sky outside darkened.  Laughing sardonically, God put a cigarette in her mouth, lit it with a thought, and remarked, "I'll damn it, that is pretty much the only answer I ever get."
 
Trying not to upset the almighty, I suggested, "Maybe it's the people you ask."
 
"No, no. Harsh truth is no less true. Granted, if you'd made me happy with your answer, you might have gotten laid."  She cast a smile so hot it melts steel.
 
At this juncture I attempted to inquire as to how one might regain to get laid.  It also happens to be the point where Father Mulligan felt the need to interrupt my story saying, "That's quite enough." Sitting behind his baroque mahogany desk, he could not tolerate a continuation of the discussion.  He insisted even if I had encountered god as I claimed to have, which is a very polite way of starting to call someone a liar, god would not act in this fashion.  To which I asked him if he'd ever personally met God.  He said he hadn't, so I rebutted, "then what the fuck do you know?"  He countered with the Bible.  I tried to tell him God had some interesting things to say about that, and I quote "total manmade bullshit."  However, by that point it was becoming obvious the Church was not the place to talk about God.
 
So I left.

It was Tuesday night.  The bar, Mr. G's, was mildly crowded with the usual regulars.  Nobody was really planning on much more than a buzz when Old Bill walked into the joint.  Old Bill is the kind of guy you suspect has seen god.  The problem is god only showed up to tell Old Bill he's a cunt, and there would never be any denying the fact.  After all, god told him so.  In any event, the bar greeted him with a collective grumble till he took a seat right next to me and my buddy Sid.  We being the closest to him, proximity not personally, were obliged to make an articulate greeting.  
              
So I said, "Hey Bill, how are things?"
             
He looked at me like a kid who just watched his favorite dog get shot.  I feared what he would say next.  He opened his mouth and, "My son just killed himself."  
              
This silenced even the jukebox.  
              
Ron Granger, hanging onto the end of the bar like he might slip off the side of the world, hollered over, "Well, that's no big deal.  Fuck it -- we're just ash and dust.  People are nothing special."  
             
Feeling compelled to say something on Old Bill's behalf, I leaned over to comment, "While I may agree we're just meat and guesses, doesn't that make this more of a loss, a waste even?  I mean, fuck all, the kid gave up the rest of his life to be nothing.  So..."
             
Ron nodded, "I follow.  Bill.  Sorry for your loss."
           
Bill nodded undertstanding.  He held a drink up as a salute, proof there would be no hostilities, then a round of condolences came his way in the form of words and shots.  As the night ticked along, drink by drink, Sid and I kept Old Bill company.  We asked what we felt was appropriate.  
             
Sid asked, "How old was he?"
            
"Matty was 29."  
            
I asked, "When did it happen?"
            
"About ten minutes ago."
             
That brought a pause to the conversation.  I reiterated the question for the sake of clarity, and Old Bill responded, "Ten minutes ago."
             
"Your son literally just killed himself ten minutes ago," Sid said.
             
"Yep."  Old Bill sucked down another shot of $12 condolence.  
              
Assuming shock had corrupted Old Bill's sense of responsibility -- experiencing this tragedy understandably short circuited his brain causing him not to attend to the situation but rather walk the two blocks from his house to Mr. G's -- I asked him, "So what happened?"
             
"Shotgun."  Sid ordered a set of beers, however, Old Bill added, "No, I mean like he self shotgunned.  Made a mess all over the basement."  
             
"How's Rhonda doing?" Sid asked about Old Bill's wife.  The beers arrived, and we prepped for shotgunning.  
              
Taking his in hand, Old Bill shrugged, "She ain't gonna be too happy when she gets home."  We paused as he downed his beer.  When he'd finished, anticipating our next question Old Bill said, "She went to the movies with her friend Patty.  She'll be getting back soon.  I left a note."
             
Despite the seemingly obvious nature of this next statement, I felt it obligatory to remark, "Bill, you can't let your wife come home to that."
          
"Why not?" he growled.
             
I didn't really think an explanation was necessary so I didn't have one on the ready.  Looking for assistance, I turned to Sid who said, "You can't let your wife come home to that."  I pointed at Sid to indicate my agreement.
             
Old Bill's face screwed up in confusion, "She's not my woman.  We're getting divorced."
             
"When did that happen?" I asked.
             
Old Bill glanced at his watch, "About nine minutes ago.  The kid was really what kept us together, and now he's gone -- what's left between us?"
             
"Not a whole lot after she reads that note," Sid said.
            
"Especially since I mention the divorce in the note."
             
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.  Maggie was coming by with a fresh round of condolences, but I sent them back.  As usual, Old Bill was being true to form.  He often came in with depressing stories which gradually, as the details emerged, proved him to be a cunt.  Like the time his cousin died of a heroin overdose... the heroin sold to him by Old Bill. Or the occasion of his grandmother's death... as the result of a heart attack... when he tried to lure her into granny porn.  One would think that by now the lot of us knew better than to react to the start of his stories.  The smart maneuver would be to wait for the full details then react accordingly.  Maybe that's why Ron Granger shot off like he did:  he knew better.  Technically, I did too.  However, my New Year's resolution was to try and be less cynical about the world.  Old Bill was not helping.  
             
But I stuck with him.  All night.  And I learned that while beating your son with a hose may not, to quote Old Bill, "whip the gay" out of him, it'll most likely make him kill himself one day.  Furthermore, I learned that you have to give people a chance to prove they don't deserve one.

The main reason most women don't like pornography is jealousy.  There's the obvious fact it isn't designed for them.  For
whatever reason, possibly the spitting and dick-chokings, many women don't get off watching sex flicks the way men do. 
However, the less realized aspect of this jealousy is that porn tends to treat women far better than the real world ever has or possibly will.  

 
1.  The Pay is Great.

Sure, the concept of equality has floated around America since its inception.  People here are eager to talk about the egalitarianism we all aspire to, giving every American the chance to be great. However, ask any African American how often the concept of equality means reality, and hypocrisy soon enters the conversation.  We talk a big game but rarely follow through.  Case in point:  having a vagina decreases your pay grade.  But not in porn.
 
Corporate America only pays women about 75.5 cents for every dollar their male counterparts earn. Yet, in the porno-verse female performers get an average of $900 for a scene.  Women can rake in between $750-1200 while men can only make $300-500.  Advantage vadge!  Seemingly, pornographers are happy to handover money to ladies who frankly do more than their male costars, a fact corporate America can't claim.

 
2.  Coming Through the Glass Ceiling.
 
Anyone who's worked in an office environment has, at some point, heard a thump like a bird flying into a window.  That's the sound of women trying to ascend the corporate ladder.  It occurs when their heads bang against three inches of crystal clear bullet proof glass.  At some point every women who's ever worked hard has smashed her face against it.  To highlight this reality, when Sandra Day O'Conor graduated at the top of her class the only job she got offered was as a legal secretary.  Eventually, she would end up becoming the first female Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, but how was anyone supposed to divine that from her intelligence?
 
Still, there is one world women have never been denied being on top.  

Granted, life in Pornopolis is typically regarded as fantasy.  However, in said fantasies women can occupy positions of high rank and respect.  From sexy CEOs to horny doctors to promiscuous politicians, pornstars portray a world where women have broken through the glass ceiling; and that's a message every women can get behind.
 
Furthermore, what some might call more legitimate work is more readily available for women than men.  Journalists focusing on the adult industry tend to have easier access if female. The reason for this is that men on a porn set are typically seen as dogs on the prowl.  No one suspects women journalists of trying to scam on poon.  So opportunities in pornographic journalism are slanted in favor of women. 

 
3.  Ain't Nothing Wrong with That.
 
Porn is the only industry that accepts women in every shape, size, and sexual orientation.  If you want to tie someone to a riding mower and peg him in the ass then there's a site for that.  If you're a gal over 300 pounds, well, there's a place for you to feel sexy.  Want to get down with Bigfoot?  Why not (http://www.sweetprudence.com)? Lesbianism is encouraged rather than treated like a passing phase or a treatable disease.  With no fear of the slut double standard, women get to be sexually aggressive instead of demure.  In addition, a woman can grow older and maintain her sexual appeal rather than lose it. Google returns 444 million results for the term milf, and while some are academic like the definition of the term, many are just straight up smut; and it isn't likely Victoria's Secret is about to start a lineup of cougar models.  Women, as a whole, are more physically accepted in the porno-verse than the real world.  

 
4. Gender Bender.
 
Even the World Health Organization states women do more household chores than men making it a gender characteristic.  Gender being defined here as "socially constructed roles, behaviors, activities, and attributes that a given society considers appropriate for men and women." It isn't to say that biologically women are inclined to housework.  It's just if a young lady wants to be identified as a woman she should do more house chores than a man.  
  
This kind of thinking may sound backwards, but worse than that is its persistence.  Even progressive seeming things like the Mars Hill Hipster Church advocate a return to so-called traditional gender roles. Women have a place in society they're expected to maintain; and as such they are to ultimately defer to men when it comes to leadership roles.

In the porno biz, however, women are what they choose to be not what society has defined. If a porn actress submitted to typical gender roles then first and foremost she wouldn't act in porn.  She'd get married at her first opportunity and retire to a quiet life of endless vacuuming while nurturing her husbands' alcoholism.  In addition, pornstars themselves wouldn't aspire to be anything other than queens of the XXX screen.  
  
In reality, many adult industry aristocrats go on to head their own companies.  Stars like Jenna Jameson, Tera Patrick, and Shy Love have all seized control of their own pornographic destiny.  
 
 
5.  Censorship is a threat to all.
 
You can't really comprehend Ilona's Asshole till you're standing underneath a massive screen print of the thing, every detail of her balloon knot screaming at you.  What it screams is open to interpretation, however, it screams into every heart that sees it.  Some will be horrified.  Others will discover a lust they never knew they possessed.  Many will nod as if they understand then head off to some distant corner of the museum to cry.  
 
It really is just a close up shot of an asshole with full penetration of the vagina well in sight.  There's nothing there that hasn't been in the pages of Hustler magazine a thousand times.  However, instead of being behind the counter at the convenience store, Ilona's Asshole has hung in several museums. 

The most famous quote regarding obscenity comes from Justice Potter Stewart who said, "I know it when I see it."  What most people don't know is that the rest of the quote goes on to say, "the motion picture involved in this case is not that."  The same subjectivity applies to all art forms.  It's not hard to make a case for porn as art.  It's possibly even easier than one might think.  The difference isn't the material it's the venue.  Throw a pretentious explanation of events alongside a showing of Deepthroat, how it's an exploration of one woman's frustrated search for sexual satisfaction in a society that doesn't care about her orgasm, and boom it becomes an in-your-face art film rather than a XXX feature.  Whether or not the argument holds water is irrelevant. 
  
Censorship is the most insidious means of control.  It allows one group to dictate what others can say, see, and believe.  Porn may not seem like a fun old time to you, but it's existence is proof one freedom is still unshackled.  And that's good for everyone.

 
6.  You Do What for a Living?

In 2011 a story hit news regarding adult film actress Sasha Grey.  She was part of a program that involved reading to children.  Parents were horrified that a film slut would dare to suggest a love of reading.  One parent reacted by saying, "They could not find a fireman or a police officer? They had to get a porn star?"  Because of such statements Sasha Grey said, "I believe in the future of our children, and I will remain an active supporter and participant in education-focused initiatives."  But for most people, what it all comes down is she used to get fucked on film.  
 
The naivety of Ms. Grey in this instance is debatable only because of social hypocrisy.  The sales statistics for porn are notoriously difficult to nail.  However, some estimates put them as high $13.3 billion dollars in the US alone.  Global sales could be as high $97 billion.  Even if those number are a bit high there's no denying an appetite for porn exists.  Yet, the industry's population is expected to stay in the shadows and take no visible pride in their success.  Still, knowing full well they'll never get any real respect for their work, pornstars go out and do what they do.  They aren't afraid of what other people think.  That's a fearlessness most people never enjoy.  And even if you can't respect that, keep in mind they're gladly giving you someone you can look down on.  
 
 
Source Material:
         
Standard payments for adult film performers.
http://www.licensedmodels.com/Standard_Rates_for_Porn.html
http://stason.org/TULARC/sex-relationships/sex-movies/19-4-How-much-do-porn-stars-make.html
        
Pay gap between women and men.
http://usgovinfo.about.com/od/censusandstatistics/a/paygapgrows.htm
http://www.forbes.com/sites/freekvermeulen/2011/02/28/wage-differences-between-men-and-women-sexist-or-functional/
http://www.jec.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?p=Earnings&ContentRecord_id=db19df76-9299-4b46-a98c-ef33c21dab3d&ContentType_id=2206321f-9e59-4f98-b972-d78c64abf642&Group_id=51e071bd-07e9-46f2-bb70-cfc28baec8be
         
Glass ceiling, Sandra Day O'Conor.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704415104576250900113069980.html
http://academics.hamilton.edu/government/mmarian/genderedpipeline.pdf
http://www.femalenetworkers.com/network_marketing_training_articles/leadership/The_Pipeline_Theory.htm
http://www.aacu.org/liberaleducation/le-wi05/le-wi05feature2.cfm
http://www.maryleonardlawsociety.org/2010MLLSessayWinner.pdf
         
Job opportunities for female journalists
http://www.forbes.com/sites/susannahbreslin/2012/07/10/when-the-competition-is-porn/
         
The amount of porn genres and subgenres.  Sweet Prudence and the erotic Adventure of Bigfoot.
Wallace, David Foster.  "Big Red Son." Consider the Lobster.  New York, Back Bay Books, 2006.
http://www.sweetprudence.com/
         
Treating lesbianism or supposedly abnormal sexual inclinations as a disease.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/10/health/10gene.html?ex=1187236800&en=b8ee8ae30451c2e9&ei=5070&_r=1&
http://blogs.babble.com/being-pregnant/2010/06/30/experimental-drug-on-fetus-to-discourage-lesbianism/
        
Google results for term milf.
http://www.google.com/#hl=en&tbo=d&sclient=psy-ab&q=milf&oq=milf&gs_l=hp.3..0l4.837.3203.1.3369.10.7.2.0.0.0.161.510.4j1.5.0.les%3B..0.0...1c.1.S5WQKAWhbJM&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_qf.&fp=932ab18e2fc1592b&bpcl=39580677&biw=1920&bih=954

Gender Roles.
http://www.who.int/gender/whatisgender/en/index.html
http://catholicactionuk.blogspot.com/2009/05/feminism-and-homosexuality.html
http://books.google.ru/books?id=xKhGAkA9UvcC&printsec=frontcover&hl=ru#v=onepage&q&f=false
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/national/longterm/gender/gender22a.htm
http://www.helium.com/items/2129296-gender-roles-in-american-society
http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/421619/nuclear-family
        
Mars Hill Hipster Church.
http://www.alternet.org/belief/oral-sex-yoga-and-gods-eternal-wrath-inside-new-hipster-megachurch-tells-modern-women-submit?paging=off
http://marshill.com/
         
Pornstars' production companies -- Club Jenna, Teravision, Shy Love's Productions.  
http://www.corporationwiki.com/company-background/a-business-report-is-an-important-decision-making-tool.aspx?id=44389986  (this website allows you to search and download company records on all of the production companies mentioned.)
http://tour.clubjenna.com/
http://www.shylove.com/
http://www.teravision.com/
        
Definition of art, obscenity, appearance of Ilona's Asshole.
http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/scripts/getcase.pl?court=us&vol=378&invol=184
http://artsjournalismchicago.wordpress.com/tag/ilonas-asshole/
http://www.artnet.com/magazineus/features/jones/pop-life10-1-09_detail.asp?picnum=12
          
Sasha Grey.  Sales statistics.
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/gossip/2011/11/sasha-grey-porn-reading-school-kids.html
http://www.tmz.com/2011/11/11/sasha-grey-porn-star-elementary-school/#ixzz2E8ebe5SH
http://www.businesspundit.com/the-worlds-most-lucrative-business-markets/
http://internet-filter-review.toptenreviews.com/internet-pornography-statistics-pg2.html

Everything I'm saying I'm thinking just now.  Never wrote a word prior to zow!  Bring your fragile ego if you want to hear it break.  Bring your women if like me creaming.  Your soul to take.  Create the dreaming I shant foresake.
             
"Dude, I've been wondering..."
             
"Yeah?"
             
"Do you know what forsake means?"
             
"Not a clue.  It just sounded like a savory line.   Lyric.  Lick. Lick lyric.  Get me dick...
             
"Yeah, yeah.  Before you go off on a legendary tangent, shouldn't you know words prior to using them?"
             
"You'd think that, however, I suspect you are unfamiliar with one Roberto Dylan."
             
"Bob Dylan?"
             
"The one and ornery."
             
"Was he ever referred to as Roberto... or ornery?"
             
"Dude, he must have met a Mexican at some point, and those cactus kings don't have the name Robert.  They have the more elegant Roberto."
             
"You have a unique, albeit I feel I should be offended, point."
             
"Thank you."
             
"Not exactly a compliment."
             
"Well, I'm taking it as one, so fuck off."
            
"Indeed.  And we're getting away from the point."
             
"Par exsolance is from which what you detain us.  Shirley you realize that a poet, a true wordsmith, can make new meanings  for preexisting vocabs."
             
"So if you create the right context you can use a word improperly..."
            
"Only if you're a master."
             
"Like Bob Dylan."
            
"Or me."
            
"You're a master?"
             
"Thank you, but I don't need it said out loud."
            
"I..."
             
"KEEP IT ROCK JAMMING!"
 
I washed my balls with your mother's face, and let your dad have a taste.  But only so he would know his place.  UNDER MY TAINT!  {"Wicked guitar solo!"} UNDER MY TAAAAAIIIINNNTT!  Fuck your family.
             
"I feel like that was a personal attack."
             
"It's not always about you."
             
"The timing is just... I'm not accusing."
             
"Then stop interrupting the rock 'n' boil."
             
"Roll."
             
"I know, but boil is so much more intense.  And even where it's gross -- like skin boils -- it's punk rock.  Don't fucking roll your eyes."
             
"Why is it anytime music is shitty or pointless people describe it as punk rock?  As if making it punk automatically validates shit."
             
"You just don't understand.  Good music doesn't conform.  It defies definitions."
            
"Don't you dare."
            
"That's why I don't have to use the meaning society has imposed on words."
            
"You motherfucker."
             
{Hard guitar strum} "Punk rock!"    

I did not mean to be coeval.  You just think I am.  But you can't stand your ground cause it's running too quick.  In a jam.  In a jam! Spoon me out and lick the broom. Dust all over the fucking room. Spume!  Yeah!  Spume! Yeah!  SPUME SPUME SPUME!!!   YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAAAAAAAHAHAHAHHHH!!!!