If You are wondering where I went…..

•June 22, 2009 • 1 Comment

I Died.


I’m changing everything. My words, my outlook, my profession, and my name. I’m Becoming Jennie. And that’s where you’ll find me, while I’m trying to find myself.



measuring time in fuck-ups

•January 18, 2009 • 12 Comments

Every year AVN comes along, and I always measure the great time I’ve had by the experiences I either remember, or don’t remember. This year, three things happened that made it a fantastic year. Well, more than that, but I chalk my AVN up to these three incidents.
backstage at AVN awards
NUMBER ONE: The first night of the show, a thursday night, I got shitfaced with my dear friend Jew Hefner. We hit up Lavo in Palazzo with a bunch of old friends, TJ Derida, Sarah Stone, Tera Patrick, Fran Derek and the whole LA Direct crew, and Rachel Roxxx just to name a few. After the party, well actually during the party, I started drinking vodka redbulls. Now here is the problem. Before landing in Vegas I decided that THIS year, I must not drink ANY redbull vodka because every time I get even a drop of that shit in me I black out. So this years drink was Crown and Coke. Easy enough right? well, somewhere in the evening I made the switch over to Redbull Vodka, and DWAMMMMO. Black as Kunta pre-Civil War. Fucking dark as the night is long. But I woke up in my bed. Alone. With both my shoes, all my credit cards, and my panties (albeit soaked) still in place.

I call Jew.


“I fuckin made it yo! I didn’t fuck no one, I made it home all on my own, and I didn’t do anything I can hate myself for now!!!”


“You made it home all on your own and didn’t do anything you’ll regret? HA! I walked your ass home, after six different elevators, AND after you lit me on fire!”

Turns out that while Jew was in the process of walking me home, I became angry with the cigarette I was smoking and threw it on the ground. Well, I thought it was the ground. Turns out that burning little death tube lodged itself in Jews pant cuff. So after ten minutes of smoldering, his pants had fully caught on fire. Thanks to the booze, neither one of us noticed. But the guys behind us did.

Guys behind us:

“Hey dude, your pants are on fire.”


“No they aren’t!”

His pants were most definitely on fire, and sure as shit, when he looks down and sees his jeans burned up to his knee, he starts stomping on them to put the fire out.

I am trashed and think it is a game, a great game of foot stomping, and so I join in the stomping and kicking.


“Yo, I had to physically restrain you from jumping on my feet and laughing because you were so trashed. AND THEN you took me to six different elevators, insisting that they all led to different places, and you had to call your boy Brando to find out your room number. When he told you he didn’t know you asked if you could come up and bone him. I guess it was a no, cuz you handed me the phone, he told me where you live and low and behold, your drunk ass made it home.”

Good to know.

During the Internext show, Porno Dan introduced me to this dancing monkey I kindly refer to as the Italian. He had a fresh test, and Dan said he was a present for me, to do with as I like. I love Dan. So after a night of making him dance for every person I ran across, and if you roll with me, you know I run into maaaaaaaad fools, I decided to take the Italian home for some meaningless drunk sex. I tell him something special while we are fucking.


“Listen, after we are done fucking you have to go cuz I’m not trying to do all that snuggle shit with you okay?”

So after we fuck, he gets up to use the pisser and I crash out, assuming he fucking got it and would be on his way out. I wake up in the morning, and who is still in bed with me? THE FUCKING ITALIAN. Fucking rude man, I take his clothes and stand at my door pointing with one hand, holding his shit with the other, yelling at him. He replies….

Italian dancing monkey:

“But Penny, I was just so tired! It was 6am!”


“You think I give a fuck? get your shit and go motherfucker! I said no snuggles!”

Italian dancing monkey:

“Okay, I go, but do you want my number? Maybe you call me?”


“How the fuck am I going to call you if I don’t even know your name? Now OUT Italian!”

When presents go wrong.

Every year I lose my voice. Its a mixture of drinking, smoking and yelling, and sure enough by day two I’m always at a whisper. This year I said fuck it, and brought a megaphone. And boy did it help. Everything was going well, with the megaphone that is, because I megaphoned everything, (that’s right, megaphone is now a verb), from my grand entrance to any building, bathrooms included, “Penny Flame is entering the bathroom,” to signing autographs “Who shall I make it to?” (fans taking a step back a bit confused), to climbing in bed with Amy Reid at 5am, whispering through the megaphone “Are you up? Play with me!!!!” Everything was splendid in terms of loudness and attention grabbing until the second I didn’t want to be noticed at all. Fucking Grande Lux.

I walk into Lux with my boy Shameless to grab a quick bite before the AVN show, the show in which I had intended on megaphoning Tera Patrick on stage while we presented together (bet your sweet ass she’s thanking her lucky stars with this story….), and the waitress decides to seat us. Right. Next. To. Christian.

Now, I’m in my underwear, slippers and a bathrobe, megaphone and drinks in hand, and purse slung over the shoulder, and this waitress starts to seat us at the table literally next to his.

I freak out.

Drop everything in my hands.

“I don’t wanna sit there, I don’t wanna be anywhere near him.”

Drink, megaphone parts and batteries all over the floor while I crawl hands and knees in my bathrobe and slippers, trying to put my favorite thing on earth back together.

She thinks I’m kidding, and starts to put our menus down.

“No, I’m fucking serious, do you think I would break my megaphone if I didn’t really care, I’d rather eat in the bathroom than next to him!!!”

She realizes the seriousness of my situation and drops everything to help me gather the megaphone parts. And when I say parts I mean parts. Like six. and then four D batteries which I am not willing to purchase, so I need EVERYTHING up off the floor. She helps me gather myself, I’m flustered, bright red, and everyone in the restaurant is looking at the chick in the bathrobe freaking out over the broken megaphone. We are seated next to these lovely Brits, in town for just a few hours, and the guy next to me notices my upset little face.

Guy next to me:

“You get locked out of your room?”


“I wish. At least I could get a new key. no, I saw someone I dislike strongly and in the process of running away dropped my megaphone, the most important thing on earth. Now nobody will be able to hear me.”

Fortunately, the good people at Metro had enough know how and electrical tape to piece back together, the only thing I’ve ever really cared about. So I got my voice back, (although not in time to megaphone Tera on stage at AVN, which was okay, because I motorboated her tits instead) and continued being kicked out of every bar I ventured in because I was the only one the bartenders could hear clearly.

Over all, I must say. I am pretty pleased with the way things went. At least I think so.

Because everyone likes a dog with a lamp on her head

Giant drunk pink elephants

•December 29, 2008 • 19 Comments

A giant pink elephant tends to consume a shitload of space when you are staying in your mothers two bedroom 700 sq. ft. condo. Even if at anytime you are able to walk a block down to one of the most beautiful beaches in America in attempt to ignore it, that fucking elephant will still be standing there, hogging any and all extra space that small box affords. There is a giant pink elephant living in my mother’s living room, her bedrooms, her bathrooms, and now his fat ass has started shitting in the kitchen, and I’m thinking there is just no way this elephant is going to continue living in our ignorance. He must be addressed. Someone has to ask why there is a giant pink elephant staying in her home, taking up all my parent’s space, and pushing my step-father out the door. Someone has to ask what the fuck it is doing there, and then tell it to get the fuck out. This just isn’t going to work anymore.
My mother has been addicted to alcohol since my early teens, around the time of my parents divorce. It is possible that I just didn’t notice it before, being that I was 13 and a typical selfish and self-minded child, not really thinking anything existed outside of my being. The old tree in the woods issue. Of course it didn’t make any noise if I wasn’t there to hear it. Duh. But the divorce helped me to grow up rather quick, and soon I realized how much my mama drank. And it wasn’t that much, really, but it was more than my homies parents, and more than my trouble making friends, who believe me drank their fair share. She and her lover, my present step-father, would go out for cocktails at lunch, and because they were the only ones working in their office, (the business was him, CPA, and her, sextratary extraordinaire), it didn’t matter if they put a couple back because fuck it. Why the fuck not?
Well over the years, her singles have turned to doubles, and lunch has turned to breakfast. But he doesn’t drink with her anymore. His alcohol intake has always been controlled, always a steady 2 drinks, never getting so ploughed that he can’t handle himself. She is out of control. Pouring a cup of peppered vodka with three ice-cubes and a floating cherry tomato, claiming THAT is a bloody mary. Putting back two before 10am and claiming its in the name of Christmas.

“It’s Christmas babe, I’m on vacation.”

Christmas day in Maui

Christmas day in Maui

Hold on. You live here. I’m on vacation. And I’m not putting anything back like that. Besides the vacation excuse, you seem too comfortable in this routine, and it clearly is a routine, and that familiarity, the ease with which you are “performing said actions” each morning is frightening. What the fuck are you doing to yourself? Since when have you started to hate yourself to the point of slow booze induced suicide? Where did the woman go who used to walk 5 miles a day, who could get drunk off two shots, who could make it through the day without taking two “sleep it off” naps? Where the fuck did my mother go?
I’ve wanted to scream this at her since my arrival. Since the 24th where she got plastered too early, passed out at 2, so I took my brother out in her car around Hawaii, woke at 7pm only to get drunk again and pass out at 9pm. Since Christmas day where the exact same thing happened, but she made it to 3pm instead of 2. Christmas day she had her usual bloody’s, (yes with a tiny bit of tomato juice but mostly just enough to color the drink) and while my bro and I hit the beach, a short 45 minute ocean dip and dry off, she polished off an entire bottle of champagne. The exact same thing has been happening every day and I keep waiting for Bill Murry to pop up and laugh in my face. I fucking get it Bill, something has to change.
I haven’t seen her in about 7 months, and she has gained at least 30lbs. Its that icky liquor weight, you can tell in her skin, in the color, the texture, the puffy bloatedness of her face. She is losing the ability to react rationally to any situation, crying and choking up at breakfast at the mention of my almost 2 years now dead dog Lunchbox. Sobbing over Band of Brothers even though she’s seen it a million times and we all know how it fucking ends. Asking me the same question over and over and over and over and ALL RIGHT MOM, ENOUGH.

Me (reading “the Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao”): (nothing because I am reading)
Mom (watching me read): Are you okay?
Me (not looking up from my book): yeah.
Mom (leaning forward in her chair): are you sure your okay? you are making a face.
Me (not looking up): I’m not making any face, I’m reading. It’s kind of intense.
Mom (leaning back in the chair): You are definitely making a face. Why are you reading it if you aren’t enjoying it and it makes you make a face?
Me (looking up): this chick just got a fucking baby beat out of her so its a little fucked up. I’m sorry, I’ll try not to make faces.
five minutes later.
Mom: You’re making a face again. Are you sure you are okay?

So I finished the book on the beach. While she took a nap. Fuku-this curse, you’ll have to read Junot Diaz words for yourself- being something I can relate to, my grandfather on my Dads side having the same puffy red swollen face my mother now bears, alcoholism something I am becoming entirely familiar with, addiction in general running rampant through my family, my bloodline, my own DNA. Every time I see my mom, I always check myself. Make sure I’ve got my shit under control. Make sure I’m not walking down that same path, rowing my boat in the same circle, one paddle. Every time I’ve been out to visit my mom, her abuse has gotten worse, and I would leave reflecting upon myself.
This time, the only thought running through my head is….

My mom is fucking killing herself.

And the worst part is that I don’t know what to do. Intervention? She says she’s quitting for New Years. Write her a letter? I honestly think she would NOT read it. Walk away? Feel guilty for the rest of my life when she dies of a failed liver, or a drunk driving accident, and I never did a thing to stop it. What the fuck do you do when your mother decides to kill herself with the virgin blood of Mary and not-so-secret cups of vodka? Her husband can’t even stop it, she hides it from him, albeit not very well, sluuuur slur sssslllllur, and then explodes when he says “I think you’ve had enough.” She can’t even remember the fights she has because of her rolling black-outs and constant re-intoxication. How do you kick a giant pink elephant out of your house when your mother rides high atop the monster, refusing to even admit he is there? How do you help your mom when you don’t know where she has gone? How do you help your mom?

Sorry, not a very cheery Christmas post but I hurt inside right now, and don’t know how else to let it out. Thank you all for listening. mail

Dreams of Dynamite.

•December 16, 2008 • 13 Comments

I dreamt of you last night. Of us. Of the places we’ve been and the places we could have gone. The paths we could have walked. The secrets we could have shared. I dreamt of you last night, and again you broke my heart. Again, I woke feeling empty, lost, confused. And alone. I try my hardest during the day to push you from my mind, my heart, and in dreams I’m vulnerable to you, to your words, to your presence. I dreamt of you last night and I wish more than anything that I had not.
I’ve been shutting off feelings for this dude I was seeing for almost a month now. Do you do that? Feel you are getting too close to someone and just turn it off? Like your emotional downpour is coming from some rusty faucet that lets your feelings drip drip drip and waste that sweet California water, even after you’ve decided your done washing your hands, and all you have to do to stop the drip drip drip is get a wrench and some big man strength and tighten that motherfucker up? That is what I do. This is what I have always done. It is this precise reason I claim to be emotionally retarded, not capable of truly loving, or letting myself be loved. The threat of heartbreak is always so much harder to deal with than the actual breaking of said bloody beating machine, and just like the threat of terrorism, I am willing to go to ANY lengths to ensure I never encounter either, ever again. So I push. Push push push him away until the man is confused, lost and moves on, away from me. A silent retreat from a sleeping relationship. Nobody says a word, except sorry, or perhaps…..”I’m just no good at this” and then follow up apology to make sure everything is still cool, and no one actually got involved enough to get hurt.
The more I think about my course of action, the more I think about my tendency to run away from relationships that either don’t go the way I plan, or start crumbling at the first hint of a word starting with “L,” the more I realize this just isn’t going to work. It hasn’t ever worked actually, running away from men I start to fall in love with, or even start to fall in strong liking with, and maybe its time for me to change the way I deal with relationships, or don’t deal with them.
They say

“in order to fall in love, to surrender, you must first love yourself.”

Lets start at the beginning. Sometimes it’s hard to love yourself.

When I quit doing cocaine, July 31st, my last day living in Pacific Beach at an apartment that almost evicted me for spending money on drugs instead of rent, I hated myself. I hated every part of myself. From the way I looked, to the way I thought, to the way I acted. I hated that I let myself fall so far from grace, so far from who I actually am, and the process of liking myself was one of the most difficult things about quitting cocaine. When I did a line, it didn’t matter that I didn’t like myself, didn’t matter that I had no money and what funds I did have were obtained selfishly from my father and used recklessly in my nose. All that mattered was that I fell asleep (or tin foiled my windows) before the sun came up. Before reality of the day set in as rays of light blasted through sleepy little PB. All that mattered was that I could scrounge up enough change from the floor of my car to buy a sprite and powdered donuts, ironically enough, from the vending machine below my house, to go with the big bottle of vodka I drank every morning at dawn to induce sleep. When I did drugs, it didn’t matter that I was unhappy with who I was. When I quit drugs, this was my biggest problem.
Luckily, I had a boyfriend that wanted me clean as much as I did, and he let me spend a month and a half sleeping off my 6 month cocaine binge, in the darkness of his bedroom. He didn’t ask for money. He didn’t ask for a thank you. He gave himself so completely to me in hopes that I would start to love myself like he loved me, and he hoped I would soon start to show him the love he shared with me, although I never did. No, instead of loving him, and being good to him, I cheated, fucked around, didn’t share my feelings, (which mostly revolved around the fact that I wanted to bang a couple of his friends) and then when I finally got my own house lined up, I disappeared. Like that marines commercial where you are watching the beach, the waves lapping up on the shore, with the moon shining bright. The wave comes in, and you see foot prints. A cloud passes over the moon, and the footprints disappear with the following wave. Like it never happened.
I moved all my things out of his house when he was at work one day. He came home and called me, asked me what was up, and I told him of the house I had just rented, and that I wouldn’t be living with him anymore. He said:

“I’m proud of you.”

I said:


The next day, Charlie Laine and I put on camo gear, face paint, and we snuck back into his house while he was at work, to steal away the rest of my worldly possessions: Like 6 Jerome Baker Bongs,3 bubblers, a couple pipes, and my grinder. We got in and got out, and high fived on the way down, thankful he never showed back up.
He came home that night and realized I was gone. He didn’t think it was over until I took my glass, the last thing in his home that could tie him to me. He showed up at my new house, wanting to talk, banging on the door, crying and yelling.
I sat silent behind my couch holding back alligator tears, unsure of any good way to let him down. Unsure of how to say it is over, unsure it was really over. But it was. Big over. And he knew, and left. We never spoke again.
My first week of living alone reminded me I hate myself. While living with Pete, he provided all the love I needed, all the reassurance and confidence I myself could not muster. As soon as I was alone, that self hatred struck, and I realized if I am going to survive this cleaning up game, I better start liking myself. So I bought post-its.
Every day, I would write one sentence on a post-it and put it up somewhere around my home. Each post-it had a sentence on it, a sentence that said something nice about myself, something I liked about myself.

“You have a great smile.”

“You are self sufficient.”

“You are nice.”

At first it was hard finding things I liked about myself. I reached to China for that one sentence, and even in writing it, wasn’t sure I believed it. A month later, my house was covered in post-its, and I felt better about myself, not better about what I had done to Pete, but it was a start.
Now, four and a half years later, I don’t need post-its to remind me of why I’m cool. Breaking up, or deciding not to be with someone, or someone deciding they don’t want to be with me, doesn’t get to me like it used to. Before, I took the blame, I thought something was lacking in my heart, in my soul, and this lack is what caused the man to run. Now, as an adult, and a strong woman, these are not things I struggle with anymore. I know I’m a good catch. I know that I am not lacking in anything except proper tools to deal with emotional distress. And these tools are like those in a toolshed. You get a hammer first. Then a screwdriver. Then a wrench and a phillips head, until dwammo, you have a full fucking shed filled with rad toys that can either build, or destroy. All the tools in my shed seem to destroy. Go figure.
But the point is this is the first time I’ve taken on the task of destroying a relationship that was in perfect working order. A relationship that was never classified as such, even though it was, and one that I still wanted to participate in.

“The dust has only just begun to form crop circles in the carpet. Sinking Feeling.”

He didn’t though. At least that’s the feeling I got. One large incident that changed the way I see him, changed the way he looks through my eyes. Changed the way my heart feels when he is near. He is not quite the man I thought, with characteristics I’m not sure I want to pursue. So I get out my tools of self-destruction, and start hammering away. First it’s my cold shoulder. Then its onto the hammer of words we cannot take back, with a grand finale of dynamite lined with apathy and impassivity. Until our building has fallen, and the dust has settled. And the dust had settled.
Until he invaded my dreams last night. So now, even though I’ve cut him out of my life, I must keep my tools out, my hammer and explosives, for a great effort to cut him out of my mind. First it will be the cold shoulder. Then it’s my hammer of word, tearing him apart in my head, where its safe and warm, and a good place for my feelings for him to die. Then its back to the dynamite to blow out any traces of love, except the explosives I reserve for myself, for the mental and internal destruction of a man I nearly loved, are much more compassionate than the dynamite of non-caring that I dealt him. My dynamite is cleansing. The dynamite I use for him is empty.

So this is where I stand. This is my love life, or lack thereof. This is my Die-No-Might.


Blast from the past and I motherfucking told you so

•December 9, 2008 • 4 Comments

Strange week, the first days of the last days of the year. Between the grand ol Turkey day and today, a ton of things have transpired, one a vision of my former youth taking me back to SDSU and the apartment complex the cool kids lived at named Dorchester, a vision of my present self, standing in the elevator alongside Sir Charles, and a vision of the future to come, which I thankfully drank away over the weekend in Vegas so as to leave my path wide open. The first two visions were awesome though, and it always takes little blips in life like these to make you appreciate the big picture.

I’ve cut my pot smoking down to a quarter oz a week, figuring that is a reasonable amount for a young lady such as myself to inhale, a small little nugglet rolled into a spliff or bloint pre night night, and so every week when I visit my man to re-up, it’s a little event for me. We have a beer, talk about fights and smoke a couple bags off his vape. Usually I leave the house pretty retarded. The visits always reminded me of my drug dealer at Dorchester by SDSU, and the smoke sessions we used to sit down for. I bought herb off the homie BigMac, and dated his boy Katzy, who had just bought an adorable Rott/Lab mix, taking care of a dog being something no boys were doing at the time…. Katzy included. The dog stayed at BigMacs for the majority of the time I kicked it with the boys, they trained it to shit inside the apartment, in a corner of the dining room, because dogs aren’t allowed in the complex. In no time at all, the boys being incredibly lazy, the entire apartment filled up with shit, and when you’d walk in the front door, you could only open it so much because there would be a pile of shit. And you’d have to step over shit. Around shit. the only place there was no shit was the bathroom. And the boys bedrooms, because those were filled with pot plants. So finally, it came to the point where we all refused to go over to BigMacs, even BigMac wouldn’t go into his pad, only his roommate Buff, who just stepped over the shit and went into his bedroom, pissed about the piles and piles of shit in his living room/dining room/kitchen. Gross. The boys ended up being fined ridiculous amounts of money and have shitty credit as a result of all the shit. But….Man. Talk about hanging out with irresponsible 19 year old boys.
So i go to my pot guy for our weekly beer and bag session and when I get up to leave I go pee first, not gonna wait till I get back to my pad. I walk into the bathroom, and low and behold……SHIT. Everywhere, little tiny shits from his roommates little fucking toy dog, shit in front of the sink so you straddle it while you wash your hands, shit in front of the toilet, inches away from making it. And I’m right back at fucking Dorchester, buying herb from BigMac, and he’s laughing about it saying

“Yeah it’s some shit!!!”

I walk from the bathroom to the living room and tell my man…
Me: “Yo, you got some shit in your bathroom.”
Him: “Oh, hahaha, yeah, I forgot to warn you about that shit, sorry”
Me: “Wow.”
Me (In my head): “Time to get my card renewed”

Over the weekend, me and Brando went out to Vegas to see the Oasis concert, totally great show, even the opener, the Cardinals, killed it. Over all the night went really well. But when we first arrived at Palms, checked in and settled down, we decided its out on the town, sushi at Social and then O at Bellagio. Well as soon as we enter the elevator, Brando realizes he forgot his brand new little cam and we decide to ride back up to get it. At the bottom, doors open, and Charles Barkley walks in, followed by a bellhop and all his luggage. He’s talking to the bell hop about the PacMan/De la Hoya fight, saying Pac man is gonna get his ass handed to him. He’s just too small says Sir Charles.
I pipe up.
“No way! PacMan is gonna kill the Golden Boy, he’s just way too fast. De La Hoya’s not ready for it. nobody is!”
Sir Charles “But he’s just too small.”

This is the first fight I’ve ever placed money on, this most recent fight, and I bet on PacMan for the win, and motherfucking won. I only bet a bill, but shit, I got it back and then another buck5, ain’t nothin wrong with that ya know? And the best part about it all?

I told motherfucking Charles Barkely so.

5 months late, and right on time.

•November 27, 2008 • 8 Comments

People across America suffer the same tardiness as I, being a ten minutes late for work, arriving at the bank 3 minutes after it closes, or 15 minutes after the last flower peddler peddles the last thanksgiving holiday arrangement. Everyone in the world is late for something. I am five months late in going to the gym, and I feel it through and through.
I know, I know, today is not a good day to post about going to the gym. Today, the day of the great Turkey, all hallowed gobble, when we American stuff our faces with gravy and stuffing and pie and bird until belts no longer fit, pants become unbuttoned and the football and beer drinking commences (as long as there is still room in the ol gut), today is not the day to think about getting in shape. In fact, thinking of being small slim and fit is the last thing from my mind on this special day of gorging, but like my countrymen stuffing their faces across purple mountains majesty, I too will be going on a diet…..Monday.
But it starts at the gym. Getting back in the swing of things. 45 minutes on the elyptytrainytrain, then either arms and back, or legs and chest. Always working abs. Sweaty hot mess elyptimacising through the gym, beet red, the lingering smell of cigarette and pot smoke drifts from my pores to the poor girl working out next to me and I’m almost positive she is getting a contact high from the THC pouring out of me.

Arms, pushing pulling, pushing pulling, pulling is the object of stretching, no damnit flame focus this isn’t fucking yoga, you are tough you are an animal you are working your sexy time muscles now WORK THOSE MUSCLES GIRL. In out, in out. Breathing breathing. yes, I remember this I remember this! Okay, arms cool. Lets do the daily ab.


There’s an ab machine faintly resembling the basketball game at arcades, and this fat medicine ball rolls down to you, you grab it, do a sit up, and then toss it back up through the leather hoop meant to cushion the weight, all the while seated on a leather reclining exercise seat that moves the second you lean back on it, thereby forcing you to do yet another sit up. Fucking balls. And my machine only had one ball, so when I toss it up through that leather hoop, instead of crashing into a ball below which would absorb all the force with which the tossed ball fell, the tossed ball comes rushing out to my hands, my face, my teeth. I am terrified the entire time during the abdominal exercise, terrified of losing my face to a stressed out medicine ball.

I’m only on a guest pass, how would I explain this to the people at the front desk? “Sorry, I know I don’t even belong here yet, but I seem to have already broken my face open on one of your fine abdominal oriented machines.” No. Fuck this. Time to go. Already? You baby. But I already feel my body shutting down, the muscles long forgotten, remembering tension and weight, no matter how I stretch these motherfuckers are going to be sore. Yes, yaaaas, its time to go. You made it through your first day. You deserve some Ben and Jerry’s. BUT THAT DEFEATS THE PURPOSE!!! Or is that the purpose? Stop arguing with yourself and leave flamer, leave this hot sweaty mess of people and go wash your fucking ass.

So I leave. Quit the internal argument about what can be handled, and what is deserved, and just left. And this is how LA my gym is…..

Sitting outside, one the bench sprawled out like a G, legs open arms wide and embracing, one of the Gotti boys waited for who the fuck knows what probably someone who is late meeting him, and talked a little shit on his phone.
AngelPie (my workout buddy): Oh look, there’s one of the Growing up Gotti boys!
Me: What?
AngelPie: you know that silly show! Well, there one of em is?
Me: Which one?
AngelPie: Does it even matter?
Me: Touche saleswoman.

This conversation occurred at the top of the escalator. At the bottom, we run into another famous, although slightly more personalized star, my man Murs, hardest working man in the industry.

Me: Murs! You going to the gym too?
Murs: What? Oh Penny, whats up! You just get out of the gym?
Me: Its the only excuse I have for being beet red and looking/smelling like complete total shit.
Murs: Its a good excuse.
Me: What are you doing? Were you 5 months late for the gym too?
Murs: Naw, ten minutes late to a dinner meeting.
Me: Everybody is late. So everyone is on time? It’s your world Murs.
Murs: Behave yourself Penny.
Me: Never.

He went to his meeting, we hopped in our car, which thanks to AngelPie’s awesome handicap placard is parked pretty much right in front of the escalator, and that was that. We were both late for different things, but it made us right on time to meet each other. Funny how things work out.

So to everyone out there who is late like me, getting back into shape, to the gym, to a meeting, to the relatives (I’m going to be a month late going to my mothers for thanksgiving!), or to the turkey sitting in your hot little oven, don’t worry. Be thankful that the people you are late to see love you. And they are probably late too.

Happy Great Gobbler and thank you for taking the time to read my words and share my life. Xoxo

A cheers

•November 20, 2008 • 9 Comments

Here I am. Writing. So proud of myself yes…yaaaaasssssss. 11:01pm, not asleep on the couch, like the last three nights assed the fuck out at 7:30 of that bomb kush and days off, and here I am, its fuckin dark outside, I had a hard day beating grown men’s asses, brain awake. And hands typing.

In Europe, the need to write took me, every single day. So every single day it was down to the coffee shop, or corner bar for a morning glass of wine, or an evening espresso, down to write and write and fill the pages of the small leather journal that had been carried around Europe. Every day, even if it was nothing, just blahlalalalababababa ddooooooodeeeeblop, and words with letters that didn’t quite fit, or only fit in other languages, some made up entirely, I would write.
Here is my question….Why was that so easy to do there, but not here?
Is it because writing every day, all day, is what I set out to do?
Or is it because I was lonely and switched people for pages?

These are the two first answers, shining equally over all the piddily other lame excuses for not writing my little heart out the entire time I’ve been home, these ones I can’t pick between. This question needs to be addressed before I ask the main question, which will directly follow this ever so brief discussion.

The first answer: “It is because writing every day, all day, is what I set out to do.”

Leaving from LAX is always fucking hell. And when you are going to be gone for a month, no, even packing for a week sucks balls, but that month of fucking luggage and the ride there, packed car, unsure of what quite to say other than “goodbye” or perhaps “in case I never see you again” but not actually saying your goodbyes, too nervous of its actuality, trips, airplanes trains and automobiles, it was through all this, I started to write, because when I made the plans to go, I wanted to go for a month and do just this, exactly as I did. And it was fantastic. This choice, this answer is the empowering answer.

Second Answer: “Loneliness.”

most artists tend to excel at their art, when they are fucked up, fucked over, tormented, depressed, or just plain lonely. Not to say you ol flamey pie is fucked up fucked over, tormented or even depressed. But there, admittedly, and self punishingly, I was lonely. And I loved it. I danced in the loneliness, wrapping its cold embrace around my northface fleece jacket, puffing my hash filled cigarette smoke into its frosty goodness while scribbling illegible words down on soggy Louvre pond water soaked pages, sipping a fine glass of merlot (with the “t” sound for kicks) from a bottle with a brown bag around it. I like being alone. Its good for thinking, and wandering aimlessly, and discovering. 🙂 And I was never really alone, constantly surrounded by people, passing through my arms and through the streets and fields to the hills, all of them just passing passing passing, living, going going trying goodbye. But I certainly didn’t stick with any one. Is this the cause behind the productivity? Plenty of time to observe and not enough time actually in moving life with the rest of the creatures in motion constantly going doing, always rushing.

Main Question Time

Can there be two answers to one question? How gray is gray, from black to white? like Charcoal? gunmetal? silver? How many answers can be fixed to one question? And how many answers can you make up before insanity hits and brain goes fucking bonkers?

Main Answer Time

I have no fucking clue and refuse to take on the responsibility of accepting a real answer.

Here’s to making noise in the night your neighbors wish they could join.

Penny on D

•November 18, 2008 • 23 Comments

brazzers-plib-5330Now, the last post I had written was incredibly shallow. Admittedly. That is why I put shallow bitch in it repeatedly. I received many emails in response to this post, more than I’ve ever received for any post, and it strikes me as almost funny, because somehow my statements finally caused some sort of upturn, some reaction on the part of my readers, and I like this. Your comments are the only proof that anybody reads my stuff. So thank you for reading. Now, onto defense.
Yes. It is shallow of me not to want to date the guy from Robek’s. While I only post five reasons why I do not wish to go on a date with him, there obviously are more, reasons that I just didn’t care to share. I suppose I should have if this were to be a fair post, but in my attempt to be funny and silly, I side-stepped one of the biggest problems and reasons why I do not wish to date this man.
Number one: He works at Robek’s.
Comment from BlueMuffin:”All that was needed was a polite decline to the offer and maybe even the self awareness that it’s a compliment to be.”
I suppose I had not made it clear that EVERY TIME I go into my smoothie place, he asks me out. EVERY TIME. I have been attending acai bowl happiness fest now on a daily basis since May. He is there 3 out of 4 times I go, and 3 out of 4 times, he hits on me, and asks me out, albeit subtle and around the bushish. I’ve politely declined his offer. I’ve told him I’d love to hang out, but between my travels and my work I just don’t see it happening. Over and over I’ve told him no. And this last time, I declined as politely as the first, although this time I played dumb blond when he asked if he will ever get me out. If I say I don’t want to go on a date with you, and you keep asking me, it isn’t going to make me go on a date. Yes, it is shallow of me to not want to date the guy from Robek’s, but I actually might have gone and checked out his band if he hadn’t kept asking me out every time we met. If he had just dropped the proposals, and gone with “want to come see me band” he would have gotten a yes out of me. But that still doesn’t mean that I would have gone on a date with him. We could have been homies, but I don’t date, and I don’t like the prospect of being on a date, and it doesn’t matter if you are a lawyer, and senator, or a fucking smoothie maker, if you ask me on a date, I will say no. I don’t like that terminology and I don’t like what it implies.
You wanna hang out?
You wanna grab a drink?
You wanna smoke a bowl?
These are all excellent approaches. Whispering “do you want to go on a date sometime” while I hand you my $6 makes my stomach turn. And not because who is receiving the six dollars, but because of what was said during the transaction, and the way it was said.
In addition, I should not have to keep saying no to a guy just because I want an acai bowl. There is no other place by me that makes them, and for fucks sake, if I say no, well than isn’t that kind of mental rape if you keep asking me? over and over and over? If i worked at Robeks too, I would sue him for sexual harassment. Instead, I take my acai bowl and prepare my “No” for when I return tomorrow. Yeah, it’s shallow that I won’t date the guy from Robek’s, but to be honest with you, I’ve dated guys that worked at Big-O tires, and pizza joints, and I’ve dated drug dealers and guys that had no job. So the job aside, yes, I’ve grown shallow in my old age deciding that I really don’t care to date someone who can’t bring something equal to the table, but I have a feeling that most professors aren’t going to date high school grads and feel intellectually stimulated. I have a feeling that most billionaires aren’t going to date someone using food stamps, love aside, our culture and economy is such that love just doesn’t cut it anymore. You have to prove yourself to the other person. Even when you’ve proved you are worthy of dating/loving/liking/fucking, that billionaire will still make you sign a prenup. Period.
again, from BlueMuff (sorry to use all your comments, it was just an excellent and honest post, and I appreciate you coming at me like this….)
The guy didn’t seem to do anything that deserved a public flogging, but the public nature of it is far less concerning than what it reflects about a person’s character to mock someone like that.
You are right. He didn’t deserve a public flogging. I do that for http://www.MeninPain.com and I get paid for it, and the person usually likes the pain. In the case of the Robek’s guy, I am politely turning him down repeatedly over the whirrrrrrrllll of blenders and ice machines, and music and people yelling. There was no silence in the crowd as I shattered this guys heart for the umpteenth time. There was noise and me playing dumb. I’m not cruel, just admittedly shallow at times, and I’ll never yell “I’m not gonna fucking date you dude, get a clue” even though this is what I felt like screaming. Yes, I can be shallow. But I will be the first to admit it. Which is why I did so here, in a public place, to receive MY public flogging. Which I currently am.
From Jarrod’s comment: ” It doesn’t make sense for a wealthy and hot woman to date a minimum wage guy who has less ambtion than she does.”
Mr. Robek’s is at least my age, has never once mentioned school, which would give him a way out, proving his ambition, and lives with other people. And this is what I thought was most shallow of me, although its been pointed out that many other statements I made were equally shallow, because like Bluemuffin said, although it was in reference to a different shallow statement, in this economy and in times when people are lonely and having bombs dropped on their houses, some people need a motherfucking roommate. In fact, some of my little porno girlfriends have roommates, either because they are nervous to sleep alone, or because they have animals they cannot care for solo, or just in attempt to save money. Whatever your reason is for having a roommate? I don’t care. I don’t.
I will never have a roommate again, until I either marry, or find the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t like living with people, as I am an incredibly private person, and when I wake up at your house, I don’t want to have to put clothes on to wander into the kitchen for a glass of water. I don’t want to hear your roommate bashing his girlfriend, just as your roommate doesn’t want to hear my passionate cries. I shared a room my entire childhood and into my adolescent years, and when I went to SDSU, I shared a room there too. Now that I am an adult, I have the right to wish to live by myself and date a guy who feels the same. Because if we differ in opinions of roommates, it will not end there. If I can’t go home to your house and feel comfortable, we can’t date. That is the honest to god truth, and I’m not sorry for saying it.
I went out to dinner with a good friend of mine, Brando, and he read the post, and felt the same as BlueMuffin, and a couple other people who left me comments. He said, as we ripped into our spicy Kung Pao chicken,
“Flame, you can’t write that kind of shit, what if some of your fans work at Robek’s and read that you won’t date them because they work at Robek’s?”
Me: “So what, after all this time, I should lie to them? I’ve been open and honest in my career thus forth and I don’t plan on changing it now that I have something to say that will be regarded as shallow and uncaring.”
Brando: “Alright…..but I think its shallow of you too babe. Why don’t you just go on a date with the guy from Robek’s?”
Brando: “alriiiiiight”

I should not be on here defending myself, and I’m not really. I’m clarifying my shallow statements. I am being honest and trying to explain that while I took the easy way out and said that its just because he works at Robek’s, there is a laundry list of things that keep me from saying yes, and that list is a lot more complicated that “he works at Robek’s” expresses. So there it is. My defense while playing offense while calmly watching from the sidelines. Every single person on this earth has created a standard that they must live up to, and you let that go, you have nothing. If I let mr. Robek’s wear me down with his advances and say yes just because he won’t quit asking, I have NO standards, and should be shot. If I tell him NO, over and over, and then write about it, and about how things might be different if he had a Benz (which I never said) or a fat house in the hills (which I also never said), then I am a shallow bitch and must be shot.
However, all the post said is that I’m not dating him cuz he works at Robeks and has roommates. Mr. Robek’s was cruel in asking me over and over again, because at no point in my day do I want to go get a fucking smoothie and wreck someone’s heart. I usually save that for dinner.
And on a side note, yes, every comment about me handling that dog shit situation was true. I did wrong, and approached it wrong, and will be the first to admit it. Which is why I wrote about it here. In the last post. But everyone does something wrong once or twice in life, and at the end of the day…..
Not everybody is willing to admit it to the entire world.

From a work day with Brazzers

From a work day with Brazzers

The two men that hate me

•November 16, 2008 • 8 Comments

While I am positive that there must be more men on the planet that despise me, I have only met two that have done so out right, and I met them both yesterday. One man for the first time, and the next man, for the last.

Now, every morning I get my little Saucy McKushface in her collar and we head over to Robeks Juice for some morning yumyums, as Robeks is one of the only places in LA serving acai bowls, one of my favorite morning treats. For a long time now, there has been this guy in there named Josh who works at the counter register. He flirts with me, and I flirt back because that is what I like to do, and right before I left for Europe, he finally worked up the courage to ask me out.

Josh: So, I don’t know what you’re doing Saturday but my band is playing at blah blah blah.

Me: Oh Saturday? I’d love to but I am hosting a party. You should come by after your show.

Josh: Oh, probably not…..you know…the whole band thing.

Me: Well bring em, I’ll put you all on the list.

Josh: eh….well, what are you doing the night after?

Me: Leaving for Europe for a month.

Josh: Oh.

Now at no point have I ever told Josh what I do. At no point would there be any reason for him to think I am Penny Flame, unless of course he just recognizes me and I’m a total doof for not thinking people recognize me in clothing. But he doesn’t act like he knows I’m a pornstar, and at no point has he ever said anything which leads me to believe he doesn’t know. This is fine by me. I prefer to travel under the cover of darkness.

Every time I go into Robeks, Josh hooks me up with the acai bowl. I get all the extra trimmings that I love so much (frozen blueberries and extra granola), and every time he only charges me for the smallest size bowl, even though I always get the big one. Its always the little things like this that manage to reveal your hand to your opponent. Josh does not have a good poker face.

I went in there three days ago, and he again asked

Josh: What are you doing Saturday night?

Me: My girlfriend Brynns birthday party. What are you doing?

Josh: Oh, my band, playing again. You know. Maaaan, I just can’t get you out can I?

Me: Out of what?

Josh: Nevermind.

Its good to play dumb when you are breaking someone’s heart in front of their coworkers. Nothing worse than the shit talking that commences as soon as dream girl walks over your heart and out the door with a big ass extra special cheap acai bowl. So I play dumb and he accepts my ignorance and I walk out that door, bowl in hand. It was this final interaction that I make it clear we would not be going on a date. Fuck, I mean, and I hate to say it because it makes me sound like a shallow fucking bitch, but really?

I’m just not going to date the guy from Robek’s. And while his employment at said smoothie shop is a big factor in me not dating him, there are other reasons as well. Here are my reasons for not dating the guy at Robek’s.

1. He works at Robek’s. This should explain itself, from the apron and the visor to the minimum wage paycheck. I need a self made nucca, who is driven and going places.

2. He has roommates. He’s mentioned them, and I am not into that.

3. He is my height. Fucking shallow bitch.

4. I have a hard time respecting people that hook me up because I am a pretty bitch. If you know me, and we are friends, fine, but just random good looking strangers? Come on dude, paying $5.95 for a bowl instead of $6.95 is not a big deal, and it isn’t going to impress me.

5. He works at Robek’s.

So yesterday, I dropped by the old juice fest to grab a….peanut butter chocolate protein shake. I kind of overdid it on the acai bowl thing and needed a little change of pace, so this is the perfectly opposite thing for me devour. Anyway, I’m walking through the parking lot and I see Josh at the counter register, two walls of the shop are glass windows so you can see everything, and he makes a hand gesture to his coworker, Capt. Save a Bro, who is mixing fruit and juicy goodness in multiple blenders, and they switch positions so Josh is now mixing fruit and juicy goodness and Capt. Save a Bro is at the register, patiently waiting for me to tie up the Saucinator and come place my order.

He makes polite conversation, we flirt like I used to flirt with Josh, before he got all lovey and serious, and thought that register flirtation was anything more than shootin the shit. Capt. Save a Bro laughs when I respond to his “Hows your day” required question with

Me: I have no complaints. But its early, and I could be a raging bitch by 3pm. I will tell you when I have more day accomplished.

The ironic thing is that Josh choose to take the even lesser position grinding my protein shake, rather than talk to me, and face my sweetly ignorant rejection. There is a hierarchy in every business and man, cash register is almost like manager. I mean, they let you touch the fucking money for Christ sake. The only thing you touch as grinder is fruit and fucking peanut butter. Josh sealed his doom by trying to be cool, talking loudly to Capt. Save a Bro over the whhhhrrrrriiiilllllllllllllllllll of my blended concotion, yelling about how if he could sue Robek’s for like a mil.4 he’d quit and just fucking chill.

Josh (yelling): Yeah man, I’d say fuck it and man I’d even hire you to just come chill with me, we’d say fuck this place and be out.

Capt.(normal voice, trying to interact with another customer): Yeah man. That would be tight. What can I get for you sir?

Sealed his fucking deal. First of all, if you came up on that much money, you sure as shit better not hire Capt. Save a Bro to just hang out with you. Fucking moronic statement of the day. Maybe he could hire the Capt. to follow him around and fix the messes he makes, but if you quit your job and pay someone to kick it you are a fool and will broke with the quickness, 1.4 isn’t gonna last that long.

Second of all, what the fuck is wrong with you wanting to sue the pants of my favorite smoothie place, just so you can be a lazy fuck and not work? I outta punch you in the face for taking advantage of the system like that. Ugly American.

So I got my chocolate peanut butter delight and left, Saucysasspants in tow.

We are walking back to my house when Saucy, sweet little dogface that she is, decides to take a fat deuce on this guys lawn, and the guy happens to be pulling into his driveway as she is squatting on the little strip of grass across the sidewalk in front of his home. And because I decided to change it up that day and get a smoothie instead of a bowl, my treat is in a cup, and not a bowl, with a bag. I have no bag to clean up shit.

The guy gets out of his car.

Me: Hey dude, do you have a bag? My dog just took a dump and I want to clean it off your lawn.

Him: No. YOU don’t have a bag? Why don’t you have a bag?

Me: Because she already shit two times this morning and I changed from a bowl to a cup.

Him: ugh….(walks away disgusted)

I begin to walk away and he turns and yells.

Him: So you’re just going to walk away?

Me: No, I’m going to walk back to my house, get a fucking bag, and come back and clean it up.

Him: uuuugggghhhhhhh (walks into house totally disgusted)

As I near my own home, I replay our conversation in my head, thinking of all the right things to say moments too late, I should have told him he was a jerk, and he has to have a fucking bag everybody has a fucking plastic bag in his/her home, just walk your lazy ass inside and get it for me and no, I’m going to clean it up with my hands and then rub it all over his front fucking door, and I decide this guy was such an asshole that fuck him, Saucy can shit all over his fucking lawn for all I care, all I wanted was a bag, and this jerk has to make me feel like a bad dog owner for not getting an acai bowl. I outta punch him in the face too.

But I won’t. Instead, I will take my dog to his house and let her shit every single morning. And I will wait for the next confrontation and I will have all the right things to say. I will also have to find a new smoothie place. Fucking Robek’s.

And finally……a new post.

•February 22, 2009 • 23 Comments

I know, I know, I know what you are saying.

“Penny Flame you fucking bitch, why don’t you ever update your blog?

Well, finally the time has come. Not only for a new blog, but for me to reveal that “great big thing” I had mentioned in a previous blog. The time has come for me to let my cat out of her bag, or pussy out of my underwear, or whatever out of whatever.

I’ve taken a new job.

Okay, slow down, don’t worry, I’m still the big fat porn whore that you know and love. I’m still sucking dick and fucking random people like I always have. But now I have a new title, something comparable to President of Earth, which has been the only title I’ve held thus far. Well, besides porn whore. hahaha. Pornwhore/President of Earth. Well, now, I’ve added on the title of “MetroBabes Studio Manager,” and its a title that I am fully enjoying.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, and when I get to the end, I will finish.

A few months back, I started talking with the kind folk over at Metro about this new position. Previously, this crazy bitch who I don’t care to mention had been running the studio, and I poked a little fun at the CEO of the company for hiring such a crazy bitch. The bitch was/is nuts, like fucking real nuts, and I told him that. Said he was nuts too for employing her. He quickly realized how right my statement was/is, and fired the bitch. After he saw video of her doing drugs all over the studio. MY studio. Well, now it’s my studio. Haha bitch.