Q 7/9/02

Work Diary, 7/9/02

Lately, the newspapers have been full of discussions regarding minors
and their access to pornographic websites. Here in my office,
categories such as "SEX" and "TASTELESS" have been blocked, a simple
procedure which makes one wonder why parents can't do the same on their
home computers (it should be noted that in my office, the category "GAY
AND LESBIAN ISSUES" is also blocked, implying such issues have
something to do with tasteless sex?but that's another essay).

While I would argue with the popular belief that today's kids are more
mature or experienced than they were, say, twenty years ago, I don't
think we give kids enough credit in their ability to distinguish
between the sordid flashiness of pornography and actual sex. Yes, a
twelve year-old virgin boy who watches a stag film might briefly come
to believe that all women are double-D in stature and ready to "do it"
with any male who rings the door bell, but that belief soon dissipates
in light of the real world. The first sexual encounter is typically
awash in the rush and excitement of the moment. The chances that the
aforementioned virgin boy is thinking, "Hey, this ain't nothing like
that movie!" are slim indeed.

On the other hand, I have to admit I'm torn on the argument regarding
the objectification of women in pornography. Men are also taking part
in these movies, of course, but somehow it seems?different? A pure
feminist approach would seem to be that women are capable of making
their own choices, and subsequently their roles in X-rated films are
their own business. And yet, it's feminist ideals which lend the most
support as to why women are being used and abused in the exact same
films. Sticky food for thought, I'd say.

On a lighter note, and to show how pornography often enters into the
realm of the absurd, I'd like to discuss a film I watched not too long
ago. It's a gay film; in fact, we still have it, as it was given to us
by a friend who'd clearly had enough. The film is called "The Big One,"
a witty double-entendre undoubtedly created by someone other than the
film's writer. It's set in San Francisco, more out of necessity to
develop the plot rather than that city's reputation as a gay
Mecca.

In the opening scene, the camera pans across the front of an office
building, where a bicycle messenger carries a package up the front
steps. The scene cuts to a man wearing a suit and standing in front of
an elevator. After several seconds, during which the suited man looks
at his watch and straightens his tie, the bicycle messenger appears.
His package is delivered and, of course, he needs to go back down to
exit the building.

The elevator arrives, the messenger and the man enter, and suddenly the
movie cuts to shots of various window blinds shaking, coffee cups
falling off of desks, and people scrambling to fit under door frames.
Yes, an earthquake has struck (Get it? "The Big One?"), and naturally
it would affect the poor occupants of the elevator. They presumably
plummet for a bit and, as the overhead lights flicker, they reach out
to one another for support.

Alas, the elevator stops, the unlikely heroes disengage, and the fun
begins. "Boy, I sure hope they fix the elevator soon," muses the
bicycle messenger to himself, "Because I'd sure like a hot dog." At
this point, the viewer is allowed to scrutinize the messenger as the
camera zooms in on his face. This is a mistake for which the director
should be flogged. The messenger is not a young man. No, he is at least
thirty-fives year old, short, with dyed blonde hair that's been combed
back in some sort of 1950's duck ass hairdo. He looks like a bony,
aging version of the Fonz.

While the messenger stares off into space (it's likely he's thinking of
how good that hot dog would taste), the other passenger - the man in
the suit - is also talking to himself. "Man oh man," a voice over says,
"Why'd this have to happen right now, just when I was goin' home to get
that hot piece of ass?" Both the man and the messenger sigh audibly,
the cue for the man to give the messenger a predatory glance.

In the only piece of acting in the entire film, the man's face
registers a flash of recognition. He turns to the messenger and says,
"Hey, boy, I know a way we can both get what we want. You can get your
hot dog and I?well, let's say you've got what I want." (Understand, the
man makes this suggestion based on information that is never spoken out
loud by either character. But, hey, re-shoots are expensive.)

The action begins: Slock-slock, gloosh
gloosh?slurp?whack!?thwack!

"Oh, mister! Mister!" cries the thirty-five year-old boy
messenger.

"Oh, yah! Yah!" cries the man.

"Oh god!" cried I.

People do the funniest things when trapped in an elevator
together.

By the time the gruesome twosome decided to take its picnic onto the
elevator floor - a segue which begins when the man announces he wants
to put his hot dog in the messenger's buns - I was laughing so hard
that the static charge of sexuality, meager to begin with, had
dissipated entirely. I switched the fornicating fiasco off and made
myself a bowl of cereal.

My point is this: I may be thirty-three, but I'd bet any man, woman, or
child of any age could recognize the above fluff for what it is. If
not, he or she may want to consider a career in the entertainment
industry.