Both assignments require internet research and basic English skills. I’m sure someone is working on a computer program that is capable of generating these nonsense articles automatically, but for now I’m happy to have the work because I’m not sure how long porn journalism will last.
I pass the evening with Pabst beer and Lakers basketball. I’d order takeout for dinner, but the check from Mom and Dad wasn’t that big, and besides I’m not in the mood for Chinese, which is the only option on Christmas.
Around nine, my roommate, Miles, returns from San Diego. Miles is tall and thin. He has a mane of thick blonde hair that is easily his best feature. He came to LA to be an actor, and for a while, that hair looked like his big ticket. But after failing to land the part in a national commercial for a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, Miles retired his headshots, deciding instead that he would break into showbiz as a writer-director-producer.
Miles seems happy to hear that I am gainfully employed, but I tell him that I am worried this job, like the others, may not last. As someone who has covered my rent three times in the past year, Miles is well aware of the vicissitudes of the journalism business. But he also has his priorities.
“So do we get to go to porn sets and parties and shit?” Miles asks.
“We?”
“I meant you...and maybe a plus-one.”
“I went to a set yesterday,” I say.
“No way. That is so fucking awesome! Tell me it was awesome. Tell me everything.”
Miles looks like a kid on Christmas morning, or perhaps an adult on Christmas night, but I don’t want to burst his bubble with talk of butt acne, cheap pizza, and unwashed fuck-whores.
“It was awesome,” I say.
“Awesome. That’s totally awesome. And they pay you for this?”
“Yeah.”
“That is so awesome.”
I hand Miles a Pabst to keep him from saying awesome again. We settle in to watch A Christmas Story on TV.
We sip our beers in silence until Santa warns the protagonist that he’ll shoot his eye out if he gets a BB gun for Christmas. We laugh and quote that line for a few minutes, making the most of a shared cultural reference. Then Miles stands up and says he has to get to his internship early tomorrow because those phones at the production company aren’t going to answer themselves.
“Good night,” I say.
“This is just like Boogie Nights,” Miles says, looking at me with newfound admiration. “I’m calling you Dirk Diggler.”
“Actually, my porn name is Heywood Jablowme.”
It takes Miles a second to get the joke. Eventually, it hits him. But he doesn’t laugh, just a half smile.
“So what’s your first story, Heywood?”
“I’ve already written four stories,” I say. “Porn is a volume business, so is porn journalism.”
“Well that’s good.”
“Why’s that?”
“In this economy? Think about it: only porn and weed are recession-proof. And entertainment—people always need entertainment, it’s the opium of the masses.”
“I think that’s religion.”
“Right,” Miles says. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Miles heads to bed, and I open up my laptop for a crash course in bankruptcy law. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, Heywood Jablowme from The Daily Pornographer will be on assignment to cover the bankruptcy hearing of Legit Productions and what will become of the company’s recently installed owner, Little Juggs.
Chapter 7: A very porno bankruptcy
December 26, 2011
Google says the drive to Woodland Hills should take twenty minutes, but I make it to the West Valley in twelve. Traffic is light the day after Christmas.
The bankruptcy court is tucked into a bland office park that looks like the location from the movie Office Space, except it’s nowhere near a Chotchkie’s. I park in a free lot, grateful that I don’t have to front the cash for parking. I don’t know for certain, but I doubt my employer is the sort to reimburse for expenses.
In a dimly lit lobby, a sleepy guard mans the metal detector. I pass without incident and find the courtroom on the third floor. There’s a small audience, so I take a seat in the back.
I unfold my notepad and write the date in the top left corner. Not knowing what else to do, I kill time scanning the courtroom. There’s nobody I recognize, but then again most of the people I know in the business are back at the office.
The crowd is mostly men—unremarkable types with thick waistlines and cheap haircuts. The older ones aren’t far from social security, and the younger ones will never see it. I note these status details out of habit, but in the back of my mind I hope they’ll be needed someday soon.
I’m here to cover a bankruptcy. But really I’m here for that thing every reporter wants—the story, one with shock waves big enough to carry me somewhere else. Somewhere with more prestige, somewhere serious, somewhere that pays a living wage. Honestly, I’d be happy if the story takes me anywhere else. I can accept starting out at The Daily Pornographer, but I don’t want to end my career there. And after one half-assed obituary and my marginally competent coverage of a forgettable porn movie, I know I’ll need to make my own luck if I want to get out.
That’s why I pitched the bankruptcy story. I figured that in a world obsessed with money and sex, there’s got to be a good story behind a porn company that went broke. Who knows, maybe the story of the rise and fall of Legit Productions is good enough to return me to the ranks of real journalism, or at the very least, land me a second interview at the gossip site that declined to hire me a few months back.
“Remain seated and come to order,” a bored bailiff says. “The Honorable Judge Loretta Wit presiding.”
I scribble down the judge’s name and wait for the story to unfold.
Unfortunately, this isn’t Law & Order. Judge Wit may as well be speaking Greek, because I really don’t know what’s going on. She is a long-winded and fantastically incoherent jurist. She mashes nouns together in a clumsy attempt to form a sentence, like Charlie Brown’s teacher in a black robe. This worries me, until I realize that everyone else—even the lawyers—are in the same ignorant boat.
Panic gives way to boredom, and I begin to wonder if I’m even in the right place. Then I hear the judge say, “bankrupt porno company.” She shakes her head in bashful disbelief.
It’s a passing remark, but I get it down verbatim because, so far, it’s my best shot at a quote.
“Asset list, Legit Productions?” Judge Wit asks, holding up a notebook as thick as a laptop.
Both lawyers say yes. An older man in a cheap blue suit stands and walks toward the front of the room.
Judge Wit puts on her glasses and reads the law like she’s an auctioneer who puts speed in her breakfast cereal. I don’t even try to get her words down.
Suddenly, Judge Wit bangs her gavel and asks if anyone is prepared to bid on the assets of Legit Productions.
I make a note that only one bidder raises his hand: Stan Fishback, blue suit.
“Gawkers, no buyers,” Judge Wit says before stumbling through a list of assets.
Legit Productions is $556,009 in the red. The physical assets of the company consist of some editing equipment, one camera, and a few lights. There are also leases on a small office in Chatsworth and a storage locker in Van Nuys. None of it strikes me as impressive. But when Judge Wit gets to the intellectual property, the picture changes.
“Big list,” Judge Wit says, her cheeks turning slightly red as she blushes, no doubt getting an eyeful at the life’s work of a titty-fucking legend.
“As the representative of Legit Productions, Mr. Picati will waive the company’s right to have all the intellectual property assets read in their entirety,” a lawyer with a pinky ring says.
I write Little Juggs, pinky ring lawyer in my notebook and circle the text because such status details are irresistible, each one like porn for a jou
rnalist, regardless of his beat.
Judge Wit runs her finger down a sheet of paper and announces to the room that the assets of Legit Productions include clear title to a library of 4,245 pornographic movies. She stumbles when she says “movies,” which makes me think that perhaps that word is a bit much. Then again, video connotes a bygone format, and as Booty explained to me, the death of the DVD business and the rise of the internet, piracy, and tube sites all conspired to “butt-fuck” Legit Productions. My fellow reporter’s knowledge of the industry he calls the “jizz biz” are matched only by his way with words.
“OK, Mr. Fishback, let’s hear it.”
“I bid ten grand,” Fishback says.
Judge Wit looks around wondering if anyone else is going to step forward and put Legit Productions out of its misery. But it’s an empty gesture.
In a long, rambling speech, Judge Wit explains that while required to accept all reasonable offers, there are some creditors in this case who she does care about. They are the employees of Legit Productions. They’ll get paid first out of whatever money is raised, and Wit wants that pot to be big enough to cover the liability.
As for the rest of the creditors, I get the sense that the judge really doesn’t care if a few pornographers fuck each other over. Her speech goes on for about five minutes and I catch exactly zero quotes. But I do get a number—$17,345—and a reason—unpaid wages.
This information tracks with my Google primer on bankruptcy law. Apparently, when a company goes belly-up, the Man is first in line to collect any back taxes. After Uncle Sam gets his, the employees get any unpaid wages. There’s a pecking order for the rest of the creditors, but there are limits to what you can learn from the first two results on a Google search. When it comes to the law, most of the important stuff is behind a paywall. Such is the nature of lawyers, who are better at internet-proofing their racket than most professions.
I finish jotting the number down when I hear Mr. Fishback offer a reply.
“Your Honor, the adult business isn’t what it used to be,” he says. “A lot of those titles are old, and even the new ones aren’t worth that much—I can show you a Wall Street Journal article on how piracy has decimated this industry.”
I’m not sure why, but an uneasy wave of laughter ripples through the audience. I write piracy LOL in my notebook. I also make a note to look for that Wall Street Journal story, partly for research, but also because I’d like to sell a freelance article and upgrade my own reputation from unknown to marginal.
Judge Wit waves off the economics lesson.
Fishback thinks for a minute, looking like a man debating the prospect of kissing his ex-wife.
“Big library, Mr. Fishback.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Fishback shifts his weight and then says, “Would the court accept eleven thousand dollars?”
Judge Wit looks around like a middle-aged woman wondering if there are any better suitors out there. Seeing a dearth of prospects, she gavels it in.
Legit Productions is no more. Everybody gets a haircut.
The audience stands, and I start to head for Fishback. But I quickly turn around and reverse course when I catch sight of Rachel. She’s standing next to Little Juggs, and they’re both congratulating the new owner of the Legit Productions library. Whatever the real story is behind this fire sale, I know I won’t get it with Rachel standing guard.
Chapter 8: Real reporter shit
I have enough information to file a story, but I want quotes, if only to further develop the business angle. What will Fishback do with all those movies? What will happen to Little Juggs? These are good questions, I reason, and so I decide to disobey Sunny’s order instructing me to phone in as soon the auction is complete. My editors want a scoop, but without quotes my story will look as naked as one of Johnny Toxic’s fuck-whores, and I don’t want that.
First, I canvass the room, but I’m about as effective as a porn star promoting abstinence. I strike out with the handful of lingering onlookers. None of them are bankruptcy lawyers capable of adding expertise to what I witnessed. They work in the industry, but none of them wants to say who they work for, and none of them is willing to tell me anything about the buyer, Fishback.
“If you have to ask, you’re not supposed to know,” a man who smells like cheap cigars and cheaper cologne explains.
One man with a thick New York accent tells me to “eat shit and die,” which seems like an overly harsh way to shut down a trade reporter.
Outside, my luck changes.
Fishback’s Lexus is parked next to my car, and I use our proximity as my opening.
“Nice ride,” I say.
“It’s cherry,” he says without looking at me.
“You bought yourself a lot of movies this morning,” I say.
“Not for me.”
“You’re not a boob man?”
Fishback smiles like a man about to squash a bug.
“No.”
I introduce myself as a reporter as I walk around to the driver’s side of the Lexus.
“I thought your competition owned this story,” he says.
“Competition?”
Fishback points to a hipster about my age wearing glasses and an Army jacket. I had seen him in the courtroom, but hadn’t made him for a reporter because he didn’t seem to be writing anything down.
“There’s your competition,” Fishback says. “Sorry, but they own this story.”
“Nobody can own a story,” I say. “We have a free press in this country.”
“Sure we do,” he says. “Now fuck off.”
“I can’t fuck off without a quote.”
“Listen, I’ve got shit to do.”
“Me too,” I say, leaning slightly on his Lexus. “But I have a few questions.”
Leaning there against his car, pushing for a quote, feels good. It feels like I’m doing real journalism, real reporter shit. And the best part is, my ploy works. Sort of.
Grudgingly, Fishback tells me that he works for Unlimited Holdings, which is the entity that acquired the movies previously owned by Legit Productions.
“What does Unlimited Holdings do?” I ask.
“They’re a holding company,” he says.
“Why did they buy the library?”
“Because it’s valuable.”
“What are they going to do with the library?”
“Hold onto it.”
“Because they’re a holding company?”
He smiles. I smile, maybe a little too smug. After all, I don’t have any leverage here.
“What about Little Juggs? I saw you talking to him.”
Fishback straightens up and takes one step closer to me.
“Write this down, motherfucker,” he says. “Mr. Picati had nothing to do with any of this. Unlimited Holdings has nothing but respect for Mr. Picati as well as his father, and in this time of sadness, Unlimited Holdings offers its condolences and sympathies for the loss of a titty-fucking legend. This was a business transaction that was the result of a legal event that was years in the making.”
“How many years? Does Little Juggs fit into the transaction, or were you just expressing your condolences personally? And why do you think I’m implying anything nefarious?”
Instead of answering, Fishback tells me to read the quote back to him. When it’s clear he doesn’t intend to answer my follow-ups, such as they were, I oblige. As I read, I wonder how a company can express sympathy.
“Now, don’t you go attributing that to me,” he says.
“But you just said it.”
Fishback smiles and gets into his car. I wait for him to start the engine before I get out of the way.
I’m wondering who to attribute the quote to and whether or not I can use it when I hear a familiar woman’s voice.
“Got any more questions, ace?” she says.
It’s Rachel, her sad eyes fighting against the bright morning light.
“I didn’t expect to see
you here,” I say.
“Same to you.”
“Are you working?”
“Aren’t we all working?” she teases.
“Too bad about Little Juggs,” I say. “First his dad and then the company, that must be a blow.”
“Little Juggs is fine,” she says. “Listen, I already gave the quote to the writer from PND.”
“PND?”
“Porn News Daily,” she says. “Your competition. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla to that plucky upstart you guys call a trade pub.”
The name sort of rings a bell insofar as I recall my coworkers muttering it now and again. But it’s not like The Daily Pornographer puts a lot of emphasis on training rookie reporters.
“Nobody told you, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“That you work for porn’s second-best trade publication. That’s why he got the quote and you didn’t.”
Hearing that I work for porn’s second-best trade publication stings, but I don’t intend to let Rachel know her punch landed, so I’m quick with another question.
“What’s with this quote? There’s only one?”
“Yeah, it’s their story. They own it.”
“What do you mean their story? Why does everyone think it’s possible to own a story?”
“You’re not really that naïve, are you?”
“You can’t control the news,” I say. “This is America.”
I look into her dark eyes, trying to look like a hard-nosed professional, rather than an earnest newbie. The truth is, I’m a little embarrassed by my knee-jerk idealism and clumsy retort, but I’m determined to stick to my guns.
Rachel’s red lips curl into a sarcastic half smile, and for a moment I let myself think that she feels bad for beating me up two times in a row. And maybe I’m right, because she extends an olive branch.
“There’s a New Year’s Eve party,” she says. “I’ll get you an invite. What’s your name? The one you’re using for this, however long this lasts for you.”
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