Dec 7 will be the 15 year anniversary of my first domain name registration (Prehensile.com). Here are a few of my highlights along the way…

1) I am the #3 result for “assless chaps” on Google Image Search.

2) I am the box model for Splat! “Fetish Pink” hair dye.

3) Sam Donaldson said “Get a load of that guy!…what an ego!” about me at the 2001 Webby Awards. (NOTE: I was wearing white assless chaps at the time. Seriously.)

4) I modeled for the cover packaging of several Tantus Silicone dildo models. (non-explicit.)

5) I Organized a number of adult stars to do a “Pink Aid” fund raiser & DVD after Hurricane Katrina. Habitat for Humanity would not accept the $, so we gave it to the brand new Burners without Borders. (*NSFW)

6) I shared the NBC.com homepage with Obama on Inauguration day.

7) While living in a webcam house, MTV followed me around for a week and did a 30 min doc about my projects called, “Naked on the Net.”

8 ) I was a contestant on an Adult Pay-Per-View reality show filmed in Jamaica. (I was booted for impotence. Seriously.)

9) Had my long hair cut off on a daytime Talk Show by Danny Bonneducci, Dick Clark, and Mario Lopez. (Mario used my hair as a horse’s mane and galloped around the stage. Seriously.)

part 2

10) I was the poster boy for the Facebook precursor, “CollegeClub.com.” My face was on plastic cups, posters, stickers given out on campuses all over the country.

And here’s a video of me explaining them in a little more detail during HugNation Happy Hour:

For the first time since I was a boy (12 years?), I am not attending SXSW. (why?)

I already miss the iron cactus conversations and the walks to and from. I miss the hugs from old friends and meeting so many amazing new people. I miss the Shiner Bocks. I miss the clever t-shirts. I miss Brad, too.
If you are heading to Austin, hug yourself from me. And have a blast.
I LOVE YOU.
Here’s a SXSW memory from way back when I hosted the Web awards:
The gag was instead of “switching” from a PC to a Mac, I was switching to a computer (from analog.) This one was about Blogs, but substitute the word “Tweet” and the gags work even better.

More Memories:

For the first time since I was a boy (12 years?), I am not attending SXSW. (why?)

I already miss the iron cactus conversations and the walks to and from. I miss the hugs from old friends and meeting so many amazing new people. I miss the Shiner Bocks. I miss the clever t-shirts. I miss Brad, too.
If you are heading to Austin, hug yourself from me. And have a blast.
I LOVE YOU.
Here’s a SXSW memory from way back when I hosted the Web awards:
The gag was instead of “switching” from a PC to a Mac, I was switching to a computer (from analog.) This one was about Blogs, but substitute the word “Tweet” and the gags work even better.

More Memories:

The Interviews

I was as nervous as a condom-buying teen at Thriftys about going to my interview to be on the gameshow, “STUDS.”

I know, a true stud probably wouldn’t have been nervous, but going on a show like that is like telling the world, “I love myself, so does everyone else.”
While this may or may not be true, I’m not especially comfortable telling the world. Its kinda like, I’m happy with my penis, I’ve had no major complaints about it, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable having it televised nationally for all the world to pass judgment on.

And that, basically, is what this show is about: Having you and your penis televised so all the world can snicker and say, “That guy thinks he’s a stud?!”

Sure, there were risks involved. I could come across as an idiot on national television. But I viewed the experience much like bungee jumping — its one of those things that, no matter how insane it may appear, if you get the opportunity, you gotta go for it.

I signed up for the interview with a group of three other friends. By the day of the interview, two had to cancel because they, “had too much to do.” Right. Eighty percent of studliness is commitment.

So my lone compadre and I drove to L.A. psyching ourselves up on the way.
“You’re a stud, man”
“No, you’re a stud.”
“You’re so studly, just being in this car with you makes women want to date me.”
“Are you kidding? You’re so studly, I’m questioning my sexual preference.”
And so on.
But around about Camp Pendelton this game grew tiresome. So when we arrived at Fox studios any confidence we had artificially summoned was long faded.
We pulled up to the guard gate and told him, “We’re studs.”

Seven women and 20 men were collected in a room lavishly furnished with metal folding chairs and a cafeteria-style fold-up table–confirming my theory that Hollywood “glamour” is a facade perpetrated to make people in the Mid-West buy products they don’t need and watch inane shows like STUDS. As I scanned the room I began to feel much better. I was expecting to be in a room full of models in-between shoots. Instead I found an assortment of off-duty pizza delivery guys and unemployed stoners (“You mean you work with stone? Like a mason?” “No, I mean I smoke pot”). Of course, all the guys were acting real cool, like, “This better get over quick ’cause I’ve got a date with some stewardess twins.” Most people just crossed their arms and pondered their rich social lives.

Finally, a big, loud, Oprah-looking woman came into the room to conduct the interviews. Everyone stayed in the room while one person stood in the center and answered the woman’s questions.
“Why do you want to be on STUDS?”
“What do you like in a woman / man?”
“What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”
“Who in this room turns you on?”

I was shocked at the lack of wit in this supposedly studly group. The majority of answers were, “to get on T.V.”, “Pretty, with a hot bod’” and “Gee, I don’t know.” Did these people think that these were the kinds of answers the producers were looking for? Did they think that the entertainment value of these responses would somehow be enhanced by a lighting crew and camera? Did these people actually get dates?

After about an hour and a half, a group of four women and six men were asked to stay, fill out some forms, and come back next week for the final interview. My friend and I were both invited back.

Well, two days before our second interview, my brother-in-studliness decided he had too much to do to make another trek to Los Angeles. The fact that his girlfriend found the idea less-than-amusing wasn’t discussed.

If this wasn’t enough to make my confidence fade, my complexion did its part to sabotage my appearance. A fury of blemishes unlike I’d ever faced seemed intent on destroying my studly self-image. I was all but broken when, in a surge of insanity–like the one needed to take the innitial bungee leap off the bridge– I grabbed my tube of Clearasil cover-up and headed to L.A.

After lying about how often I date, “Oh, I don’t know…six or seven times a day, I guess” and making up a story about my worst date, my second interview was over. “We’ll call you in a day or two if we can match you up,” was their subtle way of saying, “if you don’t hear from us, you’re a dork.”

The show called the next day and told me to keep the following week open. They would call on Monday with three names and numbers and I’d have to complete all three dates before Sunday. With a little bit of math I figured out that this would be more dates in one week then I’d had in my entire life previously. The charade had worked. I now had to convince three women not to make fun of me on national television.

For the next week, “Have you gone on your dates yet?” was a major part of my daily interactions. Only occasionally interspersed with, “do you know who the other guy is?” Although they told me nothing, I was convinced that my “opponent” was some CEO of a major corporation taking some time off to pursue modeling and body-building full-time. Either that or he was just like me, except better. Actually, he turned out to be a nice enough guy. He was a 28-year old mortgage broker (Read “he had more money than me”) named Darren. Drove a red Cammaro, wore tight jeans and rayban wayfarers. He looked like a cross between a 90210 character and an otter.

A strange and cruel trick was played on me in the matching of me to the three women I was to date. In my interviews, I stressed that I was looking for a fun, funky woman who didn’t play the bullshit L.A. status games. Maybe I used words with too many syllables because they set me up with three models who thrive on being treated like the pretty things they are. The show I was to be on was a part of “Fantasy Week” and my fantasy, apparently, was to date three models. Huh? I felt about as comfortable around the Beautiful People as they probably would in my Physiological Psych class.

The Dates:

O.K. Here’s the run-down on my dates, in reverse order (both chronological and enjoyment-wise):

I took date number three on a hike/picnic and then to the beach for drinks. She was queen of the L.A. club scene. She goes to exclusive clubs six nights a week and has rich, shallow men throw money at her and her breasts. She flashed her “Roxbury”, “Bar One”, and “Tripps” V.I.P. cards at me as evidence of her membership in the “beautiful people” elite (I’m not attractive or famous enough to wait tables at those places, let alone get past the door man). She was going to go to a celebrity after-Oscars party but didn’t want to take her male friend from “Beverly Hills 90210″ because she’s tired of being harassed by the press. “We’re just friends.” she assured me. She also let me know that she was currently Miss Teen Georgia and was looking to settle down in the next few years and let some rich man take care of her. Well, I’m a student, I have no job, and when the 50 bucks “STUDS” gave me is gone, I’m taking you home.

My second date consisted of thrift-store shopping, going to a coffee shop in Venice and then to a romantic restaurant ( sort of a “rags to riches” theme). Although a really nice person, date two was in the pathetic state of aspiring to be date number three. She came to L.A. two weeks previous to pursue modeling and the shallow lifestyle outlined above. I found out at the taping that #2 and #3 were actually friends and that, after I took date number two home, she went out to an exclusive club and met #3. I felt like the butt of some insane, nationally televised inside joke.

On the phone, date number one seemed horrible. So when she rejected my pool hall/ dinner/ dance idea and suggested going to Universal Studios, I said “fine”. If we didn’t have fun, that was one less thing she could blame on me.
When she opened the door, I was blown away. If the second two were attractive, this woman was divine. If this whole “STUDS” experience was comparable to Bungee Jumping, this was the moment when your feet lose contact with the bridge. When you realize that you may be doing something terribly wrong and against the laws of physics. I had no business going out with a woman that attractive.

At Universal Studios, we were a walking example of “Billy Joel Syndrome.” Everybody who saw us together must have thought, “God, how did that guy get that girl? He must be a rock star or something.” Eventually, as I realized there was no way to get back to the safety of the bridge, I decided to enjoy the fall. As I relaxed and let myself have fun, an amazing thing happened — we hit it off. She began to strip away her model facade and we had amazing talks about the pressures of being attractive in our society and the increased focus on the exterior. By the end of the night, after a bit of kissing (which we agreed not to tell the leaches at STUDS) I was confident who I was going to pick on STUDS and couldn’t wait to go out with her again. And more importantly, my ego was inflated enough to handle the status mongers of my next two dates.

I felt pretty good about the whole experience. In a week I’d go to L.A. and tape the show. Date number one and I would pick each other and we’d wave to the audience, starting our life together as the credits roll.

The Show:

The taping experience was filled with harsh realizations about glamorous T.V. and Hollywood women. The producers tell you what questions the host is going to ask you. They write all the responses for the women. They coach the women to synchronize their responses. They tell you to lie about your dates if they were boring. And the “Dream Date” is actually two $250 checks sent seperately to each of the winning couple. “We could care less if you ever see each other again, ” they said. But the most painful slap was when #1 picked Darren. Sometimes the bungee pulls taught a little harsher than you expected. And not to give away the show, but it ends something like this, “DARREN”, “NEITHER”, “DARREN.” I can’t decide if being rejected by three models qualifies as being saved by a merciful bungee cord, or splattering on the floor of the ravine.

Originally published on Prehensile.com, July 14th, 1998

I met a woman at a party. (One of many women, heh, heh…) Okay, I’d been drinking. We talked for a bit…I can’t remember how long. Like I said, I had a few in me. I do remember we differed in our appreciation of fireworks. (I liked loud booms, she liked pretty lights). But apparently I gave her my card. A drunk Halcyon is a self-promoting Halcyon.

So she looked up prehensile.com and sent me a couple emails.

Then she sent me an email asking if I would be her date to her High School Reunion in Las Vegas the following weekend. She already had airline tickets and hotel reservations.

Whoa.

Half of me says WARNING! WARNING! STAY AWAY! The other half is screaming, “What a crazy story this would be!”

Aside from the fact that she could be a crazed sociopath, I had mixed feelings about going to Vegas.

I’m not really a big fan of the place. Its an artificially created destination. If it had its own culture worthy of visiting, they wouldn’t have faux-cultures for each themed casino. “New York, New York” has a Statue of Liberty Replica. “Luxor” has replicas of Egyptian landmarks. It gives me the willies. I wonder if parents believe that taking their kids to see the replica of Michaengelo’s “David” in Caesar’s Palace is an inexpensive equivalent to visiting Italy? Culture PLUS gambling!? And where are the performing white tigers in Europe? In Italy, you can’t even get ice in your soda. That vacation decision is a no-brainer.

And when you get beyond the theme-park facades, Las Vegas is a sin-pit. All the excesses are allowed and encouraged. Drink hard. Fuck whores. Gamble. That’s the norm is Las Vegas. It almost takes the fun out of excessive behavior. Crossing the line is half the fun of being deviant.

I think Vegas fell when they started putting “SPIN” buttons on slot machines instead of making people pull the lever. If pulling the lever is too labor-intensive for you, you need to take a step back and look at your life.

But as much as Las Vegas sickens me, it holds a groin-tickling fascination as well. Some of this feeling is due to my love and admiration of Hunter S. Thompson and his “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”

Thompson pioneered Gonzo Jounalism. This was a method of not reporting on an event, but reporting from within it. For example, in Fear and Loathing, instead of writing about the motorcross race he was supposed to be covering, he wrote about the drug crazed adventures he got into while in Las Vegas hotels for the event. The event is secondary. Just a backdrop for his personal storytelling. Hunter was hugely influencial for me. The main charater is the author, himself. And if you’ve read a Tale or two, you know that prehensile.com dabbles in that formula, as well.

My dynamic with my “date” worked perfectly with the Gonzo setup. She doesn’t know me from Adam. She’s never seen me sober. For all she knows, I never AM sober. She only knows me from what I’ve written on Prehensile.com. Based on my stories about masturbating and assorted lunacy she wants to take me to Vegas.

She’s begging for a weekend of Fear and Loathing.

I HAD to go.

This was a perfect Gonzo opportunity! I could be anyone I wanted. What would I tell her old classmates?
“Hi, I played bass in the band, Europe. Yeah, you might remember our hit, ‘The Final Countdown?’”

or
“Yes, I produce adult films. My ‘Deep Inside the Ass-Master 2000′ series is selling fantastic overseas right now. In fact, we’re always looking for new talent…here’s my card.”

As we boarded the plane to Vegas, my mind started wandering. I was kinda worried that she was going to return her tray-table to the seat-back in front of me and confide, “You know, I actually don’t have a reunion this weekend. We’re going to visit my parents. They think we’ve been married 3 years. Our daughter’s name is Yolanda. And you’re an Electrical Engineer.”

Before I left, I forwarded her email to my brother and said, “If there’s no new Tale of the Week on Monday, track down this woman and have her show you where she disposed of my body.”

Well, I got back last Sunday. Did I do it? Did I go Gonzo?

Seeing Fear and Loathing in the theatre recently reminded me why I will never be Gonzo. Hunter S. Thompson is Gonzo at the expense of those around him. When reading the book, my mind’s eye created cartoonish scenes of his antics. Seeing his behavior inflicted on real people in the film turned my stomach. I’m just too concerned about other people’s feelings, whether it be my date, her unsuspecting classmates, or the guy who trades buckets of quarters in for paper bills.

So I lost a few bucks in the slots, saw “Everest” at the Caesar’s Palace IMAX, caught up on my sleep, and was pleasant as pumpkin pie at the reunion.

The only Gonzo I feel an identity with is the muppet. I haven’t decided yet if I’m disappointed or proud.

*I’m going to start posting some of my favorite Prehensile.com Tales here to add them to my WordPress database. **

I was one of the subjects of an MTV documentary called “Sex2K: Naked on the Web.”

Background:

In Jan of 2001, I was contacted by MTV News and Docs division. They were looking for people to film in a show about sex online. I told them about Globalgasm (which had JUST started) and they started drooling.

Filming

They flew out and filmed for a day. After meeting us, they altered the “script” of the show to be more focused on us.

Then they flew out and followed us with cameras for 4 days. They filmed a party at our house. Fire dancing friends. A night out at a club. Daily Life. Lots of interviews with me and the housemates. And two Globalgasm nights.

FYI: Having an MTV film crew entourage follow you to your favorite dance club can be a surreal treat.

The documentary was originally supposed to air in June 2001. It was postponed, then 9-11 happened, then postponed again.

The original version of the show was rejected by the MTV standards committee. MTV has been humbled by lawsuits over the last year and was afraid that the sex-positive message was dangerous to broadcast to children.

The director told me, “It was perfect for HBO’s ‘RealSex’…unfortunately, much of MTVs audience is 13-18.”

The director shot additional footage and re-edited the show to show more of the negative consequences to being naked online. They blurred out all our URLs so kids couldn’t find our sites. They removed the scenes of fire dancing. They even altered the audio so you didn’t hear us say “globalgasm” out loud. As one person commented, “it sounded like you were saying, “Gulpgasm.”

The new version of the show was scheduled for June, then finally aired on July 4th 2002.

The Show

Overall I was pleased with the show. We were the center of three basic story lines and then miscellaneous commentary by “internet users.”

There was 7 minutes of me, Globalgasm, and TheRealHouse.

Aside from the fact that they kinda played up the “Hal and his Harem” angle, I thought those 7 minutes were awesome. The other stuff was…predictably lame. The person who got the worst out of the deal was “Adam” the voyeur. He had a pet pig, and they attached an image or sound of a squealing pig to most of his commentary. He was clearly made out to be the stooge (and it made his criticism of us sound weak).

The ending was misleading and made it look like the projects are over. Considering the pressure from MTVs lawyers,however, this editing decision makes sense.

In my mind, the show ends when I say, “I have hope for the world.” And NOT when Leilani, in her born-again enthusisam, accuses her ex-housemates of being weird and crazy. At least the show put her comments in perspective when they put text on the screen saying that she left the house and “found god.”

My favorite part was a 6 spilt-screen scene. My head in interview jumps from screen to screen as scenes of sexiness play in the other 5 screens.

“I recognize that living like this is not normal…People email us and say, ‘sex is something that should be private and sacred!’ Wha?! Those are two different things ‘private’ and ‘sacred.’ Church is sacred, and its not private. It is too bad that things that are sacred, meaning that they are core to our existence, should be hidden and shameful.”

Did I say that? Right on!!

Twenty years ago I remember telling my cable company, “I want my MTV.” I had no idea they would someday want me, too.