Meet the ATL Twins, Part 1
Our resident porn reviewer, Chris Nieratko, travels to Atlanta to meet the one-of-a-kind ATL Twins and asks them why they share the same bed, wear matching outfits, and sleep with the same girls. Chris also gets them to open up about their short-lived engagement to the same Penthouse Pet and their breakout acting role: playing James Franco’s gangster sidekicks in Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers.
LA Pizza That Doesn’t Suck
I lived in LA for four years at the turn of the century. It was a different time: The country was confused by Reagan’s chimpanzee seated behind the desk in the Oval Office; our world was rattled to its core on 9/11; and hope was still years away. But there are some basic values that have stood true since the birth of this great nation, and back in 2001 we held to them like the last life preservers keeping democracy afloat. These undeniable truths are 1.) Polish jokes never get old, 2.) as Americans we can bomb or blow up anything we like whenever we like, 3.) and if you order pizza outside of the New York metropolitan area it will suck. (Sorry, Chicago. Nice try, though.) Nowhere in this country is that last rule more evident than in LA. During my years there I tried each and every pizzeria in the county, one by one, just to make sure they sucked. The consistency of suck was impressive. There was one place, Vito’s on Vermont, which was the lone exception. Vito was from Elizabeth, New Jersey, and he knew what he was doing. On my lunch breaks I’d drive 30 minutes each way to get a Vito’s slice. One day I showed up, and he was gone. I assumed the other shitty pizzerias had had enough of his sullying up the suck-scale and ran him out of town. (I’m told Vito’s has reopened on La Cienega in Beverly Hills. I don’t need to go there to know Vito has lost his magic—anything with a 90210 zip code sucks.)
Earlier this month I was out in LA filming the last bits of Belladonna’s interviews for her Skinema episodes. I found myself at my buddy/former pro skater Salman Agah’s downtown LA pizzeria, Pizzanista. Naturally, he offered me a slice of pizza. This happens often to East Coasters in LA. Los Angelas as a whole has an insecurity problem, and they’re always seeking validation. Salman wasn’t offering me a slice because I looked hungry; he wanted me to tell him it was good, that it was worthy of a superior palate such as mine. I didn’t want the pizza. Not because I wasn’t hungry, but because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings when I told him it sucked. I also didn’t want to get socked in the mouth by the big fellow, or worse, see him cry.
“So do you want a slice?” The pioneer of switch skating and one of my childhood idols asked as he towered over me.
“Fuck… dude… I don’t want to—”
“Just try it. I want to know what you think.”
There it was. The sentence that I assumed would set up the inevitable death of our friendship.
“It was nice knowing you,” I said as he handed me a pepperoni slice.
I loaded it up with crushed pepper and garlic and oregano and Parmesan cheese and anything I could find to mask the suck I was about to ingest.
“You don’t need all that,” he told me.
I took a deep breath, dove head first into the empty pool of suck, and prepared to die…
But the crash never came. I just kept falling and falling, and God, I don’t even believe I’m saying this… falling in love with a slice of pizza in LA.
I opened my eyes and told him I didn’t understand.
“You don’t like it?”
You have “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole and you’re not into the Beatles???
I’m not against the Beatles, I know a bunch of their songs, but I’m not a huge fan.
Then why did you get “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole? Are you not into anal sex?
No, I’m into anal sex, definitely. I got it because we got drunk and it was just a really funny idea and my friend said he’d do it for free. I sat on it for a couple days and was finally like, “Man, I’m gonna get a butthole tattoo that says “Let It Be” with a bumblebee flying out!”
You didn’t spell it like a bumblebee. Why?
I don’t know. It’s funny. It’s cool. I like it. It’s unique.
But, but, but—
You sound like you’re disappointed that I’m not a Beatles fan and there’s no huge meaning behind it.
I thought you were the world’s biggest Beatles fan!
I’m totally not!
Read the hole interview
No Warning 7: Ambushed
Dir: Aiden Riley
Two weeks before writing this, I was in sunny Los Angeles with VICE’s global editor, Andy Capper, filming retired porn star Belladonna for an upcoming episode of my Skinema show. The family was back in New Jersey, and I could drink until sunrise, pick fights with Parisians, and walk around my hotel room nude; I was on vacation without a care in the world. I should have just stayed in LA, because the day I arrived back home in New Jersey the airport was full of fearful folk running around with their hands above their heads, doing the Steve Martin and screaming, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”
We were 24 hours away from getting ass-raped by Hurricane Sandy. California refuses to acknowledge any part of the country outside its borders, so during the week I was out there I had heard nothing of this megastorm. I had to prepare my home, my skate shops, my family, and my world in general for outright disaster, and I was very late to the party. None of the stores in or around my town had any generators, flashlights, food, or really anything left on the shelves.
Luckily, every skateboard filmer owns a generator, and my friend R.B. Umali was kind enough to lend me his since he undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to run it in his Manhattan apartment once Sandy hit. Less than two hours before the city closed the Holland Tunnel, I raced in and out of NYC to grab the only hope I had of keeping my family warm and our fridge running.
Thankfully, I was spared. My home received only minimal damage, my shops were unscathed, and I was only without power for a week. But the rest of New Jersey was absolutely devastated. My hometown and the boyhood home of Jon Bon Jovi, Sayreville, was flooded by the Raritan River at high tide on the night of October 28, and the full moon only brought the surge farther in. Houses are now kindling. The high-water marks show that, in some places, the surge reached well above head-high. Many good, hardworking people lost their homes, which were condemned because they were flooded with toxic water contaminated by a feces-filled sewage plant on one side of the river and the Edgeboro landfill on the other. Every town in New Jersey along the river, the Atlantic Ocean, and Raritan Bay suffered the same fate. I have been overwhelmed with sadness and despair for my fellow New Jerseyans.
In the aftermath, while delivering food and warm clothes to those in need, I have seen underdressed infants shivering in cold and dark homes without power; as of press time, there have been no signs of power being restored, and aid workers are nowhere to be found. One father I met was working diligently, without light or heat, to cut open all the walls on the first floor of his house in an attempt to remove the drenched and damaged drywall and insulation before mold set in. He told me that FEMA had cut him a check. I asked whether it would cover the damage, and he laughed and said, “It wouldn’t even cover a new heating unit.” And because his property had been rezoned two years ago, he was without flood insurance. With tears in his eyes, he removed his glove to shake my hand and thank me for the box of donated clothes that skate companies had sent me. His palms were so cold it was like shaking hands with a corpse.
Someone in California texted me, asking, “Is everything back to normal over there? The national news isn’t covering it anymore.” I laughed. We are going to have to create a new definition for “normal,” because things will never, ever be the same for the people of New Jersey.
Measure B Is a Pain in the Dick
Let’s not bullshit ourselves, condoms flat out suck—both in one’s private life and in pornos. They’re uncomfortable boner-ruiners and girls are always trying to put holes in them to get my babies. In porn, from a fan’s perspective, it’s just not stimulating to see a plastic bag going in and out of a girl’s mouth/butthole. I understand the need for them, but I just don’t like them and I am thankful I’m married and no longer forced to use them. Recently, a law was passed in Los Angeles that is so preposterous it could send porn stars and porn industry people to jail if they don’t use condoms, dental dams, and all sorts of other forms of safe sex in their films. The law is called Measure B (or Measure Bullshit to the folks who will be pummeled by its iron fist).
Measure B, which is really just a witch hunt and a means to run pornographers out of LA County, was proposed by the well-financed AIDS Healthcare Foundation President, Michael Weinstein. The language on the ballot was so deceptive it led voters to believe it was a law to protect the performers in the porn industry. The reality is that Measure B calls for pornographers to purchase health permits and it opens their shoots up to random inspections from the Health Department to make sure they are complying with the law. This goes for everyone, even the lowly cam girls who are in the safety of their own homes doing solo shows to help put themselves through college.
Many of my friends are both up in arms and fearful of what is to come. Director Kimberly Kane, who you know from my recent episodes of Skinema and her VICE magazine feature on Zak Smith and Mandy Morbid, is now a criminal under Measure B. She was uncharacteristically speechless when I asked her for a quote about the law. She didn’t know what to say for days. She finally told me, “Technically they’ll penalize you for breaking the law even if you’re married and performing with your spouse without a condom. Everything I do now is illegal without a permit, a condom, and probably someone on set from the Heath Department making sure that everything is up to code. I don’t know what we’re going to do. They say it’s a First Amendment violation and it could be litigation for a long time. But no one knows. Everyone is very worried. Measure B basically runs us out of town on a moral stance. They say Vegas or Nevada is an option [for relocating the industry]…”
Dir: Mike Adriano
Are there scouts in the porn business like in baseball who travel the minor-league circuit looking for the next big star? If so, I think that’s what I’d like to do when I grow up. I feel that I have an eye for who is and isn’t slutty, and this goes far beyond my default fantasy of “Well, she’s got a mouth, she’s got to be slutty.” Like a batter, there are a lot of telltale signs. Instead of hip movement or bat swing, first check the eyes. Are they slowly scanning the room, seeking something? If so, most likely you have a good case of daddy issues on your hands and she’s probably a nice prospect.
As I’ve said in the past, tattoos are the quickest indication that a gal likes anal. Is she covered in ink? Chances are she loves it in the ass and prefers it there first. Freud tied the whole yearning-for-pain thing back to the loss of virginity in his book about porn; I forget what it was called.
The young lady above is named Christy Mack, and I wish I were the scout who found her in Indianapolis. Aside from the necessary three holes, she’s got all the attributes needed to play in the big leagues: attitude, a unique look, and big tits. I don’t know who the (not dead) George Steinbrenner of porn is, but I can imagine calling him from my cell phone in the parking lot of the Brass Flamingo or whatever club I found Ms. Mack patronizing, and saying, “I just found your next Derek Jeter (of butt sex).”
I always wanted to own my own Brass Flamingo. From the moment I walked into my first strip club—smelling the coconut lotion and pressing my head to a stripper’s vagina in the champagne room and hearing the ocean—I knew it was the tropical locale where I wanted to live out my days in retirement. At the time we were at war with someone in the Middle East, and I remember thinking that the Gaza Strip would be a great name for a strip club, but as I traveled more I realized it was important to come up with the basest name possible to attract the sort of clientele who frequent such places: Tit World, Ass Palace, and Place to Look at Pussy (PtLaP) were quickly added to the list of possible names.
Then I moved to Cincinnati for nine long months and ballooned from 135 to 215 pounds. While living there I went to Sudsy Malone’s, a local rock venue/laundromat, and that’s when it hit me: Open a titty bar in a college town where you can pay the girls to do your laundry and give you a lap dance. I’d call it the Muff ’n’ Fold. Every year I’d get a new crop of girls who honestly and truly were just trying to put themselves through college. If they were unsure of what occupation to pursue, and if they had the right stuff, perhaps I could suggest to them a fun and exciting life in the not-at-all seedy world of pornography. I envisioned it as a wholesale family business with my sons recruiting the prospects for training camp, me scouting for the bigs, and my wife making sure the girls knew how to do laundry because I have no idea how that works. I tried once and flooded the entire basement with suds. Then again, they love those foam parties in Ibiza. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
More stupid can be found at ChrisNieratko.com and twitter.com/Nieratko. You should also watch the Skinema video series on VICE.com.
Previously - Panty Pops
Dir: Axel Braun
As I write this review with heavy heart, the tragic shootings in Aurora, Colorado, by James Holmes at the opening of The Dark Knight Rises are barely a week behind us. I stare at the Wikipedia page for the Aurora shootings to make sure I’m spelling “Aurora” correctly, and I can’t help but wonder what ever happened to that short, big-titted Puerto Rican chick named Aurora I knew when I was 18 who worked at that weird science store, Star Magic, in the Newport Centre mall in Jersey City.
I don’t remember much about her other than her rack was enormous and she always wore low-cut shirts to work (the reason, I assumed, that a store that sold crystals and bags of astronaut ice cream was so busy). She also had the token Robert Crumb-drawing Puerto Rican ass and was barely four feet tall—perfect for standing blowjobs, I imagined. The best way I can describe her is as a bald, sexual Ewok. (Side note: When I was 18 I sent a pitch to Star Wars Insider, via US mail as was customary at the time, and it was accepted! I have the acceptance letter written on Star Wars letterhead to prove it! I was so excited and proud that I smoked all the weed that was available on earth that night. I got so high that I never wrote the article. God, weed sucks.)
If only there was a way to track down that fuckable Ewok and see what she’s up to and what she looks like… oh, right. Facebook. Let’s see. Why do private detectives exist in 2012? I found her in less than three minutes thanks to her being a friend of a friend of mine. Looks like she had a kid a while back and eventually wound up cheating on the dad with a black-belt neighbor who was also married with child. Her baby daddy dropped her like shells from a gun in a movie theater, and she ran off with the married dude.
It seems as if they’re living happily ever after in Harrison, New Jersey. But it appears that her tits are now located a lot lower than I recall, and they don’t really fill out her shirt the way they did in 1994. Just as hip-hop died outside the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles, so did her big beautiful breasts in 1997. I’m no Columbo but I’ve seen a lot of episodes of Law & Order, and I can’t help but wonder if the two crimes are somehow related. Perhaps her baby daddy killed Biggie? Or maybe, just maybe, her baby daddy isn’t the baby daddy. Maybe the father is Biggie Smalls, and his soul was transferred into the fetus at the time of his death. In which case, fuck her tits.
I never actually saw them unsheathed in person, so if her tits had to go to shit so that the world could witness the resurrection of the greatest rapper of all time then that’s a sacrifice worth making. Let’s say the kid was born when Biggie died in 1997. That would make him 15, which means it should just be a few more years before he looses that Chi-Ali kiddie voice and starts rapping like a man. I wonder if he has a Facebook page? I want to be the first to friend Biggie II.
And while I’m stalking MILFs, what ever happened to Charli Baltimore?
More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.
Previously - Panty Pops
My Buddy’s Dad Was a Blood Diamond Smuggler
VICE: Give me the overview of the story with your old man.
Brandon Asraf: Before you can understand the story you have to understand where my dad came from. My dad is from Morocco. When he was young they had to leave because they got kicked out; no one ever told us why. He lived in a hut in Israel with 12 other kids and no water. At 18 he snuck out of the Israeli army and made it to the US where he started hustling.
He got a job working as a bus boy and met these guys who were rich mafia dudes. They asked if he would open the restaurant after hours so they could have card games. So at 20 he started an illegal gambling ring at this hotel’s restaurant in Florida. He quickly made a million bucks. He came from nothing in a country where there are no rules or taxes, and got to America and made fast cash.
He eventually met my mom and moved to Jersey where he hooked up with these people who knew the guys in Florida and ended up in a diamond smuggling ring. He made millions and millions of dollars and he’d send people around the world to smuggle diamonds. Basically, if you go to Seaside Heights and it’s all scummy with a bunch of Israeli dudes owning the stores, it’s because my dad invented that shitty way of business.
Is your dad responsible for the scumbags on that show The Jersey Shore?
No! He’s not. I’m talking like 1980s Seaside Heights.
You told me you grew up poor. How is that if he was pulling in millions?
He left when I was ten. All the businesses were in my mom’s name and she had no money. My dad just split and he hadn’t paid any of his taxes for years because he thought they were unfair. So we went from living in a big house to sleeping in an apartment hallway. Three days after my dad left my mom was freaking out, and she brought us to the mall and maxed out every credit card she had. Took all the clothes she bought us and hid them in my uncle’s basement.
I went to school with a kid named Phil McCracken. I am a big fan of juvenile humor, so you can see why I love this title. Recently I was informed that there’s a skateboarder in England who is gaining popularity with the birth name Ash Hall. That’s right. There’s an Ash Hall skater running around jolly ole England shitting on everything. Oh, how my heart sang when I heard about him. I emailed my friend Ben at the UK skate bible Sidewalk in ALL CAPS insisting that he couldn’t possibly be my friend if he’d hide the UK’s Ash Hall from me. I told him how I wanted to speak to this Ash Hall, get all inside this Ash Hall. He responded confused, unsure what I meant. I shot back, “THE KID’S PARENTS NAMED HIM ASSHOLE!! YOU DON’T THINK THAT’S A PERSON OF INTEREST TO ME???” “Oh, I see,” he replied, unamused. Turns out that something was lost in the translation, since the UK refers to the tushy as arse and not ass. And so this Ash Hall has managed to avoid a lifetime of asshole jokes! But no more. He and I are going to become friends, and I am going to make up for his non-English-speaking countrymen who couldn’t put two and two together.
As a child I was called Chris Piss. The taunting backfired. I thought it was a hilarious moniker. To the disdain of my teachers, I began to sign my tests and homework Chris Piss. I gave my other classmates similarly crude nicknames. Their reactions were not as accepting and entertained as my own.
In high school—my second high school, that is, after I was removed from my first for putting my algebra teacher in the hospital by breaking her neck (total accident)—I was placed in a Catholic school for a year where the girls wore polyester skirts and form-fitting white button-up shirts. Not even the baggiest of cardigans could hide the fat rolls that were tucked into those blouses. There was one girl in history class named Sue who shimmied like Jello at all points below the chin. She looked like a bowl of soup ready to spill out at any moment. So I sat beside SUE from September to June, whispering the word SOUP to her from 10:15 AM to 11 AM Monday through Friday, except on holidays. Soup. No one heard me but her. It was not for the class’s amusement, just my own. Soup. She’d beg the teacher to make me stop, but no one else had heard me. Soup. So no one could corroborate her story. Soup. Not to mention I excelled in history. Soup. Especially the chapters dealing with 1939 to 1945. Soup. Did you know when given the chance to choose my home phone number, I picked the one ending in 1942, soup, because it was the year of the Battle of Midway? Soup. Recently at a carnival in my hometown I saw her and she looked fantastic. I’d like to think my saying Soup to her aided in her transformation. She came up to me, in front of my wife and child, and unleashed nearly 20 years of pent-up rage. How she hates me, hates the mention of the word soup, etc., blah blah, etc. I smiled politely, apologized—not for what I’d done, but for not remembering who she was or what she was talking about. It devastated her that it meant nothing to me (although I did remember clear as day). As she turned and went off crying, I called out one last time, “SOUP!” She looked back as if she were going to vomit. I merely smiled again and waved.
More Chris can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.
Skinema: No Warning 6: The Unfair Advantage
If you thought No Warning 1 through 5 were good, then I can’t help but believe that you’re going to love No Warning 6! And if you’ve never seen a Belladonna No Warning video then I implore you, if you’re going to watch only one hardcore, anal-raping, lesbian-wrestling porno this year, make it No Warning 6. The hardcore is harder! The anal is more anally! And the lesbians are all—let’s be honest, I’m not going to review this video. Reviews are boring. You don’t care what my opinion is, nor should you. If we have the same interests in sex the world is more fucked than we already suspected. Because I don’t think there’s enough piss to drink for the both of us!
What’s more important than Belladonna’s Wrestling Federation, as seen in this video (which is awesome and hilarious. SPOILER: Girls wrestle each other naked and then make their digits disappear into one another’s assholes), is that Belladonna and her husband, Aiden, who she makes all of her naughty films with, are the subjects (after Kimberly Kane and Joanna Angel) of my nonexistent, pretend VICE TV show, Skinema, which VICE refuses to ever air. I first got interested in Belladonna (not her birth name) a few years ago at a porn dinner when she and I were discussing parenting. This mild-mannered, double-anal-loving sex kitten with a penchant for chocolate has a dark and seedy alter ego: She’s a PTA mom at her daughter’s school. THE HORROR!
That secret life of trying to live among the nut jobs is what intrigued me most about her. Here we have an attractive young lady with an occupation in race relations and a master’s degree in interracial studies, who is so dedicated to the cause that for years she has offered up not just a helping hand but a helping mouth, vagina, and butthole as reparations for the slavery and inequality done upon African Americans in this country for centuries, and who doubles as… dare I say it? A mom who makes cupcakes and goes on class trips?? I find that really bizarre for a number of reasons. For starters, class moms are usually not hot. The MILFs tend to stay home by the pool. All the class moms I remember were heifers who would try to steal my cookies. “You going to eat that, Christopher?” Also, if you have the time to be a class mom, that means you’re probably a stay-at-home mom: the craziest of all moms! Their only human interaction is with children, rendering them nearly inept in the conversational department. It also makes them bored and lonely, and once those two feelings spread they manifest into NOSY.
I remember the stay-at-home mom who lived next to me always ratting me out to my mom for sneaking out at night and coming home at two in the morning (I put a brick through her garage window, told her to mind her fucking business). So if and when VICE ever gets its hip little head out of its wannabe political ass and starts airing what people really want to see in times of economic downturn (tits and ass) then we can all hold hands with Belladonna as we investigate the ugly and twisted world of class moms. Just the words send chills up my spine…
More from Chris can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and twitter.com/Nieratko.