So, we'd finally made it to Hollywood, and to the Studio. It was now approximately 4 pm on a deceptively sunny November Tuesday, the 18th.

Now, Pard'ner, Camera-Man and I began to set up our shooting area.

We cleared the southern half of the room, took the seamless paper out of the box, and tried to stand it on end. The ceiling was an eight-foot. We had a nine foot roll of seamless.

It was pretty obvious that we weren't going to be able to cut it with any ease. We looked for a saber-saw in the back room, but there was none to be had.

And, as we began to calculate, it was obvious that we were going to need ANOTHER roll. Camera-Man called the photo shop. Guess what? They only had the one roll. Savage Paper, stock number such and such.

Did they have any way of cutting a foot off the roll? Nope.

Great. Now, we were going to have to return the roll we had and buy another two that matched.

Well, sometime during the eternity it was taking for them to "check the back room" we decided to hang up, and then we called Mole-Richardson. Good news: they had rolls of the exact same seamless in stock. Nine-foot by thirty-six-foot, stock number the same, same company. But, for some inexplicable reason, Camera-Man wanted us to return the first roll, and get two rolls from M-R.

"Why don't we just get ONE roll from M-R?" I asked, thinking myself clever. Why I was *saving* us a trip! I was very proud of myself.

"Yeah. Sure," saith Camera-Man. "Did you hear Tracy Lords is going to be on Leno tonight?"

"Jesus," quoth I. "Saddest fucking day this industry ever saw was the day she walked into it. Did you know that even though I sold dozens of scripts while she was in the business, she never appeared in one of my videos? Came close though."

I had not noticed during this brilliant monologue that everyone in the room had ceased listening. Oh well. John Holmes is a character in the play "Our Town" by Thornton Wilder. Onward.

Camera-Man and Pard'ner were trying to figure out how to mask off a Cadillac-hubcap-sized puddle of lube someone had spilled on the OLD seamless we were going to be covering up. Finally, they decided to cut a hole in it and tape down several layers of newspaper.

Then, Pard'ner and I went off to M-R.

Now, at this point I had suddenly noticed that Pard'ner was smooth, professional and capable. So had Camera-Man. My greatest fear had been that they would react to each other like two tom-cats meeting on neutral turf for the first time. Nope. They had many things in common, and they hit it off just fine. If there was a fifth wheel, it was me.

It was just a few blocks away, and, since he'd had to sit in the truck to guard the equipment while I went in last time, he was overjoyed. He was on the catalog mailing list, and this was his little trip to Disneyland. Happy, happy, happy.

We got the seamless. By now, the sales force knew who I was. I had something to do with a production, which was enough for them. They didn't want or need to know more, and I wasn't about to broadcast it.

"Can we get something to flag the end?" I asked -- remembering that we'd duct-taped a shop rag to the previous roll since we had a nine-foot box in a six-foot truck bed -- and we'd left the rag at the studio.

Well, I'd love to say that this was simple. It wasn't. Finally, they brought us a RED BOX that would fit over the end. Seven sales personnel went off in search of something, and five came back empty-handed.

The red box fit exactly, but I wondered if it was legal. By this time, the Fellow Who Was On The Ball returned with a clean, fresh .... SHOP RAG! They cut off two feet of 1/8" nylon rope for us to tie it with.

Scary, that degree of "competence." Just scary. We duct-taped it to the box when we got outside. I hadn't had the heart to point out that their shop was filled with every type of tape known to man (gaffer's tape: $12.95 a roll).

Well, nobody said that selling a product meant that you knew how to USE that product.

We drove back.

When I got back in the door, the Agent tried to reassure me: "That Randi, she's HOT! And the girl from Hungary .... don't worry about her: she's HOT!"

This litany went on for awhile, and, while I pretended to be satisfied, I had to take it all with a truckload of salt. After all, what agent in his right mind is going to say: "Well, she's ugly, lies there like a dead fish, and can't walk and chew gum at the same time"? About ANOTHER agent's clients, sure, but about his own? He wouldn't be much of an agent if he was.

As it was, he was hauling coals to Newcastle: I was a captive audience; I was already sold, you might say. Then again, I DID appreciate his consideration of my feelings.

How did I feel? Paranoia -- stark, raving paranoia. Oh well.

One parenthetical, though: Jerry Butler had called while we were gone. Evidently he still calls about once a week, just to see what's going on. All da way from da East Coast. FWIW.

Up in the studio, we ran the first roll along one wall, and sliced it off. Pard'ner watched this mad process and asked: "Why don't we just roll it DOWN from the ceiling?"

Not having any sane reason not to, we did that.

Ascribe it to nerves: we had made the mistake of jumping into a complex process without having bothered to think it out. We slowed down, and that was the last time we leaped without looking. Adrenaline, I guess.

As we began rolling down the second roll we found that the Savage Company's exact same stock, exact same roll was a DIFFERENT COLOR!

After pulling our hair out for a couple of minutes, we looked at it under the lights, and decided that it wouldn't be a problem, so, rather than run back screaming and yelling, we just continued with what we had. Which reminded me of that excellent rule for engineering ANYTHING: Don't assume. We'd assumed that, even though it was the same stock from the same company, it would match. It never occurred to us to CHECK it first.

We finished setting up, moved the bed to the middle of the seamless floor, set up runners (using area rugs) which we'd pull away when the actors were positioned on the bed. Very bad idea for them to walk on the seamless -- one stain and the set would be ruined.

I have to admit that the enormity of the amount of investors' money I was suddenly responsible for got to me that afternoon: I probably acted quite a bit like an asshole. Aw, heck, I acted like an asshole. Later, when I realized it, I apologized, and, like jumping the gun on the seamless, that problem evaporated, as well.

I don't know why, but the hardest day for me has always been the prep immediately before the shoot itself. You're not getting a frame on film, but the money's flying out of the wallet, and the meter's running with a vengeance. The nerves get frayed, exhaustion sets in, and there is always that moment where you suddenly realize that this may well not happen. It was a tough day, not helped by our utter physical exhaustion from a hellish drive down. It takes its toll, believe me: something over a thousand miles in a too-small, too-loud Datsun pickup, worried about gasoline and snow the whole way.

We finished setting up, got the lights into place, set up the camera and tested the scene on the monitor. When everything checked out, we walked out into the offices. Time had flown in the windowless studio. When we walked back out the sun was gone: it was early evening. Everyone had gone home.

"They do that to me all the time," Camera-Man said. "Sometimes I wish that JUST ONCE, they'd let me know they were leaving."

"Come on," said I. "We could use a GOOD meal right now."

We went to The Pantry for the traditional steak dinner.

Camera-Man had started going back in 1974. I had been going since 1976. We both have a lot of history in that steak house. Pard'ner was about to start a little of his own.

It was just what the doctor ordered: steaks and cole slaw and fresh vegetables and fresh-baked bread and fresh-brewed iced tea served with lemon without even asking. We had forgotten to eat lunch.

We'd continue to forget for the next two days: I tend to get very one-track when I'm on a shoot, and I don't notice that I'm hungry until the day's over -- usually well after dark. When I'm crew, it means that I don't eat. But when I'm producing, if nobody tells me that they need to eat, then we don't eat. This day everyone must have felt the same way I did, since nobody said a word.

By the time we got back to the motel, Pard'ner and I were thoroughly exhausted. It was only 9 pm.

They hadn't even entered the room that day. No fresh sheets. We were out of toilet paper. I walked down to the office and "Emi Lee" gave me a fresh roll. We'd brought three comforters for the shoot. I suddenly realized that, if they weren't checking our room, I knew how we could get a FOURTH comforter.

Turned on the TV for the noise and light, though neither of us watched it. We planned to get to bed, but the excitement was running high. He'd caught the hot muffler earlier in the day with the palm of his hand, and he needed to lance the blister.

I looked in my Magic Shaving Kit (which generally contains everything) and found Neosporin, a pin for lancing and the right size bandage. Luck: only one bandage, but exactly the right size.

Sometimes, prudence actually pays off.

We bought a six-pack of beer and chatted until I suddenly noticed that Tracy Lords was being introduced by Jay Leno. Something over two hours had vanished without a trace.

She looked older and harder. It was strange. Here I am, about to shoot my first entirely-in-my-control video, and Tracy Lords shows up, like a bad case of the clap.

I remember when she'd first shown up in the industry, all baby-fat, utterly without personality -- just a shell of ill-concealed ambition. There's been quite a movement (mostly initiated by her) to make her out as the victim. Lovelace Syndrome, as it's known: "They forced me to do it and made me take DRUGS!"

Hah!

How well I remember that black day when every producer in the Business was busily running through the warehouses tossing Tracy (Traci) Lords videos to dispose of ASAP.

District Attorney Ira Reiner (a close relative of Hitler's in my experience) was dying to turn the Tracy Lords mess into yet another of his fascist crusades. Nobody ever thought of prosecuting HER. And, of course, tonight she's on the "Tonight Show."

If there is a Creator, His sense of humor sometimes leaves me grasping for the joke.

Now, on Leno, the baby fat was gone, but the raw ambition, the self-love, the desperate self-promotion was even more on the surface than it had been years ago.

They had, of course, scripted several "bits" for her to show her "personality." Unfortunately, she didn't have any that I could detect, and the experience of watching it was somewhat akin to watching a staged photo-op with Saddam Hussein kissing babies: there is a mild curiosity as to whether the "Butcher of Baghdad" will kiss the babies or take a bite out of them, but you're not actually *convinced* that this terrible acting job is really a display of any affection for the babies.

Would she succeed as a heartless-though-seductive serial killer on her series?

Naw. Typecasting never works.

Still, I was, strangely encouraged by this: if that no-talent zombie could make it from porn to Leno's dog and pony show, then there was hope for even our humble little flick.

We went to bed, each on our twin bed, each with his purple-flowered comforter. We were on the second floor, and by now all the stored heat of the day had percolated up, turning our room into a sweatbox. I opened some windows.

Tomorrow, Pard'ner would face his baptism in fire: his first porn set. I told him to think about all his fantasies, and be certain that whatever they were, it wouldn't be like that. He tossed and turned for a long time, understandably nervous.

I, on the other hand, was unable to find a position to sleep in. La Bomba was taking its revenge on my lower back, which hurt so bad that I was a long while getting to sleep. Just as I'd slip off, the pain would kick in. Finally I asked Pard'ner if he had any aspirin. He told me where the Motrin was. I padded into the bathroom, satisfied myself that Genghis Cockroach and his Horde were not planning to invade tonight, and swallowed two of the brown pain pills.

I went back to bed.

The Motrin finally kicked in and I slept like a log.

(c) Hart Williams 1997

Hart Williams wrote and worked in the "Business" from 1977 to 1987. He wrote for, among others, HUSTLER, ADAM, FILM WORLD REPORTS, VIDEO X, OUI, VELVET and many others. His film credits include "Caught From Behind III." His video credits include "The Other Side of Lianna," which was, in 1985, the runner-up to "New Wave Hookers" for XRCO's "Video of the Year." After ten years "away" from the business, Williams suddenly found himself doing what he'd sworn he'd never do again: writing, producing and directing an XXX video.