When I was in Los Angeles, Porn Valley to be exact, working on a story, for Double X, I came across another story, a real story, a big story, the kind of story that turns you into a real reporter.
Now, at least thus far, I can't place that story. Or, I should say, I haven't placed it yet. It's about violence, and pornography, and politics. It's a grownup story, and comes with its own set of concerns, sending other people shooing me away from it.
What's a girl to do?
I've struggled a lot, internally, since I got back from Porn Valley.
All I want to do is go back.
Everyone says, no, no, don't do that, or sits silent on the other end of the telephone line, or gives me a stern look, and I think: You don't understand. I can feel it in my bones.
What if I had a dick, and I were shipping myself off to Iraq, wouldn't it be another story? Would you bother to bat an eyelash?
No.
I guess the problem with having gone through some of the things that I've gone through, or having seen some of the things that I've seen, or having dealt with some of the shit that I've dealt with is that the more I think about it, the more I just don't give a fuck.
And that's either a very clever or a very dangerous place to be.
When I was leaving Los Angeles, I picked up a copy of Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried from some LAX book rack, between all the rest of the books, all the drivel and all the shit, and I opened it, and there was this line that I'd read years ago staring back at me from the past.
"You can tell a true war story by the way it never seems to end."
And I thought: Yeah, that's about right.
