A long, long time ago...a guy walks into a porn shop in Vancouver.
It was about 1999, after they decided to erase my memory, I found my self somewhere quite different from the Special Ops program which had locked me up in a dark closet that smelled of jizz and bleach. I think they thought I was the janitor. But I just went along with it until it was too late.
Plainly speaking, to expose the editor of a porn magazine isn’t really what you might imagine. There was always some trigger riding my ass. But how do you find a way to make a living off porn without sex? Wouldn’t that be prostitution?
After escaping from my porn-hole in Vancouver, I headed for the City of Roses to spread my wings and em brace the nudity. My name is Spooky and I am a pornographer.
You see, there was a shakeup way back in Old Town where two or three "gentlemen pornographers" challenged the crown. After close to half a dozen local porn mags over more than 20 years, the ONE you’re holding in your sweaty little hands is the only one that has survived. Hats off to you Exotic. How in the FUCK I landed here again, I’ll never know? But now that I (involuntarily) stepped up, let’s take a little time to say goodbye (for now) to Ray McMillin. You remember him, right? He was the guy sleeping of his Squib in the stairway.
But now that we stepped up to the task, let’s give Ray some time to tell us how much he’ll love and miss us.
Thanks for that crystal clear and non- ambiguous introduction, John.
So, it appears that I am being asked to expand on what it was like to take over the position as "editor" for Exotic, over the course of the last five years or so. To answer that, I will take you back to how I began writing.
It was at the age of nine months, when I had discovered that I could use my diaper to write on the walls of my parent’s attic (which doubled as my bedroom). For the next twenty years, I honed my shit-smearing ability to the point that I was eventually able to submit full- length shit posts in the form of articles. Flash forward to another ten years or so and I found myself with a felony (for a single ounce of now-legal weed), as well as a degree from Portland State University, which qualified me to do exactly one thing: journalism. Since it’s Portland, journalism involves either kissing the asses of hipster fuckwads whose opinions are easier to predict than left- wing social media responses to Trump tweets, or, waiting in line to work as editor for Exotic. Because I enjoy paying my bills, I opted for the latter. And, eventually, John "Spooky X" Voge handed me his job.
This is where I would normally continue the story, but I’m actually going to pause here and ask John why he chose the name"Spooky X,"voluntarily, for purposes of using in print. To me, "Spooky X" could be one of three things: a Juggalo emcee who is not embraced by fellow Juggalos and, therefore, only associates with goth kids, a fictitious designer drug mentioned in a 1980s sci-fl movie or, most likely, the pen name of a man whose high school rebellion caught up to him the day he turned 40. John, let’s pause here for a second and talk about your name.
Spooky X died a long time ago, Ray. I buried him when I sought out new adventures in Seattle, and with a little help from Exotic magazine...Exotic Underground was born. Jesus, how many magazines did I participate in? Exotic Underground was my baby, but getting off the vices wasn’t helping. I had a Two And-A-Half Year Run expired. Broke and beaten, there was only one thing left to do...pack up the family and head south to sunny Port land, Oregon.
The element of having a family unit had no use for Spooky in Portland, or anywhere else for that matter.
So, I put him down like a rabid dog. Somehow, I became the editor again, whether I liked it or not. I held up with the deal for a few more years, and eventually decided to become DJV at the world-famous Kit Kat Club in Ankeny Alley. In addition, I continued to be the organizer/stripper wrangler for every Miss Exotic Oregon and Polerotica event until I decided I had enough.
I remember the day when we parted ways with Exotic, as friends and family. Ray had already gotten himself into some chaos before I ever checked into our lodge, good thing the cell (Add Text comment blank) had no service... (or did it?)
Ray obviously got his shit together and was knocking them dead with his razor-sharp prose and pornography. I never really got the potential use of the word "statutory" as a surname though...
Just so we are clear, "Statutory Ray" was a Juggalo emcee who was embraced by fellow Juggalos, so I don’t think that needs any further explanation. Juggalos are the only group to hold a successful, nonviolent political demonstration in the last decade, by the way, so whoop whoop to that!
Okay, back to taking your job from you and then immediately realizing how poor your negotiating skills are—the first thing I did after taking my new job as editor for Exotic, was ask for a raise. I mean, that was before I even asked what my duties were—twenty percent, immediately (feminists, take note: the wage gap is bullshit and it’s because men like John don’t bother setting a good example for broads to negotiate in the workplace). After blackmailing my boss into paying me more than John asked for, I got comfortable with the gig.
As I’ve stated before, editing for Exotic goes from"Ooh, neato, I get to look at my friends naked in print"to "So, is buttplug hyphenated or not?"really quick. Any job can get boring (in a good way), regardless of how exciting it once was. Since I was (and, as a writer, still am) involved in the industry because I refused to grow up beyond the "hang out with the cool losers and snort shitty coke off of someone’s dad’s marble table while talking to a narcissist about who his stupid band paid to open for" phase of Portland adolescence, the excitement wearing off made me realize, "Hey, maybe I’m good at doing other things for money and not just in it for the free drugs and sex." With this attitude, I decided to completely skip my middle age and opted to open a booth in a Salem antique store, while doing HTML and screen printing on the side. I am currently dating one (1) woman who is not a dancer (well, she hasn’t been since late last year), I go to bed before 10pm and I recently got into Steely Dan. In other words, you can take the club out of the thug and I’m living proof.
This brings us to late last year, when I put in my three-month notice of departure from Exotic, sometime around August, so that I could pursue my dreams of making Salem great again—again, this was in August of 2020 when I gave my ninety-day notice. Now, I may not be good at math, but I basically got the "six weeks to flatten the curve" treatment from my plans and schemes, and here we are in May of 2021, with Ray penning yet another goodbye column. I may as well be KISS at this point, in terms of farewell tour bullshit...by the way, is anyone else joining me this summer to see KISS in Not Quite Vancouver, WA? I’m guessing John is going. John, are you going to KISS?
Not on the lips Ray, not on the lips.
To be honest, I love Exotic and the Portland scene. I’m still going to write DJ Booth, Green Room and Other Column I Won’t Admit To Because Cancel Culture Hasn’t Died Yet. I can’t wait to return to the club as a customer someday, rich off my Dogecoin earnings and ready to throw cash at "the ladies," while being given constant reminders by the DJ that touching is not allowed. And, if that DJ turns out to be John "Spooky X"Voge, all the better. Cheers.
WED 5—GUILTY PLEASURES—REVI’S BIRTHDAY PARTY
FRI 7—DREAM ON SALOON—‘80S NIGHT
FRI 14—STARS CABARET (SALEM)—MAY THE 14TH BE WITH YOU!
FRI 14 & SAT 15—GUILTY PLEASURES—JULIE’S BIRTHDAY PARTY WEEKEND
FRI 28 —THE LOUNGE—‘90S NIGHT
DAILY—CABARET—HAPPY HOUR 11AM-5PM
DAILY—COLUMBIA STRIP—HAPPY HOUR 4PM-7PM
DAILY—DV8—HAPPY HOUR NOON-3PM
