Porn Valley is Crying. Or Maybe It’s Just a Light  Drizzle.

Hunter Bryce.  If the name sounds familiar, perhaps you may have appreciated the erotic  intensity the performer brought to over seventy adult movies with titles like…hold on…um….well, do the titles really matter?  When it comes to getting cheap blog-laughs , spouting porn titles is akin to  shooting fish in a barrel. A very small barrel. With a sawed-off shotgun.

Yep. Whether you knew Bryce Hunter or not, the  name elicits an instant sense of familiarity. The dyslexic might easily confuse the name with  Price Hunter, the smartphone app for hardcore cheapos,  or maybe you just confused Hunter Bryce with this guy. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

Whatever you thought, it doesn’t really matter now, or at least not to Bryce Hunter.  She’s dead.

The 30 year-old performer was discovered  the evening of March 12th in her modest home, located (where else?) in Porn Valley, AKA the endless stretch of L.A. suburbia called the San Fernando Valley.  Though preliminary investigation has so far ruled out foul play, we couldn’t help but be a tad suspicious by this bit of reportage (note: emphasis is  our own) from Peter Warren of Adult Video News (AVN):

“News broke of Bryce’s passing by way of a tweet Wednesday morning from male performer Tucker Slain, which read that Bryce “was not doing well personally,” and that “her roommate told me she was found dead this morning.”

Thanks, Twitter!

Now, if this were broadcast news,  right about now we’d say “Let’s rewind that” and go back to the part where the name “Tucker Slain” is mentioned.  And we’d do that about twenty times in a row. Tucker Slain? Are you kidding us? It’s bad enough to have your demise announced with a measly Tweet, but from Tucker Slain? Call us paranoid, but if we had names like Dick Death or Mikey  Murderer or even Tucker Carlson, we’d probably put the death-tweeting on hold until after the funeral at the very least. Then again, with a name that obvious, being the first to tweet about her death would be a move that could only be called clever.  Clever like a Foxxx!

But no one’s accusing Mr. Slain of having slain anyone. Certainly not us and certainly no one  sane that we know of. Apparently Hunter Bryce was unhappy, which is an admittedly rare state-of-mind for porn stars, and had turned to the bottle (again, very odd), and was thirty years old, which is normally something to cheer about, but being a 30 year-old woman in porn is  like being a 90 year-old broad in the real world. Christ, these days if you’re over 23 in porn  you’re lucky to to get a role in a gonzo  MILF vid. Cold comfort now, but Ms. Bryce was not the only unhappy thirty year-old woman in the San Fernando Valley who was hitting the bottle too hard. And being a porn star in that neck of the woods is about as common as being  a lobbyist on K Street.

At least AVN showed Ms. Bryce a little dignity in death by not printing her real name, thus sparing her family and friends the unnecessary and ill-timed exposure that comes with the revelation that your daughter/sister/Christian camp counselor was a porn star.

No, the honor of exploiting the death of the late Ms. Bryce as an opportunity to print her real name goes to what many in the industry consider to be the “Shasta Cola” or “tissue-stuffed bra” of porn reporting, a publication whose real name we shall not mention here out of respect for dead.  Well played, gentlemen, well played!

To give you some idea of how brightly Bryce’s star shone in the porn constellation, her death was nowhere to be found on the front pages or top stories of the two adult trade websites  less than 48 hours after the body was discovered. In the amount of time it takes to write, cast, shoot, edit, and distribute a porno movie, the memory of Ms. Bryce was shuffled to the back of the pack to make way for bigger stories like the impending release of the much-anticipated “NOT MANIMAL: THE PARODY,” hot pix of the newest starlet in town Roxxxie Floxxx, and lastly, an announcement that the ” Mister Mambo Mystery Rabbit”  features vibrating beads, a taint tickler, PLUS  ”a rubber rabbit that can sense  a woman’s orgasm,”  and when he does he “pops out of the base of the vibe and dances a lively a  mambo to Perry Como singing  Papa Loves Mambo. Currently available in teal only.”

Time marches on. Hunter Bryce does not.  Ciao, bella!

In all seriousness, we offer our condolences to the friends and family of this lovely performer, whose real name you will have to go elsewhere to find. Depression is a serious illness–and that’s no joke.

It happened in the tiny parking lot behind the Famous Amos cookie store that once resided next to Hollywood High. Returning to our car after having illegally purchased liquor at the store across from the cookie vendor (it was evening and Amos had closed up shop for the night), we were accosted by three young women clad in what can only be called “Whore Couture.” And when we say young, we mean young. So young, in fact, that almost dropped our Wild Turkey, Heinekens, and Marlboro 100s when the following exchange ensued.

Girl #1: Hey.
Us: Uh…
Girl #2: You guys want to party?
Us: Uh…um…
Girl #1: Fifty for all three of us. And believe me, we’re worth it.
Us: Uh…um…gee…if you don’t mind us asking…how old are you?
Girl #3: Old enough to know how, too young to get pregnant.

And, just like Shaggy and Scooby Doo when they encounter a swamp ghost or similar evil apparition, we actually made that ridiculous “whapada-whapada-whapada” sound effect as we ran in place for a few moments, then dived into the car leaving cartoon puffs of smoke behind us as we peeled out of the parking lot, almost running over the middle-school madams. We were 18 at the time, just six or seven years older than the girls who propositioned us. It’s a gap in age that means little when one is past, say, 25, but at 18, no matter how incredibly stupid and horny we were, we knew we were staring straight into the face of diabolic temptation incarnate–and the very real possibility of incarceration and all it entails for young, ripe white boys. To this day, it is not uncommon to be jerked out of a sound sleep, dripping cold sweat, that taunting line still echoing like a dying man’s last words: “Old enough to know how, too young to get pregnant.” Jesus H. Christ.

Welcome to Hollywood, 1979. What was once one of the nation’s most popular tourist areas–on par with Times Square–had fallen onto very hard times. This was four years before Herpes made the covers of Time and Newsweek, a horrible “epidemic” that would soon seem like the minor annoyance that it is once someone got the bright idea to fuck a monkey and bring the scourge of AIDS upon us.

Yet even the threat of a lethal disease transmitted via sex and/or needles didn’t slow the city’s pleasure pigs. Discarded rigs were common sights along the sidewalks of Hollywood, and prostitution kept rolling along as if the world wasn’t coming to an end, which just goes to prove you can’t keep a good man dressed in women’s clothing down.
El Lay has never been a stranger to the world’s oldest profession, but its relationship with illicit sex commerce has certainly had its ups and downs and ins and outs. Though our Famous Amos encounter was, we believe, somewhat out of the ordinary, anyone who passed through hollywood in the 70s and early 80s should well recall the human meat markets that operated 24/7 along the sidewalks and back alleys of Sunset (ladies) and Santa Monica (boys) boulevards, businesses that truly blossomed on the weekends to the extent that traffic often came to a standstill on both thoroughfares.

But, just as Rudy Giuliani sanitized Times Square, making it safe for Nebraskan tourists by forever ridding it of its exquisitely seedy persona, L.A. eventually chased the whores, trannies, twinks, and other assorted genital renters from Hollywood (for the most part) so those same Nebraskan tourists could gawk at the Walk of Fame in peace. Well, semi-peace. Instead of having to share the same sidewalk with high-heeled, tube-topped hookers who genrally left families alone, they are now harassed constantly by the piss-poor knock-offs of Spiderman and Jack Sparrow and Marilyn Monroe who now vie for space–and spare change–along the boulevard of broken dreams. It’s not just cartoon characters and Hollywood icons who are being impersonated, however; Hollywood boulevard is also rife with what appear to be method actors who eschew blockbuster caricatures and instead choose to portray with uncanny realism the the filthy, malodorous, booze-sodden panhandlers who also once called this place home. Some have apparently gone so far as to knock out their own teeth, sleep in dumpsters, and shit their pants as they babble incoherently to no one in particular. Stanislavski would be undoubtedly be proud.

But, according the L.A. Times, prostitution is back, and in a big way. Only this time it has raised its ugly head from the spittle moist lap of…Eagle Rock?

Yes, Eagle Rock, L.A.’s crown jewel, home to…home to…to…a rock that kind of looks like an eagle, is now plagued by that most insidious form of commerce, the massage parlor. Some have abandoned the “parlor” bit and call themselves clinics, therapy centers, spas, and the like, but all offer that elusive treatment that “legit” massage professionals won’t even,uh, touch. Yes, we’re referring to the Holy Grail known as The Happy Ending.

Just dope dispensaries once flourished in Eagle Rock, so too have jerk-oof joints found a new home–and for the exact same reason: L.A. dropped the ball(s) when it failed to correctly identify the impact of a new state law. By letting it languish, they gave erotic entrepreneurs the real estate reach-around to spread like a case of crabs up and down the streets of this peaceful, God-fearing hamlet.

Hollywood, Koreatown and the San Fernando Valley also found themselves waking up one morning to a complete stranger in a bad, lice-infested wig, but Eagle Rock is the community that has taken it in the shorts the hardest.

Google “erotic massage establishments in Eagle Rock” and you’ll come up with more than 30 (including adjacent Glassel Park), with 15 alone on a two-mile stretch of Eagle Rock Boulevard. That’s almost eight happy endings per mile, though your mileage may vary.

“So,” you ask yourself as you look for your wallet and keys or your spouse’s credit card statements depending on your gender, “Why Eagle Rock? Blame it on a state law passed in 2009 that allowed message therapists to attain voluntary certification. The idea was to make it easier for “real” massage therapists to work anywhere in the state rather than be tied down to a specific region.

The law freed legit therapists with state certification from local scrutiny that could often be unduly strict. Los Angeles city code, for example, classified all parlors as “adult entertainment,” but under the new law, licensed therapists would no longer have to apply for police permits, which require fingerprinting, background checks, cavity searches, and, on some occasions, senseless beatings.

Cities like Culver City, West Hollywood and Glendale were quick on the draw when it came to seeing the forest for the bushes, and immediately implemented policies requiring massage parlor applicants to either show their state certification or touch their nose with their index finnger and then walk a straight line toe-to-toe while counting backwards from 100 while not fellating Charlie Sheen.

In the infinite “we-know-better” wisdom that characterizes Los Angeles bureaucracy, the city merely asked applicants to state that they were certified, but never demanded solid proof. But Los Angeles failed to do so, instead asking applicants only to state if they were certified, not to show proof. This is nothing new in Los Angeles. Anyone ever pulled over by a cop for a minor infraction can attest to their kind, forgiving attitude, their incredible capacity to listen to the driver and empathize with his/her problems, and ultimately let them go with a fierce baton beating rather than a citation. As one officer who works for the the Los Angeles Police Commission’s permit processing section and wished to remain anonymous out it this way: “What goes down easier for the driver? A handful of broken teeth and a pint of blood, or the spectre of higher insurance rates? We think it’s the blood and teeth…and maybe a broken jaw or fractured cranium, depending on skin color.” A few officer in the department who not only asked us to withhold his name but also deny that he exists, agreed with his co-worker. “Go ahead and ask anyone: the LAPD bends you over backwards trying to be fair and balanced. We’re like the Fox News News of police departments.

As a result, it became an easy place for erotic massage parlors to set up shop.

While some, like Amos Netanel, who heads the non-profit California Massage Therapy Council, have already urged L.A. to rewrite its own code in order to clear up the matter as soon as possible, local authorities are uncomfortable with the word “urge” as they are with expedited deadlines. “We won’t be bullied by treehuggers,” said another official who declined to come out from under his desk. He added that “true bureacracy does not turn on a dime.” It is “more like an ocean liner that takes a long time to turn around. Caution is the watchword keyword, just as it was on ther Titanic. When you think about it, they came this close to missing that iceberg,” he said, sticking up his hand from below the desk and indicating an approximater distance of three imches between his forefinger and thumb. “That’s awfully close.”

Eagle Rock resident are at the of their ropes. One resident, who did not wish to be identified but welcomed fan mail, lives across from one of the massage parlors.” If you sit on this patio for an entire day with a pair of binoculars in your lap, you will see more than three dozen men go in and out of there. None are there longer than 20 minutes, if you listen closely, you can hear the most ungodly sounds, like pigs rooting for truffles while women moan and scream repeatedly for God and Jesus and…other stuff.” Holding up the binoculars, he added, “And you would not believe what I have seen though these,” he said excitedly. “I would be more specific if I could tell the difference between a llama and an alpaca but trust me when I say it is disgusting, he lamented, adjusting the large magazine conspicuously covering his lap.

“Why don’t they just go back to where they came from so I don’t have to sit out here 24 hours a day?” he asked, almost in tears. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes with a tissue from one of the many boxes he keeps at his side, then tossed it on the porch with the scores of other used Kleenex wads.

One reason the parlors don’t “just go back to where they came from” may be the strictness of nearby cities.

According to the L.A. Times, Pasadena Police Cmdr. John Perez said it had been at least a year and a half since his city had to bust an illicit massage parlor.

Not only does Pasadena require massage therapists to show city officials their certification, it frequently does spot checks to make sure the parlors are in compliance. “We have a proactive approach to it,” Perez said.

It is also important to note that the average age in Pasadena is 73, and that the population demographic of mostly white conservatives does not lend itself to patronizing such establishments. “They prefer glory holes in public restrooms, like airport stalls,” said one former politician who refused to give us his name.

The Los Angeles Police Department says it also does spot checks. On Tuesday, a sting by vice officers on massage parlors in the Eagle Rock area netted six arrests for people who had spots on either their clothing or home decor. “It’s a sure sign they’re hookers,” said one officer who could not remember his name. Those arrested were not state licensed and were operating without city permits. They were taken immediately to Old Navy and Ikea, where they purchased non-spotted items.

In previous raids, police have discovered that some of the women working in the parlors are illegal immigrants working to pay off debts, according to Lt. Andre Dawson of the LAPD’s detective support and vice division. “One had really screwed up her Capital One account,” said Sergeant Richard Gozinya.

But some enforcement has dropped off.

“The regulation takes a lot of resources, a lot of bodies,” said an L.A. assistant district attorney who identified himself only as “Smokey the Bear.” “And I am talking a lot of naked bodies, sweating, intertwined, consumed with lust,” he added, placing a large magazine over his lap.

Solutions to the problem range from more stringent enforcment of certificate checks to changing the zoning laws to squeeze the pleasure palaces out town.

Old Hobo Joe, a homeless man who lives in an alley behind one of the sex establishments has his own idea of how to solve the dilemma.

“Just change the name to Eagle Cock and be done with it,” he said with a grin. “Damn if it didn’t work for Vegas,” he added, lowering his trousers and defecating as he waved to passing motorists.

Unless something goes horribly wrong (and when doesn’t it in Hollywood?), cameras are set to roll this July on the big screen adaptation of L.A. Bizarro–or at least the harrowing adventures the book’s authors endured in writing the new edition.

“It kind of just came out of the blue,” said co-author Tony “Anthony” Lovett. “We received a phone call from a production exec at Hudnut Films, took a few meetings, and the next thing we knew the project had been green-lighted. It all happened so fast.”

Reached at his remote woodland estate in Vermont, co-author Matt Maranian was still circumspect about the production. “It definitely feels like a dream,” he said, “and if there’s one thing I have learned from the entertainment business, it’s that dreams rarely come true.”

Indeed, more than one obstacle stands in the way of the July 13 shooting date currently etched in stone. Like casting.

“We’d like Matt and Tony to play themselves,” said Lloyd Levy of Hudnut, and the man who has championed bringing the underground cult book to the silver screen. “They’re both fine actors in their own right, but there are concerns regarding their lack of name recognition as well some physical traits that have to be carefully assessed and perhaps adjusted.”

What kind of “adjustments” does Levy have in mind? “Unless we’re going for that John Candy/Zero Mostel kind of thing, Tony will probably have to lose some weight. Well, a lot of weight. I hate to say it, but most filmgoers have a hard time accepting fat actors as the leads, unless they’re that curly-haired guy in all the Apatow flicks, or Tony Soprano. And while we know that cute BBWs like Anna Nicole Smith test well in the upper midwest, last we checked, Tony is still a guy,” Levy chuckled.

Matt presents a different problem to the producers. “He’s very shiny,” Levy said. “Normal make-up doesn’t cut it. So we’ve been testing some new stuff based on–believe it or not–spray foam developed by the military for riot control. It seems to be cutting down on his sheen, but not as much as we’d like. And although it worked for Al Jolson, one of the greatest entertainers who ever lived, blackface is apparently out of the question,” Levy admitted with a sigh of disappointment. “The good news is we easily can solve his height challenge with six-inch platform shoes .”

Levy has also not ruled out the possibility of having “real actors” play the writing duo. “Judd Nelson and Kevin Branagh have each expressed interest in the projectit, but they’re both a little too old,” Levy says. “Ideally we’d like to get Bob Downey to play Tony and Ed Furlong for Matt. Damon and Affleck would also work well. The possibilities are endless, but we have to act fast.”

Indeed, with boffo bio-pic screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski working on the final draft, and German indie import Ulli Lommel set to direct, time is running out. “I think we’ll make it, but just barely,” added Levy, noting that the shooting date could not be moved due to “contractual obligations” with Circus Liquor in Burbank, where most of the movie will take place.

So how do the authors feel about having other writers adapt their work, much less the possibility of being aced out of playing themselves on screen? Truth be told, both seem rather nonplussed by either notion.

“Writing is hard work,” Lovett said in a recent interview. Digging into his second bag of Peanut Butter & Chocolate Bugles in 15 minutes, he expressed relief that Alexander and Karaszewski were tackling the screenplay. “Look what they did for Ed Wood. He was basically a talentless alcoholic tranny loser. Other than the stockings and angora thing, Wood and I have a lot in common. So if they can do for me even a fraction of what they did for Wood, I may able to get into Musso & Frank again.”

We caught up with Maranian, an avid fan of nude chainsawing, dressed only in rugged boots and stretch cap, as he was about to take on a thicket of bothersome pines on his back forty. He seemed equally at ease with not having to play himself on screen. “They even proposed that Tony and I play each other, but it seemed too gimmicky. I wouldn’t mind playing myself, but I won’t be heartbroken if they go with someone else. Frankly, I’d like to see Rebecca Black tackle my role, and that woman from Drop Dead Diva play Tony. Now THAT would be a twist!” he said with a laugh as he donned protective googles and started the chainsaw.

A relative newcomer to the Hollywood scene, Hudnut Films has already created a quiet reputation for picking winners, including last year’s sleeper hit, Log Jam, and 2009′s Golden Globe nominee for best documentary, Shemp: Not Just Another Pretty Stooge. The fledgling studio has high hopes for the L.A. Bizarro project, now tentatively titled A Tale of Two Guys and a City. “We’re proud of everything we’ve produced so far,” Levy boasted, “but we believe this project is going to put us in a new league. Hello, Oscars!”

Hello, indeed.