Porn on the Side.

Sky Rodgers (562) 888-1701

The Legnth of July.

Things tend to end in July in my life. It’s the dead of summer, and it has a history of being the end of things; usually of those that need to turn to ash. Om Namah Shivaya.

Ten, fifteen or so years after an emotionally grueling break-up, I found myself, one post-midnight, as per usual, during that binge/work/binge period of my late twenties, sitting crossed- legged on the dusty floor with my then-partner in crimes of indulgences. Her real name is that of an actual Asian spice, but for the purposeless notion of privacy, I’ll simply refer to her as “Wasabi”; and not just because she spent half her childhood in Okinawa.
“Tell me a story,” the self-proclaimed Anglophile asked, as she literally placed her hands on her chin, as a child character would in an animated Disney movie. I loved Wasabi,  but I knew I was about to fail her, as so many had done in the past, due to poor secondary schooling standards, sheer neglectful intellectual laziness, or the inability to consistently sexually fulfill her. What story could I possibly tell? How I took the rail through Europe the past summer, overstayed my welcome at an Amsterdam hostile, ditched my party and left with an artist from Berlin, who taught me how to sketch sidewalk chalk art in front of a cathedral in Trier, which briefly made me feel a deeper connection to my traceable Native American roots (i.e. sand art). But that would’ve been untrue. I only watched an artist in Trier sketch sidewalk chalk art; but I was 12, and with my family on our own version of “European Vacation“. I remember thinking the artist looked unbathed. The concept of homelessness did not really exist in my 12-year-old brain. So, I stared at Wasabi blankly. I watched her smile slowly fade, and her dark eyes darken under her black pixie haircut. I felt I had no stories to tell; only the story of my life. Or, maybe drunkenness was not good for the creative mind. I then, began to ramble on about some regretful incident with the ex boyfriend; whom I’ll refer to as “Mr. July”, and not just because what his last name means in Polish. The story didn’t go over well. It was around this time in my life that I realized I did not make a good barfly.

Joe Unger in "Barfly"

Joe Unger in “Barfly”

In the year 2000, there wasn’t a generally thoughtless yet accepted way to respond to something you cannot answer off the cusp, such as, “These types of issues require Genius Bar appointments.” I wonder if the Apple Genius Bar has regulars. Any Apple bar I’ve entered has been generally crowded.
I typically have a short list of adjustments that never seem to be made when I need them to be. I, or it, somehow figures itself out, and that problem is solved, only to be replaced by a new one.

And, yes, I am typed this on my iphone. Time to get going, or I’ll miss my 2nd genius bar appointment this month. Though, they don’t seem to miss me much.

I also fail at multi-tasking.

I also fail at multi-tasking.




Straight Outta Texas.

I’m currently taking full advantage of the 15 minutes alone I have in the 3000 square-foot house of my parents in Texas that would cost over $1 million in
my hood.

It’s a greatly anticipated visit for the kid and grandparents alike. It’s amazing weather here today, as it’s almost noon, and not even 90° yet. Being from Texas, I’m fully taking advantage of this current condition by getting some exercise outdoors. Of course, as many Texans know, this weather can change in about 15 minutes, and then again in an hour or so. Suffice to say, this breeze is definitely not a Santa Ana wind.

Backyard Windmill -TX

Backyard Windmill -TX

When it suddenly becomes windy, or the temperature rises where I live in the San Gabriel Valley, or any Valley of SoCal for that matter, I get a slight but short onset of paranoia. Will this become an earthquake, perhaps? I was there for the Northridge quake, and a few forgetful ones. Of course, typically the earthquake does not come, or does not last.
Another thing I don’t see much of in California is toll roads. Some people outside of LA consider traffic to be a bit scary there. Actually, it’s pretty slow-moving; enough to where one could multitask while driving-such as talking on the phone, texting, applying makeup, etc. I assume that’s where the danger occurs, if it does. In Texas, the toll roads speed limit is 80 mph. I wasn’t paying attention to this, as I was driving my rental car from the Austin airport north to my destination. It was not until the second or third pick-up truck decided to tail me for at least 10 seconds before cutting ahead of me, and, of course, flashing their lights a couple of times, did I realize how fast people could drive here. As a Texan, I realized this was their friendly way of communication; a simple way of saying, “Can you read? Get outta the left-hand lane!

Relaxing in the SGV.

Relaxing in the SGV.

As an adult, this is my third time being a California resident, initially being there in the early to mid 90s. That said, I don’t dare flash my lights at anyone, as I believe it means something a little bit different in LA. Okay, maybe I’m overreacting. If so, it’s because I was very much near LA in 1993, not long after the LA riots. I was coming of age during the apex of gangster rap. I don’t recall one memory of going through south-central, and not hearing a helicopter overhead, at least once. I remember thinking, “This is south-central? This neighborhood is nice and quiet. These houses are well-kept.” But even in the days before social networking sites, great marketeers knew how to mold the opinions of young people. To this day, if angered enough, I may slip into an alternative personality hailing from the CPT or LBC, and may claim to be equip enough to pop you one, among other negative lethal tasks (better ax somebody). These moments or moods change in a flash, such as the sometimes bipolar weather here in Texas, and not to be taken so seriously. Easy come, Easy go. 

Easy E, RIP.

Easy E, RIP.

The Green Coffee Bean Incident.

I still believe that I am reasonably average woman with normal desires, needs and opinions. Just as, say, Martin Luther considered himself a Catholic throughout his life, though ultimately banished by the Church.
There is some truth to the statement that the power of willful ignorance cannot be overstated.
One well-known “hidden” secret is that most marketing is geared towards women, and mothers. For instance, I will believe anything that has the Dr. Oz stamp of approval. Dr. Oz has recently undergone some scrutiny for his adamant endorsement of green coffee bean extract supplements in 2012. I was present to view the TV episode firsthand, and scurried off to get my initial supply. I don’t recall any real change in my bodily structure, but my belief system of magical thinking preceded my actual results. I was addicted to the idea. 2012, like most years, was not a very profitable one for me. I do not in any way endorse or condone my acts. But, in a moment of desperation and poverty, in 2012 I lifted a container of green coffee bean supplements from a local market. Caught red-handed (or green, in this case), I stood guilty, as charged. I paid legally and otherwise for my mistake. Now, I am admittedly guilty of nine out of the Ten Commandments.
I must confess, what irritates me the most, is the stated grocery chain sent out a claims for damages via “Settlement Offer” through their attorneys, for about nine times the amount of the supplement I took. I assume it was too difficult to find me, so they sent this claim to my parents’ house in Texas. This, I find, is unacceptable, and frankly, my feelings of fury at the grocery company almost outweighed my shame. My appearance, my body, was my livelihood. I fell into a green coffee bean trap, but one I dealt with lawfully. There are several things in life that we deal with privately, in order to protect our parents from our unruly decisions. What am I, a minor? My memories as a minor are sketchy, but there’s one thing most of us don’t want our parents to know about: thievery.
I do have a memory from Kindergarten, where I noticed a squirrel pendant adorning a pretty little necklace lying on the floor. I wanted it for myself, so I picked it up, and then put it in my panties (a safe place, at the time). The teacher immediately announced that the squirrel necklace had been lost. I panicked, with the realization that I had taken it. I went home with the necklace, and to my ballet class that afternoon. I remember looking in the mirror in ballet class, and thinking, “Not only are you not very pretty, but now, you are a thief.” The next day, I planted the necklace on the kindergarten room floor, and announced to my teacher that I had found it. At last, the burden was lifted off of my five-year-old shoulders. So yes, I’ve always been a bit Squirrely, but truly struggle with dishonesty. Though, it’s compelling what the human mind can justify in times of desperation.
I still listen to Dr. Oz, but realize that most bodily imperfections cannot be thoroughly changed without surgery.

With that, in all honesty, this short video, like most everything on this blog, is a first take.



Milfs, Pills and Jumbo’s Clown Room.

I’m not sure if or what the phrase being “hopped up on pills” means, but as of late, admittedly, I seem to pop a lot of them (prescribed of course). There’s not very much hopping going on in my corner; no hip, no hop. A couple of Tramadols at 40 is what a couple of No Dose was at 19. That being, for some important reason, you have to stay awake. These, I convinced myself, will do the trick, though creativity and short-term memory takes a backseat. What matters IS the backseat, and who and what is going on back there, and I forgot the iPad car charger, and GOOD GOD, I cannot take another round of the Babajiggles CD one more time and navigate through the 210 to the 5 to the 101 to the…where was I? I’m so hungry, I forgot to eat lunch at home on this cashless day, and now my memory and mood are shot.










Paying for my husband’s refurbished Mercedes transmission was supposed to make me feel better about doing what I really wanted to try and do, which was work at Jumbo’s Clown Room Jumbo's Clown Room

At least that’s what I want for today, it’s safe to say, probably for the next three days. “Am I too old for that?” I ask myself. I think I’m old enough to answer some of the really stupid questions, as the one stated above. The people who would be bothered most by my age in that situation would probably be a dancer or two at the club, and maybe my husband. But hey, maybe not. Maybe they will all be as cool with my imaginary employment as I would love to imagine them to be. Maybe I could use my real stage name. The other employees would eventually figure out that I had done porn and an assortment of other sexual performance type of activities, and not really care at all, or maybe even feel more comfortable around me because, hey, we are all working at Jumbo’s Clown Room. Possibly, I’m over thinking this situation to allow for disappointment. I typically do that, and what one of my acting teachers from the late 1990s would’ve said, was it was because I am a 5 in the Enneagram. I honestly care less about what really happens in the moment, and more concerned about I could imagine would happen, or how it is planned out in my head, beforehand. In the end, ne’er the twain shall meet.

Sky's a 5 in the Enneagram.

Sky’s a 5 in the Enneagram.

So what’s the difference? With that, give me about a month or so of high-pressure tanning and regular Pilates classes, and meet me at Jumbo’s Clown Room. May as well put that ole Dance degree to use.
Honestly, I would have more fun doing that, than becoming a teacher at Arthur Murray’s dance studio, for one. I had the opportunity to pursue that position about a year before I became a mother. I believe in the right to privacy, and will not give away the location or franchise owner. As I remember, she kept pressing me about how I was going to support myself while building my business as an Arthur Murray dance teacher. Sometimes when you’re feeling low, you want to look at decent pictures of yourself. It’s just another reason, I presume, that the gargantuan institution that is Facebook exists.
I remember at that time, feeling low one day, and perusing through a website that I had done a scene for that year. A wonderful website it is, with a creative director/producer that I got on with really well, entitled Cougars in Heat. One day, like most women, I was scrolling through, and comparing myself with my other compadres. Much to my amazement, I found this fore mentioned Arthur Murray franchise owner on the site, receiving quite an anal pounding. I truly thought this was the strangest thing! Could it really be true- this conservative-looking dance franchise owner, a no holes barred Milf porn star on the side? Then I thought about what a crack my life was. Anything can happen, and truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Who couldn’t use some walking around money from time to time?
With that, back to work, or it will be I who will be walking around this city, instead of driving. If I windup driving to work at Jumbo’s Clown Room, I’ll be sure and post pictures and possibly videos from the inside. And it could be the tramadol, but I’m afraid if I stop writing, the tune of the Babajiggles will return to my conscience.
What was I blogging about, again?


Toys for Tuesdays :)

Hurry Up & Wait.

I think all the good stuff happens during hurry up and wait. As a child, I never really knew what hurry up and wait” meant as I would sing the lyrics of Blondies “Sunday girl”
I think I’ll register with central casting again for extra work , so I’ll have a good reason to do hobbyish things that don’t require leaving your seat. It’s been ages since I’ve been an extra. In essence, android phones did not exist. It’s all about the process. And speaking of all things processed, i’m still so happy that the iPhone can take some pretty good pics!





Return of the Recession MILF.

I’ve returned to LA County after a long hiatus in Texas.
Despite the respite of my disruptive four year intermission, my most recent therapist had declared that I do not suffer from PTSD.

I personally reserve that term for the underappreciated veterans of the country. My battles were personal; are personal. Yet, I devise this existential peepshow to create my own narcissistic and exhibitionist story (I’m not on Facebook).

The details of my bump in the road, or malign coalition of consequences, would read much like a diary; which would be a pet project that I’ve never had an interest in completing, and it would probably veer too far from the purpose of this blog (whatever that may be).  I’d probably nurture a diary or Facebook page much as a pet rock.

Snap went the dragon!

Snap went the dragon!

As a novice dilettante, completion of pet projects has eluded me. With that, I am attempting to see these projects, or ideas, less as “pet” and more as “babies”. More than a few times in my life I’ve heard producers in a variety of fields refer to their projects as there “Baby”. I always wonder how many children they actually have; and how many assistants they have for clean up duty. Mainly, I’m DIY.





Tweet This.

Twitter is like some socially acceptable and sought after form of paranoia, what with the “followers” and all. Who really has time to follow? Someone recently gave me a nice #beautiful compliment wanting to know why someone like me only had 72 followers. Simple answer: My iPhone twitter app, and Linkedin, for that matter, refuses to acknowledge that I am who my account says I am. Therefore, I don’t tweet. I don’t believe followers really exist. I have my own conspiracy theory about Twitter. People don’t really follow. They just join, and keep adding. It’s sort of like the email lists you try to unsubscribe to, but six or so months later, they show up again, like a weed in your Gmail garden. Or a virus that remains dormant. They keep coming back; be it from a local spa, a coupon scam or the Kabbalah center. If Twitter really has followers, then they are paid for profit individuals. Hired hands by Hollywood production companies, or independent entities. Companies need good ratings and branding, because maybe the Nielsen’s rating system has become inaccurate and obsolete. Words in the Twitter sphere are characters. When I think of characters, I recall interesting people; like Carol Burnett, Andy Kaufman, Joan Rivers, Amy Sedaris, Crispin Glover and his dad, Bruce Glover. But that’s just little ole me; someone with only 72 followers. 72 is very powerful number, so the Kabbalists say…

Shall I tweet today?

Shall I tweet today?

Twitter doesn't like Sky.

Twitter doesn’t like Sky.



Crunchy is Not the new Grunge.

Though a Rat sign in Chinese astrology, I’m not a hoarder. There are certain things that get left behind in life. For me, it was flannel shirts. None I actually bought, but were gifted to me once upon a time by BFs of bygone days. I recall several years ago having a brief conversation with a young girl about her footwear. She felt compelled to explain why she was wearing closed toed shoes on a warm autumn day In the San Fernando Valley, to “cover up her crunchies”. It was then that I first heard this phrase. I had covered up my crunchies during my entire pregnancy, and then, continued to do so as a new mommy. Waxing, on the other hand, was a bit of a necessity (see Wax-a-Preggo below). I hear the term crunchy now on again, and am informed enough to understand it’s the new word for unkept and messy, possibly bordering on dirty. This is the new hipster word for something my generation invented: Grunge. Every generation wishes to reinvent themselves; but in the end, we all beg, borrow or steal from those of the past. There is no such thing as an artistic license. As a young hipster, There was nothing I could listen to that my parents could not compare as a rehashed watered-down version of their own (the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, etc.) . Everything comes full circle. And feeling a bit nostalgic due to my recent birthday, I’m sharing this video, which would never occur to me to do, prior to my birthday. Kurt Cobain: You may not have loved yourself, but we did; and still, “I Do…”

Amateur Porn: an Off-shoot of Grunge.

Small Change.



Facebook is the new Myspace.

There’s a Wiki leaks, a Porn Leaks, and a variety of other leakish sites around, but what about Facebook? On the Face Leaks site, you’d post what did actually  happen that day, and it would be similar and possibly more interesting than a very bad hair day. Your Facebook Leaks page would generate more hits,  and you’d find out who your true Facebook friends were.   Some forebode Facebook will soon fall on it’s face.  If Americans didn’t spend so much time showing their good face to the world, they’d  see  more sincere faces on the figures surrounding them. But I know, It’s complicated. 

My Goodface Book Pic.

A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea. ~ Honore De Balzac

A blurred face is an honest face  ~ Sky Rodgers

Until I was thirteen, I thought my name was SHUT UP. ~ Joe Namath

I love you, Joe Namath.

SKY is on my FRIENDS List.


Love, Sky

Post Navigation