This past weekend I had the pleasure of visiting the island of Catalina with a buddy of mine. His father has a great condo there and a decent sized boat. This excursion reminded me of my many trips from Boston to P’town; a beautiful sunny day going somewhere to spend time on the water in a beautiful and charming setting with nothing to do.

We arrived in just enough time to hop on a golf cart, which I later learned is the primary source of transportation in Catalina. Lunch was found at a place called Lua Larry’s that sits only steps from the port. I imagine it has all types wandering about getting lit and sunburned. I had two of my most guilty pleasures, cheese sticks and beer, while meeting the parents and little sister.

The throng of tourists cruising mindlessly through the shell shops, candy stores and clothing spots was soon left behind when we made our way to the condo on the side of a hill. It sits at the top of one of two really nice, serious developments on the island. Catalina is mostly a nature preserve and no further growth is permitted there. I was so glad to hear that a place still existed that was admired so much for its beauty that not even money could pave it over. The view from the condo was reminiscent of something one might see in “Traveler” covering Greece or Spain; huge squares of Spanish tile atop grand white structures that exude a timeless, confident beauty.

Our first activity was snorkeling. This was my first time, but it was a secret I kept from the marine family. The idea of putting my mouth below water and drawing air through a tube was a bit of a mind fuck and I had a hard time adjusting. I got it, but by then I was nervously breathing very hard and trying almost as hard to settle my breath and calm down enough to enjoy the aquatic scenery. All I could do was hear my heart pounding and suddenly the air flow stopped and I panicked. It reminded me of the several times I choked on water as a boy while swimming and terrified, tried very hard to catch my breath. One time left me so scared that for months I had severe difficulty swallowing food and water. I swam back to shore where I confessed my secret and told them of the faulty equipment. After a cursory inspection his father determined that it was because I had dipped my head down too far, which engaged a safety feature to keep water from entering the tube and drowning me; the equipment was not faulty, it was me.

After dinner let up, the bets were placed on how long the two of us were going to last in the boat. The last time I slept on a boat was about 20 years ago and this would be his first time ever. We boarded the small dinghy to take us from the dock to the boat, it was only then he confessed to me that this was his first time operating such a machine. It was a great weekend for secrets and firsts. Without warning I had visions of “Open Water” going through my head. Thankfully it was not a vision and we arrived dry as a bone and experienced the best sleep of our lives.

The next day turned out to be the highlight. We took the boat to find a secluded beach for lunch and during our search we found ourselves surrounded by a pod of dolphins 200 strong. They played with us for a while jumping alongside the boat and chattering excitedly. It was SO unbelievable to watch them glide effortlessly through the water as if they hadn’t a care in the world. At that moment I just wanted to jump in the water and play with them, but I was too busy operating the camera. Besides, they were clearly going places and could not spare the time. Still it was so great for me that they joined us for a bit to wish us well. Dolphins really do have it all!

A friend of mine, Dave, recently treated me to dinner at an oyster house called Pacifica Del Mar. El Paseo is the Rodeo Drive of Palm Springs, but at this time of year the sounds and sights of credit card swipes and 3 Series are replaced with the dull click of traffic lights changing.

With this in mind the restaurant was surprisingly busy. We walked upstairs where the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains at bar level so perfectly that the glasses of wine and colored martinis sparkled on the bar like pieces of beach glass. I started with a glass of Pinot from Carneros while I studied and weighed the many options. The menu was packed with interesting and creative items such as Fanny Bay oysters Rockafeller and seared Sea Bass with a Miso Orange Marmalade. When Dave asked me if I liked oysters I was shocked to realize that I had never had any.

As the comment resonated I thought how absurd it was since I have spent every summer since I left home on the shores of Cape Cod. I could not believe it and asked him to order a dozen of his favorite; he chose Fanny Bays hold the Rockefeller which were baked with spinach (hence, not true Rockefeller anyway). I wanted to try them with no bells or whistles since it was my first time. So the first course was on, a dozen oysters and a seared salmon ceviche, which seemed rather appealing.

While we waited for the first tastes of Pacifica to arrive I scanned the room in my customary inspection of the clientèle. Everybody and when I say everybody, I mean with an exception of maybe 20 people out of more than 300, had on a color that matched the banquettes or a pattern resembling that of the carpet. There is a uniform of sorts that you see with the 50 to 80 something crowd of Palm Springs. When the first course arrived and the dishes were placed in front of us I gave this crowd a name, The Desert WASPS; I already started to design the logo in my head.

Something that I did pick up from living among the fisherman and having served quite a few oysters myself is that the experience is mostly the result of mixing together in one bite the shellfish and the mignonette, a flavorful little array of accoutrement like capers and fresh horseradish that accompany the gelatinous alleged aphrodisiac. I dressed my oyster and slid it into my mouth, gave it two light chews to mingle the flavors and swallowed it. I liked it, a lot.

The ceviche was a bit disappointing, not in quality but execution. Ceviche should be a light and tantalizing mixture of tomato, onion, avocado and cilantro presented cleanly and diced just at the right size where a spoon might be needed. Although this dish seemed to contain those ingredients they were very coarse making it more difficult to manage. Lastly, the salmon was cooked to about a medium rare. Hello? Ceviche is not seared! The point is the citric acid “cooks” the fish by denaturing the proteins. It would have been more accurately described as “Country Style Seared Salmon Ceviche” - but that’s just me.

For the big choice of dinner I vacillated between the Whitefish with parsnip puree and julienne veggies or the Sea Bass with the miso and orange marmalade. Dave was a bit bummed that there was no Surf and Turf. When our server began to clear the plates from course one he asked her why was there no Surf and Turf. He was hanging on the verge of sobbing. She happily put Dave back in happy land when she said that they did offer it in its traditional presentation of Fillet and Lobster Tail with drawn butter and mashed potatoes. I then thought to myself as I watched Dave’s eyes glimmer that the last time I had lobster was when I was at about 12; I ordered the Surf and Turf just for that reason. I was happy. I did although come to the conclusion that I find lobster to be quite boring and probably will not order it again in that way.

One detail I found to be quite amusing about our evening happened when Dave was on the phone making our reservation. The full extent on the humor was not fully experienced until I sat down.

Dave’s parents know the proprietor so when he called he said, “……and I am a friend of Dick’s”. I immediately thought of all those times I would take a reservation and the party on the other end would include at the end of our conversation “….and I know ____.” “Sure ya do pal, everybody does!” is the immediate response in my head and on two occasions seemed to vocalize itself.

When we arrived at the top of the stairs the man at the front asked our name and then turned to his Micros screen to look us up. He turned around almost immediately and said to us “Who’s Dave? I’m Dick’s partner Mitch.”

The way he said it, based on my years in the restaurant biz, led me to believe that this might not have been received well. Dave then explained that it was not him but his parents that had the friendship with his partner. Mitch shook his hand and said condescendingly “Here. Right here you see?….pointing at the screen, VIP” - not the best sign.

We were led to the main dining room to a two top. I took the inside seat and sat down on what seemed to be a large crack that aligned perfectly with my own. We had been seated where two banquettes merged together creating a rather uncomfortable gap of space. I began to move the table to the right when I bumped into something. It was a party of two sitting next to us; their outfits camouflaged so well that I was not able to distinguish them from the floor or upholstery. I only had to hang my crack above the crack for about 20 minutes until the party to the left departed and gave me the chance to realign my gluteus maximus. It’s good to be a VIP!

Our dear friend, The Frog, was very gracious to take time out of his schedule to translate the article that appeared in this month’s “sex” issue of PREF magazine in France. In case you find yourself asking, “Is this a direct translation?” I have been assured that it is and I know that it must have been a challenge for The Frog to avoid editing. Enjoy and I sweetly anticipate your comments!

by Clarisse Mérigeot

From screen to song, the smooth bad boy goes “deeper into you”.

Is pornography an art? No doubt Catherine Breillat, whom in our last issue did we interview, would have her word to say. I can see from her pockets her hands flying, wind in her hair, and waving, waving… [Frog’s note: please don’t blame the translation. This is exactly how she wrote it and yes, it reads just as bizarre in French. As for those wondering, Catherine Breillat is the french director of “intellectual cinematographic reflections on sex” like ‘Anatomie de l’Enfer’ whom I defy anyone to sit through without throwing something at the screen, but that’s just me. BTW, the views and opinions expressed inside those brackets are mine only and not meant to represent the views and opinions of Hazzardahead.com, its webmaster, main subject or anyone affiliated with the oh-so-hot company - Frog]

Doing a profile on X-rated actor Johnny Hazzard is a bit like a game one soon gets a taste for. Since this is our “sex” issue, how could we not invite him? Should I expect endless fights to keep his phone number private? “The secret you keep is your slave, the one you reveal becomes your master” my mother taught me when I was a child.

“What do you think of our magazine, do you know it? What reputation does it have in the States?” “You know, I’m not really a big consumer of cultural goods: I don’t even own a TV!” “But PREF has the greatest reputation in American photography circles.”

In the U.S. version of Queer As Folk, Emmett who becomes a star of virtual masturbation, picks “Fetch Dixon” as a pseudonym. Gay pornography has its own codes: top, bottom… To each practice its superstitions, to each practice its lucky charms. I would have liked to share them with you here, but will Johnny Hazzard be up to it? The nickname comes from Chi Chi La Rue, a close and famous friend. “Hazzard, luck, bad luck… [He] has a list of things [he’d like] to do in his life and by joining the pornographic cause, [he] could mentally check one of them.” X-rated cinema is about mixing pleasure with business: why not have fun making a dollar or two?” “[He was] bound for the entertainment industry, anyway.”

“You know, this is the best interview I’ve ever had so far. To provide you with intelligent answers will take some time: I wish so much to give each of your questions the answer it deserves. You really used you head here… I can tell and I appreciate it.” Used my head, right… How to approach Johnny Hazzard? What to say and, on second thought, not do to him? “Being gay has no impact on my life. I consider homosexuality a minor part of my character. I never was a militant and, frankly, whenever I do charity it’s mostly on behalf of animal protection.”

Johnny Hazzard is of average height but Johnny Hazzard is of more than average beauty… His penis is as big as it looks, he’s “happy to confirm”; and he truly is American, not French, by Jove! You thought so when you first got in touch with him but where on earth did you get the idea? One should never believe a media lie: one should never believe the Internet.

The great thing about porn – aside from stirring up libidinous urges – is that men use it as a ruler for penisian holster. [I’m aware there is no such word as “penisian” in the English language, but then there is no such word as the original text’s “penien” in French either except maybe in Catherine Breillat’s diary - Frog.] When you analyze gay cinema, the upside of it is that women have nothing to do with it. Women, they piss us off with their demands and clamors. Far from questions of gender representation and its new and regular demands, [French feminist group] les Chiennes de Garde (”Watch Bitches”) shut up. “I get always asked the same questions and I’m really tired of that. I wish I could have a ready-made set of answers. I wish I could lie sometimes.” “Luckily, sometimes I get solicitations from a publication in your league!”

“J’attends l’amour” : “I’m waiting for love,” etc. As for his most beautiful and most painful love stories, Hazzard takes a chance at telling us the platitude of his life. “Porn stars tend to love other porn stars. Personally I believe that any relationship involving my job will never stand a chance to work out. I love anyone who is neither titillated nor intimidated, that’s my secret. As for those who say there’s nothing in the world like making love to a porn star, they must have a celebrity obsession bordering on the unhealthy! For when it comes to sex, a truck driver that you meet at a bus stop will stand a better chance to make you come your brains off.”

“To say that only men are into porn is total nonsense: I get many letters from lesbians and my blog overflows with straight women who are avid followers of my career. The X-rated entertainment industry is not that far from the mainstream one, after all: sex in itself isn’t enough to arouse you; you need scenery, atmosphere…” One will be hard pressed not to fall in the usual cliché of questions like “Why did you decide to become a porn star?” or “What childhood trauma is at the core of your lifestyle choice?” For it’s hard to imagine getting rammed through all orifices for the mere pleasure of earning money .

“To men, I’m like a challenge. It goes with the job.”

“Let me tell you something: you must learn to top before even pretending to be a good bottom.” “My sexuality off screen is the same than on screen… There’s nothing a muscled hairy-chested male with salt-and-pepper hair couldn’t make me try at least once. Not one position.” “I get hit on a lot, that’s part of the game: men, I’m like a challenge to each one of them. Trouble is most of them are not even aware how heavy-handed they can act sometimes. I try to deal with it by reminding myself it comes with the territory!”

Few are the actors who will take their mum on a set. Johnny Hazzard is one of them; he has luck and he has support… “My childhood made me who I am today: an eccentric and colored man. I’d probably still be waiting tables at my French bar in Boston, L’Aquitaine, if I hadn’t been discovered.” In any case, “protect yourself, at any cost.”: “I don’t need to see friends dropping like flies to think about protection.”

With time, the more lucrative activities are not enough for satisfaction. “Some time ago, my webmaster posted on You Tube a video of me dancing to a Sherrie Lea [sic] track penned by James Collin. James saw it and immediately offered me to sing one of his compositions!” After all it worked for [ex-pornstar and now singer] Clara Morgane, thanks to her new notoriety courtesy of priceless [talk show host] Cauet. Porn stars aren’t more stupid than others, they’re just worse at certain things they were not destined for… For in all honesty, the aforesaid track won’t make the most played songs of the Millennium. “Deeper Into You, [in French] “plus profond dans toi“, betrays here a less-than-evident and more-than-inappropriate subtlety [I don’t get it in French either so don’t ask - Fr.] and when you think about it, Clara Morgane may not have any voice but at least enough good sense to get proper advice. Too busy jumping everything that moves, and faced with such a novel opportunity, Hazzard may have lacked the necessary restraint. […but at least has enough good sense to get lyrics that don’t start with “O baby I’m sexee girl/O baby I’m nastee girl” or end with “Hin, hin what you wanna?” - Fr.] “People are usually surprised to see that I’m only a five foot six. I’m not the one they think I am.” Since Johnny Hazzard has opened up to us the gates of the kingdom that is his intimacy, let’s leave him a chance to express himself: why linger on the one stumble in his journey? He’s handsome, he delivers, he’s hot and he gives to animals: let us be charitable in turn.