Being Me: An Addendum By Tim Case

“Being Me: An Addendum”
by Tim Case Walker
The answer is no, he does not have a rebel flag bumper sticker on the back of his truck.
He does, however, sport a sticker that says “Guns Cause Crime Like Spoons Cause Rosie To
Be Fat and Stupid”.
He likes to read, and he’s insufferably smart… Smarter than 90% of the people you’ll
ever meet, except when he’s in the company of a beautiful young lady, at which time his
considerable intellect fails him completely. He does like to fish, and conveniently, he also likes
to eat sushi. He likes to ride his scooter. He likes to piss people off, to stir up the soup, to be, as
Gunter Eich once wrote, “Sand, not oil, in the machinery of the world”.
Porn gadfly, my best friend, was 42 years old when I met him in Tampa,
Florida. I’d talked to him on the phone once, briefly — being from West Virginia myself, his good
ole boy drawl put me at ease immediately. “Sure,” I said to the aspiring porn actress who would
eventually become my wife. “Let’s go meet this  character. Let’s find out what he’s all
about.”
(It’s 13 years later, and I’m still working on that one).
Later that night, after we’d spent the evening together and he’d shot a XXX scene with
the aspiring porn actress who would eventually become my wife, it occurred to me that “good
ole boy” didn’t quite describe the whole of this person who had suddenly entered my wife. Er,
life.
We have had adventures together — lord, the stories we could regale you with over a
Mason jar of Jager bombs or two. The time we were shooting a nude layout out in a protected
area of desert outside of Las Vegas and were accosted (and subsequently ticketed) by a
Federal Park Ranger. The time he was slapped at the Tampa Show by an overweight woman
who then nearly got her ass kicked by my wife. The time he ordered room service, having it
delivered to our table at the AVN Awards Show because he was pissed off that they didn’t feed
us, then charged it all to Farrell Timlake’s room. Endless bukkake stories. The Georgia Limo.
The kitchen at Flamingo. Gidget. Kayden. A-dell and the iced tea. Finberg. Jolie. Flower. Fifi.
Maynard.
He snores. He insists that he doesn’t, but he does. Trust me on this.
He was the best man at my wedding. His “best man toast”, which should go down in
history, is on YouTube and you owe it to yourself to check it out.
He is a trusting soul, and this has gotten him into a spot of trouble from time to time.
My wife says he’s gotten meaner as he’s gotten older, but I don’t necessarily agree with that –
– what I see is that the years have distilled him, like a mean shot of whiskey. Every battle, every
injury or surgery, every time a person he trusted or helped has fucked him over has stripped a
piece of his hide away, and left us with what we have now: a leaner, honest, angry, more brutal
version of the ME  that I met all those years ago.
There are people who we say do not suffer fools gladly.
These days, Mike does not suffer fools at all.
We talk on the phone as much as we can. He’ll complain to you, if you ever bring it up,
that I never answer the phone, but that’s bullshit. I know that if I ever needed him, he would be
there in a heartbeat. He knows that if he ever needs me, I’ll get back to him eventually.
He has asked me to write for him again. To take an occasional turn stirring up the soup.
“It’ll be fun,” he told me. I wrote for this website years ago, when it was better, before
he was famous, when I was much more involved in XXX than I am now, in my current role as
a DJ in a Dayton, Ohio strip club. I still have things to say, however… and perhaps you’ll enjoy
hearing about them from time to time.
If you don’t, blame me, not him. God knows he has enough trouble.
Talk to you soon.
(And confidentially, J.R. Wolfe? Go fuck yourself.)