Sin, Saints & Skankfest

I’m heading to New Orleans this week — a city that hums like an amp left plugged in too long. Every corner’s got a ghost, every bar’s got a story, and starting this Friday, November 14th, the freaks, comics, and beautiful degenerates of Skankfest will take over Mardi Gras World. My kind of people.

They’ve asked me to guest-judge a little event called “Your Chance to Direct a Porn.” Yeah, you read that right. Only at Skankfest would that sentence make perfect sense.

Tickets are still up for grabs if you’ve got the nerve. This isn’t some buttoned-up industry gig — it’s raw, uncensored, and alive. If art had a hangover, this would be it.

I’m not going down there for fame, fortune, or forgiveness — I’m going for the art. The wild, reckless, unfiltered kind that still believes in freedom. The kind that doesn’t wait for approval. Skankfest is that spirit. It’s comedy meets chaos meets church revival — if the preacher was on mushrooms and the choir forgot their shirts.

I’ve seen enough sets to know the difference between real direction and pure lunacy. Down there, they blend the two like a cocktail you shouldn’t drink but definitely will. So yeah, I’ll be judging. Not the people — the vision. You wanna direct a porn? Fine. Show me you can tell a story. Make me feel something other than secondhand guilt.

It’s all part of this gonzo run I’m on. From Georgia’s film trenches to the madness of Bourbon Street, it’s the same mission — find the pulse of creation and crank it till the speakers blow.

If you’re near New Orleans, grab a ticket and come see what happens when saints go skanky. If you’re not, stay tuned. This story’s just getting started.

Packing bags, loading film, and heading straight into the fire.