I guess I have my publicist to thank for the fact that I happen to be in L.A. on book tour on the same weekend as Erotica L.A., a massive porn-industry trade show held at the L.A. Convention Center.

I’ll come right out and just tell you that I actually know one or two wonderful people who work in the porn industry, who I knew would be at the convention. So I was tempted to stop by today to say hello. It seemed a stretch, though—could I really justify time away from my busy sushi-promotional tour to attend a porn fest?

Then I made an intriguing discovery: Hadaka Sushi, the new L.A. restaurant that’s made itself infamous by serving nyotai-mori, or sushi on naked women, was going to have a booth at the porn convention. (The restaurant’s motto: “sushi gone naughty”; website at left.)

I was so there—not because I endorse the idea of sushi served on naked women, which I don’t (see my previous post on this), but simply because the spectacle of a sushi stall at a porn fest was too good to pass up. I had to at least go and make fun of this sushi stupidity, and perhaps marvel at the manifold manifestations of sushi in America.

So here’s what happened today:

My acquaintances left me a badge at the check-in desk. Before receiving it and entering the convention, I had to sign a legally-binding document stating that I would not engage in “live sexual conduct” of any kind. I won’t go into the details of what was specified, but it was very extensive—it occurred to me that Bill Clinton could have benefited from this sort of document before entering the Oval Office. Then, when I received my badge, it said in big letters, “TREVOR CORSON, EXHIBITOR.”

Upon entering, I faced a large sign that said: “Flashing is illegal and will not be tolerated at this event! Use your camera wisely.”

I took a picture and passed through the 30-foot-tall women in lingerie who guarded the entrance.

What happened next was, I think, rather extraordinary. The first thing I encountered inside was a gleaming white stage belonging to “Wicked Pictures.com”—clearly the convention’s ritziest real estate. A throng of men crowded around, shooting pictures of the hottest porn stars in the show, who stood on a dais protected by body guards. Here’s what it looked like:

Notice anything unusual for a porn convention? Take another look. This time I’ll help you:

The man standing in the best spot in the entire porn industry, chatting up porn star Carmen Hart on the dais, is a sushi chef.

That’s right, it’s the head chef of Hadaka Sushi, Edward Brik.

Need I say anything more about the ubiquity of sushi in America?

It would seem Brik has a thing about surrounding himself with scantily-clad women—that’s just a guess, judging by this photo from the convention’s website.

Presumably I was simply jealous, but I have to say that I was a little disappointed that Brik wasn’t actually manning the Hadaka Sushi booth, which, when I found it, stood forlorn and empty near the back of the convention hall. On the other hand, even if Brik had been back there, it’s certainly possible no one would have been paying him any attention, since the

booth next door was occupied by an extremely talented pole dancer. (Sorry, I forgot, it’s not called “pole dancing”—I was instructed by a woman who teaches this art that it actually should be called “urban fertility dancing.”)

At least the Hadaka Sushi booth had a copy of the restaurant’s menu. I checked it out. I won’t bother making you gag by listing the entire thing; suffice to say it was just offensive and nasty-sounding, especially the explicit comparison at the top of the menu between rolling sushi and giving a hand job. There were sushi rolls called “Glory Hole,” “Doggy Style,” and “Lipstick Lesbian.” Don’t even get me started on the entrées.

In the end, the real highlight of Erotica L.A. for me was when one of my industry acquaintances pulled aside the legendary porn icon and socialist/feminist agitator Nina Hartley and introduced us. (You may remember her from Boogie Nights. Some people, of course, take exception to idea that a porn star could be a feminist.)

“Nina,” my friend said, “this is the guy who wrote the book about lobster sex.”

Hartley took my hand and shook it with a sure grip. She beamed into my eyes. I swear to god, without batting an eyelash this is what she said to me:

“I’ve got the New York Times review of your new book on sushi, and I’m looking forward to reading it.”