I have romantic friends I don’t sleep with. I have friends who aren’t romantic who I do sleep with. I think that all the different things you are supposed to want in one person, I’ve divided up, which is more successful for me, because I’m not sure there is that one person.
On TV, reading, and priorities:
You don’t have TV? I do. You need to for porn. And for when we’re at war, when war breaks out. When we’re bombing Iraq you have to watch. In fact I have televisions all over my house and all my artwork is taken from TV screens. But I never have it on just to watch it. I like to read. I’m not saying that to be elitist. I read. People are always asking me how I have so much time to read because I get one hundred magazines a month and I’m always buying books. I say you have to make a choice: you have to be single and you can’t watch television. And I made that choice.
On Michael Jackson:
[…] the Daily News had an article with Macaulay Culkin’s father where he denied that Macaulay had had sex with him and whatever… who knows… but he did have an amazing detail. One day he went over with Macaulay to Michael Jackson’s secret apartment, not Neverland but this little trick pad, and at one point there were real babies there sucking on their bottles and Michael Jackson had his own bottle and was there sucking on his bottle. So Michael Jackson is, on top of it all, an adult baby.
On good sex:
A Dirty Shame has a lot of religious stuff, but it’s like, if God invented sex, why couldn’t there be sex miracles? Aren’t we all looking for sex miracles? I am. Aren’t you? Every time we have sex, do you hope it will the best time ever? That you will levitate or that something explodes in the apartment. Or that somebody spontaneously combusts or flames break out? Surreal things happen when you have good sex. We can hope.
Gay S&M has a hard time recruiting. Nobody wants to get whipped anymore. Nobody’s that guilty about it. No kid wants to wear chaps. Chaps are mortifyingly out of fashion.
In my movie I have people who are into sandwiches, into threesomes. And I hate threesomes. I don’t want to be the lettuce in a sandwich. Because if I had a boyfriend, I’m not interested in finding someone else. I’m satisfied with one.
On getting what you want:
I did read a porn story in which a truck driver made a boy lick all the tires of his truck before he could blow him and that made me laugh. I thought, well you gotta do what you gotta do.
The kind of censorship in America is liberal censorship. It’s scarier. It’s corporate censorship.
On decor dos and don’ts (on which I get full marks):
You know what I think is the worst turn-off? When you walk into somebody’s house and they have one of those awful CD racks.
Like when CDs were invented in the 80s and there was this problem of what to do with them and people designed these awful CD shelves that were these freestanding towers made out of fancy metal shapes.
I would think when you go into somebody’s house and they don’t have any books or anything. They might be a great one-night stand, who cares. But they would be a terrible boyfriend.
I got a gift certificate to go try Botox. I thought it was like a drug dealer, giving the first shot for free so you could get hooked. I’d never have Botox. I could never sneer if I had Botox.
On the quandaries of sex-cannibalism:
Did the person he ate have AIDS, was it safe or unsafe sex? I don’t know. Is cannibalism safe sex? Probably not. I’ll save that for the autumn of my years. I think that’s bad sex.
On the price of fame:
I always say that, being famous, the one thing you lose is the right to have bad sex. I can’t go into a fuck bar with glory holes and look through and somebody sees me standing there. What are they going to say? It takes the fun out of it. The whole thing about bad sex, the appeal of it was being anonymous.
Last night, my friend and I decided to hang out / be gay (i.e. drink cans of coconut water through straws) at Davie and Burrard at 3:00 a.m. to see if we might be treated to an attempted gay bashing, as seems to be all the rage of late.
Nary a moment of sipping and posing-against-fire-hydrant-ing had gone by when we suddenly found ourselves in the company of a straight, drunken male. It all just seemed too easy, like bashing fish in a barrel!
But no, this one was different. Our new acquaintance wasted no time in launching into a quietly-enraged recounting of his recent brush with theft (the circumstances of which, and the potential retribution his thief can look forward to, I won’t get into).
Somehow, all this thievery / payback talk gave way to a fiery indictment of those who manage to find fault in (homosexual) people loving each other, who would rather see children be parentless than raised by loving (homosexual) parents, who see nothing wrong with beating (homosexual) people in the streets.
Yes, he was drunk, and yes, he was ranting, but he meant every word, and it was clearly coming from a place of very deep indignation, the kind that comes from true, visceral empathy: the ability to put oneself in another’s shoes, see the stupid shit they have to put up with, and decide that none of us is going to tolerate it.
He told us to think of him, this straight white male at 3 a.m. on the corner of Davie and Burrard, whenever we’re faced with the world’s hateful nonsense, and to remember that he’s on our side, he’ll bash back with us if it comes down to it.
So, Julian, you’re a peach, and I’ll keep our little meeting in mind.
Had one of those exhausting dreams last night, the kind that leaves you more worn out than if you’d passed on sleeping altogether.
There was a play going on, and I was the male lead. I had known about the play for some time, genuinely wanted to make it a success, but had been too distracted to get around to learning my lines. And now it was opening night.
I fumbled desperately for a last-minute save: learning my lines right before showtime, finding someone to take my part… cue cards?