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Ian Spiegelman is a young, feisty three-quarter Jew with a new book out called Everyone's Burning.

Surprisingly, it's not a memoir (he's almost 30, so technically he's too old). It is, however, a refreshingly disturbing tale, with kitchzy-cool dialogue, buckets of drugs, and lots of creepy sex. He also contributes to the trendiest, weeniest gossip column, the world-renowned Page Six at The New York Post. With that type of resume, Sir Ian was all about the Rock and a Hard Place. The man's a menace. He must be stopped.

Scream for me, Long Beach.

BT: So, Everyone's Burning is kind of loony, fella, you alright with that? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love a good rape sequence as much as the next guy, but honestly, this is like batshit crazy. Where in sweet Christ did you come up with some of these things?

IS: Why on earth do so many people keep referring to rape scenes? There's only one rape in the whole book and it's hardly even depicted, only the revenge gets the whole treatment. But alas. It was easy to come up with the batshit crazy bits because a steaming bucket of vampire bat doo-doo is frankly more rational to me than just about anything the humans let themselves get up to. We've become so diseased in our imaginations and actions that it might be for the best if the good Lord got cracking and smote the whole breed already. I didn't have to go anywhere or do anything to come up with the nastiness that happens in my little book. It's not a true story, no, but I can tell you that I didn't have to search my mind very far to find the insane abuses humans like to perform on each other. The girl whose piece of shit father used to sneak up behind her and punch her in the back of the head -- what does it take to know that? Just pick one out of five women and talk to her. It's happening somewhere right now. Nothing stops it. A fire the size of the world might stop it, but we haven't had that fortune yet.





BT: How do you get published? Can I get published? I can write about dirty stuff. Look: "The man tried to clean out the dead woman's vulva with his tongue. He then had diarrhea on her face and ate it off her like hungry bison in a stadium full of freshly cut goat dick. Mmm, he said." Is that good?

IS: Well, it's hard to judge by so short an excerpt. Certainly, there's an audience for necrophiliac scat literature -- now, more than ever. But we don't know anything about the man or the woman, so who's to know why he's engaging in such a ritual. But, it's like I said before. You think you made that up but that stuff happens perpetually. A few years back a man killed his mother and when the police arrived they found him trying to copulate with a disembodied length of her intestine. So, whenever you're feeling blue, just be grateful that you're not that guy. Or his mother. Or anyone who knew them.

BT: Dave Eggers. You HATE him. Would it bother you if you found out that Dave Eggers had a bigger penis than you?

IS: I don't hate him. Hate between individuals is an intimate thing and we don't even know each other. I hate what he's come to stand for, which, to my mind, is behaving with a rabidly superior attitude merely because you have a knack for being clever. Cleverness was celebrated in Victorian parlors and we had pretty well done away with it as a virtue until his posse filled a void in which the children of the ruling class decided for themselves that nothing was "happening" in the world. Plenty was happening, just nothing that they could see or speak of. In any case, men are far too concerned with the dimensions of their genitalia. Eggers might very well have a larger package than I but he'd probably riff in a woman's ear about Duran Duran while he was mildly pumping away, and if that's your thing we shouldn't be together anyway. Wait, that's not right. He wouldn't utter a sound in bed, not one word. It would be cold clinical silence -- you could hear molecules colliding, icecaps melting. He'd hold his breath.

BT: Would you rather give Toph Eggers a hand job with lotion or let Rick Moody teabag you?

IS: Coconut scented lotion? There's really no dilemma here at all. A simple handy on an innocent young man versus a mouthful of warm smegma from a bloated middle-aged Columbia MFA grad who wears velour jackets? It's the happy ending for brave Toph. We'd both walk away pretty much unsullied.

BT: What the hell happened to Dave Eggers' sister?



IS: She committed suicide. That's really all I know about it.

BT: Would you rather let Dave Eggers have sex with your girlfriend (and she'll enjoy it tremendously) or rape a small Asian child?

IS: Everyone gets dogged from time to time and you just have to man up and take it. Let it be Eggers, let it be anyone. I could drink off the burn fairly easily. And if that typical ape could seduce my girlfriend, she's not someone I should have invested time or emotion in the first place. Plus, the next time I ran into Eggers at some New Yorker event (if he's not pretending to be reclusive) I could knock him in the teeth and announce, "I'll be waiting outside if you want to do something about it." It would all be very 1920s. I'm still waiting for the opportunity to punch a fellow novelist in public. It's a rite of passage that's been unfortunately lost tot he ages. I understand Neal Pollack and I will both be in Philadelphia for an event this fall. That might be just the thing. Though I'm not sure if I can wait that long.

BT: You do stuff for Page Six. Did you ever almost get into a fight with a well-known celebrity because of something you wrote?

IS: Ben Affleck, Russell Crowe and Derek Jeter have all had words with me, but only with Crowe did it rise to the level of a threat. It ended quietly, though. In that business, even the ones who get tagged "bad boy" are nothing but wee fairies. It's amazing to me how many times I've looked around a party and noted that I could beat the nice out of pretty much anyone in the room. And I'm not some tough guy. It's just that so few of these people have anything much inside of them.

BT: Do you think Page Six editor Richard Johnson shaves his balls? If so, does he do it daily, weekly, monthly, or for special occasions?

IS: That kind of vain ritual, when performed by males, is strictly for pansies. And Richard's no pansy. Like the old proverb: "Men are from Mars. Women should trim their pubes."

BT: How big do you think Bijou Phillip's vagina is? I'd bet you could shove a rowing oar in there and she wouldn't even feel it.

IS: The vagina, being the greatest of all creations, is endlessly resilient. Whatever misadventures Bijou has gotten into, I'm sure her vagina remains a veritable Shangri-la where lucky travelers enjoy graces and blessings the likes of which mortals dare not dream. The gods themselves adjourn there to die.

BT: Would you rather stick a raw oyster up your ass for 12 days -- and every time you'd crap, you'd have to pull it out of the toilet and shove it back inside -- or beat the shit out of a person with Cerebral Palsy?

IS: The meat of an oyster is tiny. I suspect I wouldn't even notice its presence after a few hours. I don't relish the prospect of reaching into a bowl of my own waste to retrieve the thing every day (I'm


amazingly regular) but at least it's my own feces and not that of my enemies. And what makes you think someone with CP is so easy to beat? Cripples have awesome reservoirs of strength by virtue of taking shit from people so often. Man, Blair's cousin on "The Facts of Life." I'd love to put her in something tight and shiny and let her take her aggressions out on me. Now that's a good time.

BT: "Blaiawwwh" … Anyway, do you think writers are sexy?


IS: Not a bit. Most of them these days are pretty -- that's how they get their book deals in the first place. And I despise pretty things. Cellists and sculptors are sexy. Overworked, sweaty waitresses are sexy. Actresses, models and writers can all hurry up and get in the coffin as far as I'm concerned. Except for Laura Brown -- she's hot like whoa. Laura, sweetness, let's get it together already! Your boyfriend is a fay little tool. I'm for you baby!

BT: Do you think anyone will ever masturbate to Everyone's Burning?

IS: If they do, it's not for anything I'd intended. Some people are pissed that I didn't make the S&M scenes "useable," that I didn't celebrate some alternative lifestyle. But the whole point was that we earthlings are degenerate, that our desires have gotten so twisted and sad. But, yeah, even though I don't consider any of what I've written to be erotic, there's no end to what minds are out there. Someone might jerk off because I mention a character's lazy eye or because someone throws up. There are too many fetishes out there for me to consider so I don't consider them at all. Since publication I've also been informed that the glossy cover is perfect for cutting lines on, provided you use a credit card and not a razor. Did I intend that? No. But people can do whatever they want with it once they buy it. I need cash like anyone else.

BT: Have you ever smoked weed out of a beer can?

IS: Of course. It's damned inefficient and the flimsy metal can't withstand the heat of the flame for very long once you've punched the pinholes in the bowl. You're also likely to get a mouthful of hot ash but you deserve it for being such a stingy bitch that you can't spend ten bucks on the proper apparatus or for being such a wasted piece of wretch that you keep losing your pipes.

BT: Is it true that you can get a pretty intense high by sticking cocaine up your ass? I've heard some people like to do that sort of thing. You ever tried *that*, you dirty sumbitch?

IS: When I'm on coke, the last thing on earth I think about is anything below the waist. All these fuckers write about all the girls they're bedding while on these Herculean drug benders. I don't buy it. Give me coke and you can put Paris on my face and Nicki on my crotch with the Ronson twins in between and I'll still be blathering away about the end of the world. Which is a fine reason not to do coke.

BT: Have you ever had a three way with Liz Smith and Cindy Adams?

IS: Nope. I'm not their type. Cindy's got some great legs, though. I shit you not.

BT: Would you rather be on the receiving end of a private bukkake session featuring Michael Wolff, Steve Dunleavy and Eric Alterman or let Michael Musto give you head in the middle of Madison Square Garden during a Knicks game?

IS: Well, in the first place, Michael Wolff lost his penis covering an IP summit in Boulder, Colorado in '98. Something about a bet with Simon Dumenco, a tray of Snausages, and a scimitar wielding Turk. But, just for argument's sake, I'll humor the idea that Wolff is a man. Go ahead and give me Door Number One. Getting a blowjob from Musto at a Knicks game, aside from the fact that millions of people would bear witness, would be just another blowjob. What would I have to remember it by? Men are entirely too interested in who blows them and who does not blow them. It's all so pedestrian. How many times has some sweaty-collard corporate lackey huddled up next to you at a bar and bragged about whose mouth he managed to fill with his stale little member the previous evening? They all wish it was a man's pulsing balloon knot or they wouldn't bother talking about it. So I say, dig the hole in the sand, hang down the salamis, and let me jump in! And the next time some Citicorp VP regales me with talk of the poor temp he tricked into slobbering his knob I'll proudly reply, "Three titans of media just glazed my face like a prize doughnut, you fag!"


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