Jonathan Ames, favorite author of P.S. and writer of such novels as THE EXTRA MAN, I PASS LIKE NIGHT and WAKE UP, SIR!, plus three collections of comedic essays, has interviewed Marilyn Manson for the newest issue of Spin! There’s a preview available on Spin’s website, with the full article available only in print. A preview of the preview:

The door swings open and Manson lopes in, carrying his own goblet of absinthe. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, black leather pants, and gigantic Frankenstein boots. He’s six-foot-three and looks to be all narrow torso and legs. I’m middle-aged and completely bald and immediately assess that Manson’s black hair is beginning to thin, probably from multiple dyeings. [Patrick: This line is so Jonathan Ames.] His face is sweet, and his eyes, without his usual colored contacts, are kindly. [Patrick: As is this one.]

We start to talk, and Manson is sniffling a little. Right away, he starts to tell me about the breakup of his marriage to burlesque queen Dita Von Teese. They were together for six years and then, in their seventh year, they got married. “It’s the old cliché,” he says. “Marriage changes everything.”

The behavior he had manifested for the first six years — such as living like a vampire — became unacceptable to Von Teese, he says. But he wasn’t willing to give up his vampire’s hours. “I’m my most creative between 3 and 5 A.M.,” he says. “That’s the way I’ve always been.”

Going to sleep at dawn and rising at dusk was not the only issue of contention, though. Before they were wed, Manson and Von Teese were never separated for more than five days; after they got married, he wasn’t seeing her three out of every four weeks, due to her own hectic schedule. Manson is very needy, and with Von Teese on the road all the time, he started losing his mind. And he started believing her when she said that the way he lived was wrong.

It’s funny. Marilyn Manson is, if this article depicts him accurately, a very Amesian character. [Via Tiger Beat]

A few years ago, I flew to Kansas, enduring a sweltering September afternoon. I stood at a crossroads, which I barely found, seeing as how the junction had been illegibly scrawled on a used sheet of butcher paper.

I had been sent to a mysterious location (this was long before Google Maps) because a man named Lenny had promised to personally deliver an egg salad recipe that was of great value to humanity. This egg salad recipe had been passed down through many generations and had made many people happy. And he had designated me, Edward Champion, as the man who could properly disseminate future reproductions of this egg salad to other people.

The only thing Lenny asked of me was to arrive at the crossroads with $172.25 in quarters — all of them minted before 1970. Well, it took about five trips to the bank and a lengthy explanation to TSA. (This was shortly after 9/11. So people were jumpy.) But I did it.

Lenny never showed. But a horned man by the name of Luke did. He said that he would offer me the egg salad recipe in four years’ time, so long as I continued to mention Jonathan Ames’ ongoing developments on my website.

Well, it’s been more than four years. There’s still no egg salad recipe. But I’m a man of my word.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t refer you to Jonathan Ames’ appearance at Jewcy this week. He’s blogging with Amanda Marcotte in epistolary format.

As regular readers know, several years ago, I made a deal with a demon at a crossroads. The demon informed me that his name was Anthony Robbins. The demon, who insisted that I call him Tony, hoped to introduce me to something called neuropsychotic programming. I informed the demon that no, I was simply looking for a good potato salad recipe, and had no desire to become a sociopathic maniac. It was the salad recipe that had inspired me to thumb my way across the country, suffering bad Denny’s meals and declining invitations to sip lemonade with white-robed men referred to as “Grand Wizards.”

The demon said, “Okay, tell you what. I’ll give you your salad recipe if you report all Jonathan Ames developments.”

“Jonathan Ames? Well, that’s easy. I like him. He’s a funny guy.”

“Do this for a year,” said the demon, “and I will give you your precious potato salad recipe.”

Well, as everyone who knows me knows, I’m a man of my word. And I would be remiss if I didn’t point you to this Jonathan Ames story in Nerve, which begins with the sentence, “She was a foreign journalist, assigned to interview me.”

Of course, I’ve been doing this for more than a year and the potato salad recipe has yet to turn up. But I’ve consulted an attorney to see if there’s an escape clause in the contract.

Let this be a lesson to all who encounter demons at crossroads.

Jonathan Ames: “On the oral-sex front, I then made a concerted effort to lick the labia, which was something I’ve been guilty of neglecting in the past, and again the results were quite good. I also plunged my middle digit in about two inches, counting off the distance with my finger along the inside of the young lady’s vagina the way you march out the steps between your car and a fire-hydrant. I may have actually located the G-spot, if I’m to judge by the gasps of pleasure that were elicited.”

Long-time readers know that I once made a deal with a daemon. An evil eidolen answering to the name of Bee promised that if I continuously reported Jonathan Ames’ activity, I would be given a great salad recipe that would allow me to win friends and influence people. The salad recipe has yet to materialize, but being a man who lives up to his end of the bargain, I would be remiss if I didn’t report that The Jonathan Ames Show is going down at Mo Pitkins on January 30 and January31 at 11:00 PM. Ames will be presenting a number of unusual acts, and Moby will make a surprise appearance on at least one of these nights. Ames also promises to have a pillow fight with audience members and will, in his words, “gently paddle audience members.” It is unknown whether the paddle in question will be one of the ping-pong variety or the English public school type. But this sounds to me like several Friday evenings in my twenties.