To read the first part of the interview click here
Crimson Celluloid: As with everything you do your Gigantic Book of Sex is meticulously researched and thoroughly entertaining. Are you happy with the end result? Is there anything you now don’t know about sex?
Jim Goad: I definitely don’t know why men are turned-on by lesbianism. When I see two women kissing, my only physical reaction is a strong desire to vomit in both of their mouths.
I don’t know why the current male preferences regarding female pubic hair lean toward stubbly, kiddie-porn bald snatches. The vagina, like the penis, is not one of God’s most visually appealing creations. There’s a reason our Lord created a lush thicket of hair to hide what looks like an aerial photo of a fatal car accident. I prefer for a woman’s most private of areas to have as much hair as Carlos Santana’s entire band, head to toe, circa 1972.
I don’t know why the ugliest, most unfuckable people are the ones always hollering about being “sex-positive.” No, actually, I think I do know the answer to that one. It’s a mating strategy. Like the plaintive wail of a lonesome wildebeest, it’s a way for the members of our herd who are least likely to find sexual partners to loudly declare that they, too, are sexual beings with a unique sexuality and possibly their very own scent, a scent which may, if you’ve had enough to drink, not be so repellent that you can’t overcome it long enough to shoot a quick wad, give a fake phone number, and get the fuck out of there.
Crimson Celluloid: You have recently met a beautiful young lady and had a child. Does this mean that future reissues of ANSWER Me! won’t include “babies are dirty and disgusting” and will be replaced by “I love children and fluffy bunnies” type articles?
Jim Goad: For at least a decade, O my inquisitive Australian friend, I’ve realized there are far more efficient and devastating methods of disturbing people than merely sloshing around in the pigpen with obvious, profane, scatological, flat-brained, grade-school offensiveness.
ANSWER Me! led to an obscenity trial. It was blamed for a White House shooting and a triple suicide. Debbie died too young from cancer and I went to prison. There was great disapproval of me throughout the land. People said nasty and unfair things about me. C’mon, now, those are some solid credentials for any “transgressive” resumé. To do anything else along those lines would be redundant.
The rage in ANSWER Me! was absolutely genuine. But it’s only a small part of who I am. Many people who meet me are puzzled—and most seem disappointed—that I don’t immediately start yelling at them and screaming about bitches and niggers. It’s as if they would prefer to view me strictly as a freak show. I can’t possibly exist to them in any other context.
I’ve often wondered why inarticulate nincompoops such as GG Allin or Sid Vicious or any drooling-and-stupid junkie wannabe rock star living in his mother’s basement anywhere gets a free pass from the SAME people who sincerely seem to believe I need to be lynched, or failing that, openly and loudly condemned with every breath I take. What, precisely, is it about me that’s so fucking offensive that I need to be combated as if I’m a fatal virus—and why am I not seeing it?
Like everything, my answer is self-serving: Because unlike Sid Vicious or GG Allin, I’m actually able to reason. As much as it troubles the shit-talkers to ponder it, I’m something more than a two-dimensional buffoon. I’m arrogant enough to tell you that I’m smart enough to have scored higher on my Scholastic Aptitude Test than any US president whose SAT score has been made public. I even scored higher than ex-presidential candidate Al Gore, whose SAT score was so high, it was deemed as potentially off-putting to voters.
I’ve noticed a tendency among my critics to suddenly appear in an open forum, spout all manner of wild shit about me, and then immediately clam up and scurry away the moment I offer to debate them in a safe, non-threatening public forum about what they’ve said. It’s not as if I’m asking to meet them in an alleyway—they’re welcome to do it online, and even anonymously—but still they seem afraid that I’d be able to beat them up with words and reasoning alone.
I have a lifetime open offer for a public debate—either in the flesh or on the Web—with anyone who thinks they’ve figured me out. Naturally, NONE of the naysayers has ever accepted the offer. And I’m talking about people who obviously thought I was important enough to misrepresent my words or actions repeatedly. And often, after they’ve run away from the offer of a debate, they’ll appear somewhere else talking more shit.
Or maybe they just think I’m a psycho. Even so, it’s dumb to shit-talk a psycho who’s still alive and has wheels.
If they’ve aired a negative opinion about me, I don’t care. Let them have their opinions. Let them cuddle in bed with their opinions. But they almost always seem to get the facts wrong—and often it seems deliberate, in order to bolster their opinions—so I’ll argue anyone into the dust when it comes to facts.
That’s one of the reasons I always challenged people to find a typo in ANSWER Me! For many people, the most offensive thing about this Psycho Redneck Caveman was that he could actually think and spell.
In Shit Magnet I made a distinction between being offended and being bothered by things, and almost everything in life bothers me. The criticism that has most consistently bothered me is the allegation that I’m a schlockmeister whose only objective is to shock people. I write to please myself. The idea that the reader is important enough to me that I’d tailor my words to either please or offend them always seems amusingly alien to me.
I was exposed to violence while I was still in the womb—my father punched my mother in the stomach while she was pregnant with me. My oldest brother was stabbed thirty to forty times and strangled to death with his own belt when I was eight years old. Much of my life has been pockmarked with violence. So I had a natural interest in the topic, along with a strong home-field advantage. And I believe I exhausted the topic through ANSWER Me!.
When I write, I strain with every wizened fibre of my weathered frame to analyze every possible angle of any given subject. And I force myself through such a long, methodical, painstaking process, I never want to think or write about the topic again when I’m finished with it.
That’s how it went with violence and ANSWER Me!
And the scapegoating of poor whites in The Redneck Manifesto.
And the scapegoating of men in Shit Magnet.
And with writing about sex, or ever thinking about having to write about sex, with my Gigantic Book of Sex.
And once I’m done with my Race book, I won’t want to ever so much as dream about the topic again. But I’m sure I’ll spend the next one or two dozen years having to defend the book both verbally and physically.
By that time, I’ll be finished with all the “offensive” topics there are for the plundering. I’ve covered them all.
So in an attempt to wrap up what is my very, very long answer to your very short question, I will say that, yes, the horizon that lies beyond my Race book may be one of such overstated wholesomeness and reliance on family values, festooned with pictures of me, the wife, and the baby smiling our fucking ASSES off, that you will all be nauseated to the point of vomiting, which never could be accomplished if I was still doing something similar to ANSWER Me!
Crimson Celluloid: How do you think fatherhood will change you? What mistakes did your father make that you won’t repeat?
Jim Goad: I don’t think it’s changed me so much as it’s conjured protective instincts I’ve had all along. Anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of seeing me interact with house pets knows I have a wickedly strong paternal instinct bordering on the maternal. You truly need to witness me goo-gooing and coo-cooing and making up goofy little songs to glean a full appreciation of how nauseating I can be. This is another instance where things seemingly don’t add up—how can this vile, hateful, violent, misogynist, racist, loathsome, repugnant, worthless, reprehensible subhuman be so insanely tender and kind to little doggies and kitty-cats?
The answer is easy—it’s because I love them. But until little Zane Thaddeus Goad first looked me in the eyes, even I was unaware of how daffy and dizzy in love I’d be with him. Take me at my word when I say you DON’T want to hear some of the songs I’ve composed for him, nor the voice I use to sing them to him. You’d be far more offended by it all than by anything else I’ve written or done, and not because any of it is “transgressive,” but because it’s so vomit-inducingly cute and wholesome.
But it’s also utterly sincere, and I think that’s what confuses people so much. It simply doesn’t seem possible.
Without launching into full-on Wah-Wah Baby Me-Generation Mode, I’ll curtly state that I never felt anything in the way of affection from Old Al Goad. He never took an interest in anything I did, nor did he ever encourage me to pursue any of my dreams. He was a stranger to me, and our interactions seemed adversarial from the start.
Baby Zane Goad isn’t even four months old, and I’ve been so relentlessly sweet to him, he breaks into a wide grin whenever I enter the room and he sees it’s me. I’m dedicated to protecting him from the sort of turmoil that surrounded me since birth. Whatever his interests, no matter how much they may diverge from my own, I’ll do my best to help him figure out what makes him happy.
So in contrast to how my father treated me, I won’t hit him, I won’t call him evil, I’ll give him affection, and I’ll pay attention to him.
Crimson Celluloid: Tell us about your new lady.
Jim Goad: Boy, you’re hitting all the soft spots here, aren’t you? OK, you son-of-a-bitch. Ruin my whole fucking persona, why don’t you?
After being shot out of prison like a stigmatized cannonball, I made no secret of the fact that I became a cum-spraying weasel who’d only stay with a girl long enough to pull out and go plug myself into another one. Plenty of people have bad divorces, but few of them end up with cancer, imprisonment, and public scorn. In the dark, rolling, treacherous wake of that sunken ship, the last thing I sought was a “relationship” or, heaven forbid, marriage.
One day scientists will more fully understand the chemistry and neuro-circuitry that differentiates love from lust. I couldn’t begin to explain the mechanics, but I know that they feel differently.
I first had contact with Shannon via email. I was living at my brother’s house in Florida over the winter of 2006-2007. She and I agreed to meet when I came up to Atlanta to see if it was worth living there. As I crossed over the Georgia line, I felt a huge, cinematic, John Ford Western movie sort of significance. And she was so sweet and pretty and Southern and pretty and pale and pretty, I hated to leave Atlanta. When I got back to Florida, I told my brother, “I can fuck a hundred chicks but only have feelings for one, and this is the one.”
I moved to Atlanta a year and a half ago. I haven’t so much as flirted with another girl since. After we lay the baby to sleep each night and crawl into bed, I look in her eyes and still can’t believe she’s mine.
Crimson Celluloid: What can you tell us about your forthcoming encyclopaedia of race?
Jim Goad: It’s easily my most ambitious undertaking ever, and I’ll attempt to muster as much objectivity as possible given my cynicism with how the topic has become Worldwide Moral Panic #1.
I don’t believe that human ethnic groups are equal, and I believe that’s fairly easy to prove. What’s absolutely impossible to prove is the idea of innate and everlasting equality. To think that humans evolved from lower species BUT the evolutionary process somehow came to a halt and we all arrived at the finish line simultaneously is to embrace a fiction possibly more implausible than Christianity. Different groups in different areas developed different traits to assure their survival. Equality is a nice idea, but it’s entirely impossible to prove. You could paper the globe with evidence that there are demonstrable cognitive and physical disparities between what are crudely called human “races.” But you could fit all the evidence of innate equality on your pinkie fingernail with room to spare.
In some countries, to say what I just said is to risk lifelong social ostracism and possible assault. My crazy parents and those crazy Catholic nuns didn’t do a good job of forcing me to keep the Ten Commandments, but they kept me forever fixated on the very idea of a taboo. Anti-racist propaganda is relentless and inescapable, as if the propagandists fear that if they shut up about it for a second, they’d instantly become racists themselves. It amazes me that some people who ordinarily can recognize autocratic bullying, tacky sloganeering, and—especially—camp value are unable to spot it in this Hate Scare that grips the Western world. Governments throughout the English-speaking sphere are creating and then ratcheting the torque on “hate-speech” laws with frightening eagerness. Ted Kaczynski was correct when he said the leftist drive for control is insatiable. I don’t think it’s entirely paranoid to suspect that one day, you won’t be able to so much as question the primary tenets of anti-racism without going to jail.
But here’s an easy one: “Race is an entirely social construct.” No, it’s partially one, depending on how any given society seeks to define it and its implications. But there are basic things such as skin color and hair texture. Even a Martian who’d had no exposure to human “social constructs” would be able to spot those differences. But no Martian, as hard as he tried, could point at a “culture” or to “equality.” Those are the social constructs. Those can’t be measured in the same way as human DNA.
Crimson Celluloid: Your NetJerk Lounge is about the best thing on the Internet. A great diverse range of writers and topics. I especially enjoy the contributions of Nick Bougas. His joke about “my grandfather died at Auschwitz…he fell out of a guard tower” is making the rounds down here thanks to me; it never fails to raise a laugh. Plug it here.
Jim Goad: I’m developing a mild rash at the idea of “plugging” anything, because it’s not how I roll.
I’m currently revamping the design and structure of jimgoad.net, and right now the Lounge is the only section that gets actively updated. It’s been that way for a year or two.
The Lounge has been operating for over five years, which is somewhat of a miracle by Web message-board standards. I believe the only reason it’s persisted for so long is because I’ve been so ball-bustingly exclusive in whom I decide to register.
If I had opened registration to everyone, it would have crumbled almost immediately. When you’re indiscriminate in allowing people to post, the loudest and emptiest voices invariably drown out everyone else. Plus, it would have allowed any vengeful ex-girlfriend or obsessive fanboy fag whom I’ve somehow snubbed to log on and bleat away until no one was listening anymore. So like a gentle, snobby gardener, I’ve carefully cultivated the Lounge’s mix of personalities. On average, I add maybe one person a year.
We have maybe a half-dozen people who post regularly and another half-dozen or so who show up every couple months.
I’ve tried registering females on there, but they always seem to drift back to myspace in order to post things about kitties and their boobs. In my long, long years toiling around the publishing industry, I’ve found that women simply don’t stick to the writing with the same fervor that men do.
I’ve also tried registering a few black guys, but they all seemed immediately frightened by the grossly disproportionate amount of racially themed material. We currently have over 1,000 topics and nearly 20,000 posts, and only 95% or so of those are racial in nature, so I fail to grasp their apprehension.
So I’ve tried Affirmative Action on the Lounge, but it was my chosen representatives for the black race and the female gender who failed to deliver. We even had a black chick on there for a month or so before she suffered a very public psychological breakdown.
Crimson Celluloid: Anything else you want to add?
Jim Goad: Wait—that wasn’t enough?