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There then follows a torrent of autobiography and background that yr. corresps. have decided to deny Max the satisfaction of seeing reproduced here. After which is a kind of Max 101-like survey of personal philosophy and Gonzo theory and the statuette anecdote. The vodka is top-shelf and the plastic cups dusty. Then one of the starlets decides that she’s hungry, and Max insists on escorting her down to the Sahara’s restaurant and wants everybody else to come along, which eventually results in the B-girls and crewmen and yr. corresps. 26 all standing there awkwardly at the maître d’s podium while Max personally conducts the starlet to her table and pulls out her chair and tucks a serviette into her cleavage and pulls out a platinum-plated money clip and announces in a voice audible to everyone in the restaurant and foyer that he “want[s] to take care of the little girl’s damages in advance” and shoves bills into the hanky-pocket of the maître d’s tuxedo and then leaves her there by herself and herds us all back out and into the elevator and jabs impatiently at the button for his suite’s floor, almost jumping up and down with fury at the elevator’s delay; and we’re all rushed back up to the suite because it’s occurred to Max that he wants to show your corresps. something from this week’s filming that he thinks will sum up his particular porn genius better than any amount of exposition could … and then, reseated, he starts flipping through a notebook to find something.
    “What it is is we got this one little girl back in the [infamous MAXWORLD] trailer, and after some face-fucking 27 and reaming her asshole and, like, your standard depravities, we get her to stick a pen—no, a what-do-you-call …”
    Crewman: “Magic Marker.”
    Max: “… Magic Marker, stick it up her asshole and write all this … this
stuff,
” holding up the notebook, opened to a page; again he has us pass it around:

    is thereon written in a hand 28 that seems impressively legible, considering. Dick Filth makes a waggish inquiry about future film plans involving this girl and a typewriter, but Max doesn’t laugh (we noticed that Max never laughs at a joke he hasn’t told), and so neither does anyone else.
    Doubtless most of this is going to get cut by
Premiere,
but it’s worth also observing—when this magazine’s assigned photographer (who’s also gotten in here with us this afternoon on H.H. and D.F.’s coattails) begins wondering aloud about the possibility of getting some good portraits at the Awards of winners holding their statuettes—the way Max right away jumps in with his idea of the perfect photo for the title page of this very article. The proposed shot is to be of Max Hardcore, holding several of the AVN Awards trophies he pledges either to win straight up or to gain possession of in other ways, seated in some kind of imperial-looking and really nice chair that is itself set up on the palm-studded boulevard of the famous Las Vegas Strip—so the photographer’ll get lots of smeary neon and appropriately phallic bldgs. in the background—with a retinue of scantily clad starlets either draped swoonily over him or prostrate at his feet, or both. It is important to note that there are no audible scare-quotes, no irony or embarrassment or self-awareness of any sort on Max’s face as he sketches this photo’s tableau for us; he’s in the kind of earnest that one imagines Irving Thalberg was always in. 29 Your correspondents immediately begin to lobby hard for Max’s idea, figuring that the photo would make a great illustration for the story of Max’s proposing this very photo—i.e., that it would point up the megalomania far more powerfully than mere reportage—but the
Premiere
photographer, who is no actor, does such a poor job of disguising his repulsion at Max’s self-regard that the atmosphere of the whole suite gets stilted and complexly hostile, and the rest of the interview is kind of a