A heated chat with the former America's Next Top Model judge about her third book, Check Please!, and her new Oxygen Network show, The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency, taught this cheeky journalist a valuable lesson: Don't fuck with the world's first supermodel, baby!
By Brandon Voss
Janice Dickinson: Good fucking afternoon!
HX: How are you? You hurt your knee?
Yeah, I was yanked over a Plexiglass table in my agency by some over-enthused Oxygen executive.
Are you on pain meds?
Oh no, I'm organic. I don't drink, I don't do drugs. Nooo! That doesn't work for la Janice!
I know you've had a long day of interviews. What are some of the lame questions you've been getting?
The fags are going, Tell us how you really feel about Ryan Seacrest. I mean, what a boring stupid fucking question! If you want to interview me, find it inside your heart to ask me what you really want to know.
Well, I want to know why you still made appearances on Top Model after getting fired as a judge.
Why should I care? I’m a model for Vogue, not Sports Illustrated, honey. Get it? No helicopters land on my forehead. Get it? I’m still modeling and I’m a perfect size 24 jeans. Get it? Rrrowr!
I get it. Tyra had Naomi Campbell on her daytime talk show to sort out their differences. Would you consider that?
Please, Tyra wishes she were the man that Naomi is. Why would I want to sort out her mother smother? Let her figure it out herself.
Would you ever pull a Jamie Lee Curtis and do a magazine cover without a stitch of makeup?
Are you fucking crazy? Absolutely fucking not! Jamie Lee Curtis is a man. I will die and they’ll dig me up like King Tut — I’ll have a perfect pair of silicone breasts, fake nails, a perfect weave. I’ll have 0.0 body fat and I will achieve the skeleton look that I’ve searching for my entire life. And then I’ll be perfect.
Let's chat about Check, Please!
I wanted to write a book on my search for contentment, because after dating millions of men on each continent, [sings] I still haven't found what I'm lookin' for! But I'm having a fuckin' blast doing it.
What's the scoop on your reality show, The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency?
What's your problem? Who said I'm doing a reality show? I'm doing a docudrama about a single mom trying to balance being an author, a supermodel, a photographer and doing a modeling agency. This is the real deal. It's something I've wanted to do since I was nine years old. I mean, what's a supermodel supposed to do after she's done? The shelf-life is normally about eight years. I want models back on magazine covers and in advertising campaigns where they belong — not these Halle Berrys and Sarah Jessica Parkers.
Have you seen MTV's modeling agency show, 8th and Ocean?
I don't have time for mundane television, dear. My show is a true encapsulation of what goes on in an agency — finding men and women, shaping their lives, teaching them out to properly eat, dress, do their makeup, hair. If they don't get the truth from me, honey, they won't get it from anyone else.
Will your models be mini-Janices?
No, I want them to be themselves. I'm hoping to find the next big thing. But it's not a contest, I'm not throwing people off.
Would it even be possible to create another you?
I don't know! I mean, I'm a shooting star. How can you capture a comet? How can you put your hands on energy? It's just all around you.
Finish this sentence: Without the gays, my life would be...
Empty. I only have gay friends — I don't have any girlfriends. My son Nathan jokes, "Don't you know anybody who's straight?" And I say," No, why would I? They're boring!" Boooorrring!
Nathan's a cutie.
You keep your filthy fucking faggot hands off my son, you motherfucker! I'll come after you. Everyone wants to be my stepson — you know what, take a ticket!
Do you embrace the term "fag hag"?
That's stupid. I've got news for you, there's nothing haggy about me, honey! Every single square inch of my body is tight, baby.
You've been spotted at the East Village gay bar EasternBloc. What do you like about that place?
Everything! I love the poles, the hot bartenders. I go to places that make me happy — where I'm not always accosted by some stupid fuckin' hetero pig who's like, "Hey baby, wanna fuck?" I'm not out looking to get laid. So I sip ginger ale with the boys.
I heard you might be planning your own party there.
Maybe. "A Night of 1,000 Janices" could be fun. A thousand gay men doing the tran on Jan.
What's your advice to drag queens trying to capture your essence?
Please, I need all the advice from them I can get!
Do you ever read what bitchy gay bloggers write about your antics?
Fuck, no! Why don't they wipe their asses with some Cottonelles or something and leave me alone? Unless they can walk the walk like I have, I don't have time for their bullshit. I was the queen of the White Party, they weren't. Ha!
What did you think of your E! True Hollywood Story?
I'm very proud of everything I've done and who I've slept with. I've got to regrets, baby! I'm 51 years old, I was on the original Concord flight, and I'm still going full-throttle. Right now I'm in a DVF wrap skirt, I've got my best homo Joey on my arm, and we're going to find some nude beach down in Malibu. We're rocking it, baby.
Any plastic surgery scheduled for the near-future?
I’m going in for a penile implant next — a good 12 inches. You have enough on me?
Yes, but before I let you go, I need your expert opinion: Did Ashlee Simpson have a nose job or not?
Oh, you’re an asshole for asking such a stupid question. Goodbye! [hangs up.]
HX, June 2006.