Old Manson is not dead yet.
When Marilyn Manson goes to sleep, dawn has usually just arrived, and when he gets up, full and unremitting darkness is usually not far off. In this regard, as in almost all other regards, he does what he wants. If he wants black sheets on his bed and the temperature always set to a cool 65 degrees, that’s what he gets. Another example: Let’s say he wants to make love on those sheets, to his girlfriend, photographer Lindsay Usich, who is as slender as a witch’s broom and has the hair of a raven. First, no lights shall be on. “I’m just really shy, despite what you’d imagine,” he says. Second, no underwear shall be slipped farther down than his ankles. “I have a phobia that the house is going to catch fire, and I don’t want to be naked,” he says. And finally, five is the absolute minimum number of times that the act of “sexual congress,” as he calls it, shall take place in a day, with 10 being the most recent maximum. And this, at the age of 45 – “the age of a small record,” he says, with typical wit – though it hardly seems possible.