The last time i see Moore is in New York. He is chagrined. The night before, he'd DJ'd the Trash! party at Webster Hall, and people kept coming up onstage, not realizing that a male stripper dressed as a cowboy was impatiently waiting to go on for his big number. Words were exchanged. Moore threw a coke key at Cowboy, whereupon they commenced to tussle. Next thing Moore knew, the police were cuffing him and he was being head-patted into the back of a cop car. So instead of partying it up rock-star-style in the basement of the Hotel Chantelle, he spent several hours behind bars, while a gaggle of scene girls in pleather corsets, ripped stockings and stripper heels posed for photos with some fairly titillated policemen outside the station. Even after he was released and was back at the Hudson Hotel, in bed with his friend Jazmin and some skinny blond chick, he still felt down-in-the-mouth about the whole thing. "Like, guys would kill for a fucking threesome, and I'm just like, 'God, can I go to sleep now?'"
He ended up sleeping through most of the next day and missing a studio session with "Chicken Noodle Soup" rapper Young B. He woke up to Google his charges. Most likely he'll get away with a fine. But still. After all the ruckus he's caused, to spend a night in jail for something like this?
Now, walking the streets of the West Village past sundown, Moore ponders the fact that he's gotten himself into a bit of a bind. "I should probably calm down, but it's like, I can't. It's my business," he says. "What am I going to do? Crazy, sober living or something?" It's like the time he saw Mark Zuckerberg at the Knockout bar in San Francisco and was like, "This may be the smartest business decision ever if I just punch this guy in the face right now 'cause that would get me so fucking popular. Like, unless I raped Steve Jobs, what else is there?" He would have tried it, too, if it hadn't been for the security guards. He knows these thoughts are maybe a little crazy, but it's just how he has to think now – in uniques, analytics and herding the Internet masses his way. One of his biggest traffic days ever was the day he was stabbed.
We have burgers at some grimy joint. Moore orders a club soda. He tells me that he hasn't heard from the FBI in months, but that it's not like they call you up to let you know you're off the hook. Still, he's not too worried. He's sure some of IAU's nudes were obtained by hacking, but swears that he's never hacked anyone himself, that he wouldn't even know how to start. Nor has he heard from Ryan again. "Why would I? Who gives a fuck about that guy?" Then he gets kind of deep: He says that the happiest he's ever been was the day he sold the site, that "ruining people's lives with naked pictures wasn't, you know, the ideal job." He says he knows he's self-involved, he's been to a lot of shrinks, he likes that they actually listen. He says he's done things for money that even he can't believe: "Stuff that I won't mention, stuff that you don't talk about – nothing gay, no dudes, but it's shit that I'm definitely not proud of." He says that the one thing he gets off on is making money.
But speaking of getting off, he's got to go now. No more deepness from Moore, no more examining of the soul. There's a stripper from New Orleans he's supposed to meet back at his hotel, and he doesn't want to keep her waiting. He'll have sex with her, maybe take some pictures, and then he'll try to get some good, restorative sleep. And while he's asleep, chances are he'll keep dreaming.
This is from the October 11th, 2012 issue of Rolling Stone.
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