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As Gabriel the King of Hate well knows, I, Dierdre Keating, bought my iPod for one reason, and one reason only: so that I could listen to With Teeth over and over and over again, all fucking day long, where ever I go. Let's just say that I was pretty fucking stoked when that record leaked to the internet came out, and that's why, in happier days, when we both still loved Trent, Gabriel re-named my iPod for me: Dierdre's ninPod. Then, we went to have some Ninchiladas and a beer. Oh man, how I miss the salad days.

Since then, my selection of Reznorgasmic playlists for every occasion has burgeoned, and I want to share my favorite one with all of you at WTC, because it's a fucking KILLER, and I think you should all try it. This is the playlist I dial up whenever it's time to write Dear Trent a little message here at WTC. I call it "Naughty Nails," and my dear readers, it never fails. I have a feeling you're going to find it as, um, inspiring as I do.

Oh yeah, and just for the fuck of it, just so you know: this playlist goes to 11.

1. "Maybe Just Once" - This little sparkling jewel of a number comes by way of the 100% brilliant Purest Feeling bootleg, and oh my good graciousness, is it delightful. I'm not that sure how actually NAUGHTY this one is, but it's funny as hell. This song is pretty much the peppiest little number ever, and features Trent yowling "Oh, God" like he's just in the worst agony that a little gothed-up, drum-machine having disco-boy like him could possibly experience. Truth be told, he says "Oh God" in a way that makes me burst out laughing every single goddamned time I hear it. Young Trent needs to fucking pull himself together, man.

Featured lyric: "Oh God... Ooooh... What's coming to me." I won't lie: I enjoy imagining the graphic details of exactly what this little bitch has coming to him.

2. "Purest Feeling" - Another ridiculously peppy number from the early days of The Empire that features fucking SAXOPHONE of all things. OMG! How unbelievably brilliant would it be if Trent suddenly whipped out a sax and fucking BROUGHT IT while he's getting all "experimental" this fall? That would totally rule ass. I think even GABRIEL could get behind that kind of thing. In this number, Trent is carrying on about giving in to desire, and pushing it as far as it will go. I like that. The best part is when "she" doesn't "understay-yand" what's happening to him, you know, with his purest feelings and all that shit, and it's got him so upset that he totally can't even carry a tune. But, dude, he can't live without it. That's all I'm saying.

Featured lyric: "I think I'm gonna push it as far as it will go." Mmm. Sounds good, sparklepants. Sax it up.

3. "Kinda I Want To" - Ok, now we're getting NAUGHTY. As far as I can tell, this is about how Trent kinda wants to suck some cock, or have hardcore gay sex with both Richard Patrick and Chris Vrenna at the same time, or something. I dunno. I could be wrong. Bottom line: he wants to do something dirty and carnal, but he feels all conflicted, furtive and guilty about it. He's hoping God can just "cover up his eyes". All I'm saying is that if Trent were a devil sleeping in my bed, he wouldn't be watching me from across the way for long, and I wouldn't fucking care if God saw every single detail of the randy shit I would be ALL ABOUT on that occasion. For what it's worth, though, I think God is pretty open-minded.

Featured lyric: "I don't care what they say, I WANT TO." No one's stopping you, Trent. You're a big boy, and you can do whatever naughty shit you want to, ok?

4. "Sin" - Yeah, there's no way to make a list like this without taking into account the whole "your kiss, your fist, and your strain" business. Why is the whole notion of Trent giving up his "purity" so fucking titillating? Here's why: He's fucking HOT. In this number, Trent wants to be treated bad -- you know, in a naughty kind of way. All I'm saying it that I hope it could involve tying his tight little ass up and making him moan and groan with pleasure and pain, because I think I could spare some time to squeeze that in to my busy schedule. Suffice it to say that I would take in the extent of his sin without a second fucking thought.

Featured lyric: "Carry out my sentence, while I get what I deserve." Have you ever noticed how much Trent carries on about getting his just deserts? He really must feel like he's getting the short end, or something.

5. "The Only Time" - Kids, The Devil wants to fuck Trent in the back of his car! I can't really blame The Devil, but it leaves Trent feeling "all messed up," poor thing. It made him write the following lines of lyric: "The sweat in your eyes, the blood in your veins are listening to me." I guess if The Devil wanted to fuck me I'd write shit like that, too. I mean, when the devil wants to fuck you, making any fucking sense is probably not as big a priority. Or, maybe it's just that he's drunk, and so in love? I don't pretend to know. This song is only kinda sexy, to be perfectly honest, but it is especially whimpery, and does have that part where he gasps like someone just stuck something in his butt.

Featured lyric: "This is the only time I really feel alive... uuhh...uuh...ahhhhhhh." Need I say more?

6. "Physical (You're So)" - People, this is the fucking ZENITH of Trent's naughtiness. This whole song sounds like pure, filthy, grinding, pissed-off sex. I mean, seriously, this one is totally fucking brilliant. In this song, if Trent isn't roaring with tormented desire, he's panting, growling, and gurgling like he's stroking his own cock the entire time he's singing it. Adam Ant rocked this one in a naughty, piratey  way, but Trent fucking went all Emeril Legasse on that shit and KICKED IT UP A NOTCH. Bam! If you ever want to remind yourself of precisely how filthy hot a little bitch Trent can be, give this baby a spin. This shit is pure fucking gold, and it makes me writhe. Nice work, Trent.

Featured lyric: "You're too physical... to really FUCK YOU... Ooooh, Goddammit!" Yes! YES! YES!!!

7. "Suck" - Another groovy little hate fuck from Trent. I love how he says "I get too tight, I come undone" and goes all the way with that final "t" in "tight". Trent really knows how to work those final "t's" and we'll get to the ultimate example a little later, here. I love the roaring guitar on this song. Who knew that heavy metal thunder could be so DIRTY. Then, there's the bit where he tells it like it is about how dirty he is on the inside, and that thing about how the temple walls are made of flesh. Fuck. Last time I saw Trent perform this song in London, he was humping the microphone stand with such explicit carnality that I ached to my very core for hours afterward. Jesus Fuck, indeed. Goddamn you, Trent. Goddamn you to HELL.

Featured lyric: "I want to do terrible things to you." Every time I listen to him whisper that in my headphones, I come. I swear to god.

8. "Memorabilia" - How fucking appropriate is it for Trent to cover a song by the guy who wrote "Sex Dwarf"? Whatevs -- we all know size doesn't matter, it's how you work it, right? There's something about Trent whispering "I have been inside you" that just, I don't know, DRIVES ME FUCKING INSANE. I only wish it were more true, in my case. Remember that time he said he wanted to fuck everyone in the world? I wish he'd get on with it, because dudes, I am still waiting for my turn.

Featured lyric: "What do your nipples look like?" I just want to add that I not only know what Trent's nipples look like (small, pretty, and well placed on his scrumptious, hairy chest... fucking hell, I love a hairy chest!), I know what they feel like, too. Erect. Know why? I COLLECTED, BITCHES.

9. "Get Down Make Love" - You gotta love how he makes the heavy breathing and moans of pleasure keep time with his nasty little beat. I love the way Trent sings this song. I love the second verse where he says "I can feel when you break me." It's the way his voice stretched out "feel" and shreds up on that line like he's reliving some particularly randy moment, or maybe has a handful of his junk, and then, how totally out of control he is in the final chorus... So, so hot.

Featured lyric: "You say you're hungry, I give you meat." Mmm. Yes, please.

10. ''Closer" - No Naughty Nails list could be complete without Trent groaning with desperation over how much he wants to "fuck you like an animal." I know this is the one real Nine Inch Nails fans love to hate, because it's the one that made the world notice the myriad charms of their favorite little fetish monkey, but FUCK THAT! This song is the shit on so many levels, only one of which is how much it makes you just want to fuck whatever's nearest, IMMEDIATELY, and yes: like an animal. On top of that, he brilliantly rhymes "flawed" with "God" and that just fucking juices me. I know this song is  about being totally FUCKED UP and mistaken, and whatnot, but there is no one who can make "fucked up" sound more like fucking than Trent. I know there was a shitload of "fuck" in that paragraph, and that's exactly as it should be. Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck. Fuck me. Please.

Featured lyric: "I drink the honey inside your hive." Holy Sweet Jesus Fuck, is that ever my dearest sexual fantasy.

11. "Twist" - Maybe it's controversial to go back in time and pep it up with another of the gems from before Pretty Hate Machine, but I love this early version of Ringfinger. This song is the source of this website's name, because this is the number in which our dear little Trent, deeply in need of some punishment, is "wearing these chains," and he's got someone with a switchblade who knows how to make it "hurt real good" when they "pull it out and stick it in." Wouldn't you know it? He loves the pain. It can go a little deeper. The real reason I love this silliness, though, is for the fucking awesome "spoken word" portion of this work of unfettered genius, that goes: "Is this on? Um... I'm so tired, I can't get to sleep. The squeaking of the bed is right in time with the song that's repeating in my head. It's uncomforting to remember..." (UNCOMFORTING, Trent?! WTF?) "...how you used to like a good fuck every once in awhile..." He delivers that "fuck" with all of his usual aplomb, and then, seemingly, takes a swig of his beer, puts the bottle back down on the table, swallows, and delivers the...

Featured lyric: "I just wanted you to know that when I do it, I only think of you," and the way he pronounces the final "t" in "it" leaves NOTHING to the imagination. Well, nothing, that is, except how MIND-BENDINGLY FUCKING HOT it would be to watch Trent "DO IT." Jesus fucking Christ, can you imagine? Excuse me while my eyes roll back into my head in ecstasy at the very thought.

Trent, I just want you to know that... uh... when I do it... er... You already know, don't you Sparklepants?


Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBack


[How_Dumb_Are_You_Fuckers, Part_Deux]

Well today brought a nin hotline announcement and subsequent topic posting on echoing the sound regarding the nine inch nails themed branding of the upcoming Game Shark Media Manager for PSP from Mad Catz Interactive.

In a nutshell, this application is something that you install on your PC (no Mac support mentioned) that lets you organize your media, games, files, etc., that you have on your PlayStation Portable. You know, kinda like what iTunes does for the iPod, but we’re talking about a Sony product here so of course you need a third party application to make real use of what’s a basic functionality. But I digress…

Apparently, consumers are going to be able to buy a Nine Inch Nails version of this product, which will feature prominent use of the NIN logo on the packaging, and feature some “exclusive” live footage with the device when you buy it.

Now, as the one intelligent ETS reader on those boards pointed out (his name is OsseusLabyrint; who knew??), Trent’s recently made comments about how lame Jimmy Page was for letting Cadillac use a Led Zeppelin tune in a Cadillac commercial (Trent's biting closing line was, “How much money does Led Zeppelin need?”) Well now, of course, we’ve got the NIN Branding tie in from Trenty McChange His Mind.

As much as I would love to bust into a major rant here about the utter hypocrisy of this, that some people would agree with, some disagree, and Dierdre would simply not care about because it’s not directly part of Trent’s music, I thought I’d address some of the ETSers statements/questions/concerns instead (though for the record, TRENT’S A FUCKING HYPOCRITE):

1. This isn’t hypocritical of Trent at all; he did music for Quake (a/k/a Doom 2) That’s like the same thing, don’t you think, hmmmmm????

Yes, douche, he sure did. You know how that music was credited? Oh, let me check: MUSIC BY TRENT REZNOR, not Nine Inch Nails, fuckfaces! Was there a NIN logo on the packaging of the game? NO. Was it whoring out the identity of the band and using it to sell more product? NO. Would the average consumer have even KNOWN that NIN was involved with QUAKE? NO NO NO NO YOUR COCK IS SMALL NO.

So I guess it’s not the same thing, is it?

2. Sure, Trent complained about Bowie letting Microsoft use “Heroes” in an ad, but this isn’t the same thing as an Evil Corporation! Mad Catz is a homegrown, small, independent cool company!

Hey, ballsack – your frontal lobe called. It’s glad it left and it's never coming back. What Trent had said in a recent Kerrang interview was,

I constantly have to remind myself what the goal is. Should I say yes to that Microsoft commercial because I could use a new house? Or do I say no because this is something precious that would be tarnished if I did that… My feelings were hurt when I heard David Bowie's 'Heroes' on a fucking Microsoft commercial. It's like 'Why? Fuck!'"

Well maybe it’s just me, but I see NOTHING GODDAMNED WHAT SO FUCKING EVER in that quote about “Evil Big Bad Corporations” being a problem while “Fuzzy Bunny Independent Vendors” being a big thumbs up. Seems to me it was about the music being important, and not taking a paycheck if it would harm the nobility of the music. Well, when it comes to getting my Brand Spanking New PSP Complete With Nine Inch Nails Media Manager, I’m thinking the nobility of the music has been tarnished.

You may not think that, ETS readers, but that’s because you’re eating your own shit.

3. “Supporting games aint a sellout” [sic]. Trent and his crew have always been hard core gamers!

Okay, first things first. Did you read Queston #2? Are you eating your own shit? Okay good; now die.

Just because you numbskulls happen to be fans of the arena in which Reznor has decided to whore the NIN identity does not make it okay. I’m sure the 50 year old NIN fans out there would think it would be fucking AWESOME if Trent did start using his music to promote Viagra, as one of your suggested in some attempt to be “amusing”. There’s always going to be a crossover audience, jackhole, and not everybody is 14, lives with their parents, and spends all their time playing videogames. Most of us masturbate instead.

And just because Trent Fucking Reznor is a FAN of games himself does not make it alright, or “cool” for him to use the NIN logo in such a frivolous way! Hey, guess what – he drinks Beet juice! What about a NIN-branded juicer! What about a NIN-branded treadmill! Or, from the makers of Soloflex: the Happiness In Slavery Home Workout System? How’s that grab you? Sound good?

Actually, knowing you ETSers, it probably does.

Christ. I don’t even know why I’m so wired. I guess I should just sit back and be entertained by the sheer inane idiocy of the lot of you. But instead, I shall create:

How It Came To Pass
words by Gabriel

My father always said
Pregnant women
That did meth
Would have deficient children

For once that man was right

Zip, Bing, Secret Code, Smasho!
Fuck You.

Posted by Gabriel in the_words_of_misery, things_i_hate | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBack


[In_Dreams: The_Den]

by Mimi Jones-Taylor

            We used to see all types in here -- men, women, rich, poor, fat, thin, young, not-so-young –- though nobody ever saw the age of 40, and nobody over 40 had ever seen in here.  Our lips were pale, cracked and sticky; our eyes no longer viewed the beauty of the world.  The place had a lingering permanent stench of feces, ammonia; body odour and polyurethane.  No matter – we were here for one reason, and we only need a few dollars to get it.

            People said I was lucky.

            I’d been coming here for months – I was a veteran.  People never left this place of their own volition.  The uniforms had to carry them out. Harsh light surrounded their outfits like halos, making our pupils retreat like wildebeests chased by golden maned lions.

            At least, things used to be that way.  Until the day he arrived.  It was one of those days when I had no money to pay for my potent potable.  The Goons were about to kick me out, when I saw him lying on the ground in front of me.  He was nothing but a mess of black hair and black leather, mumbling "fuck off motherfucker" before rolling over into a pile of drywall flakes, which he immediately tried to sniff.  As he turned his head, the unmistakable shadow of his Roman nose cast across the floor.  This was no ordinary crack-head crashout.  This was the man who wanted to fuck me like an animal five years ago.  I couldn’t believe my luck. 

            We had our share of celebrities, but none of them were ever so fucked up that they crashed for the entire night.  People took their rocks and left, or found a suitable corner for their quick fixes, before scurrying out like hunted raccoons.

            I reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and gave it to the Goons, who, in turn, gave me another 20 minutes of luciferic heaven.   The details are a little foggy now, but I do remember being picked up by the lapels, and punched a few times with a weak fist.  Too fucked up to defend myself, the animal fucker managed to break my nose.  The taste of the blood mixed in the drip at the back of my throat, stirring a rage inside of me.  My beautiful nose, once the pride of my career on the runway, was in pieces inside of its skin and cartilage shell.  With whatever strength I could muster, I pushed back.  We both fell to the floor, tousling moreso than wrestling, to the amusement of the Goons. 

            Then, the fire started.   Someone’s lighter had been pulled out of someone’s leather jacket, and someone tried to light someone’s hair on fire, and the light caught on the pile of drywall instead. 

            Our eyes burning in every sense of the word, I collapsed to the floor.  I could hear the sirens approaching.  I had no idea where the rock star was, though I did hear the sharp inhalations of people trying to take that one last hit before the pain of the flames engulfed their parched skin. 

            The thud of footsteps as the uniforms grabbed my arms, dragging me into their halo of light.  Except that it was night outside.  When they put the plastic mask over my face, my eyes saw its black sky for the first time in months. I took a deep breath as my body fell into shock from the clean air. 

            “Her nose is broken,” I remember one of the paramedics saying before shoving gauze that felt like metal rods all the way to my brain.  Out of the corner of my screaming eye, I saw his torn leather jacket on the gurney beside me, a thin, pale hand sticking out from the end of the sleeve.  They were already using a defibrillator on him.  His arms would flip up with the positive charge, and flop down with its release.  They must have tried to restart him at least four times that I saw. 

            My eyes rolled back into my head just then, and I don’t remember much after that.  I do know that when I woke up three days later, someone told me that the Nine Inch Nails guy was in the room down the hall.  And that I should be grateful because he saved my life by breaking my nose, otherwise I would have been passed out when the fire started, and would have died of smoke inhalation.  Now wouldn’t that have been ironic?

*   *   *   *

            It is early morning in Santa Monica.  The wind sweeps across the pier.  Finishing his morning run, Trent Reznor rests on a bench near the old fisherman, listening as they cackle to one another in Spanish about the joys the day will bring.

            Trent takes in the scenery, breathing in the sea air.  As he exhales, a sharp pain explodes inside his head.  As he grabs his temples, a familiar smell of copper mixed with feces, ammonia, and polyurethane fills his sinus cavities.  His eyes widen as he bends his head down, hands cupped over his nose and mouth.  Trent tries to take slow breaths; the copper smell becomes stronger, dominating the other scents.  Panicking, he turns out his pockets, one at a time, until he finds his mobile phone.

            “911,” answers the operator. “Please state the nature of your emergency.”

            “I need an ambulance.  I think I’ve…”

            Trent stops.  His voice rings crystal clear.  He pulls his hand away from his face.  It is dry.  Trent takes a deep breath, and smells the sea air mixing with tinges of raw sewage and dying fish.

            “Uh, never mind.  I’m okay.”

            “Are you certain, sir?”

            “Yes,” Trent says, puzzled.  “Thank you.” 

            His headache gone, Trent continues taking slow, long breaths through his nose. 

            “I haven’t smelled anything like that since…”

            Trent closes his eyes, wiping his face with his hand.  Sensing something strange on its surface, he pulls away his hand, and looks down.  His mouth is dry, his hand is covered in tacky saliva mixed with white resin.  On instinct, Trent raises his hand to his nose to sniff, then quickly pulls it away.  He is shocked by the scent.

            Trent says in a loud voice, capturing the attention of the fishermen,

            “What the fuck is going on?”

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack


Compliments of my new hero, WTC reader, Kim:

OMG, I almost died laughing. That raised eyebrow! Kim, I think I love you almost as much as I love Trent. Stay Gold, baby.

Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack



Yo, peeps. So I'd intended to write an article discussing the latest news in Trent Reznor's Empire of Dirt™ in this spot today; namely, that TVT Records will be auctioning off their back catalog, including nine inch nails' debut pretty hate machine, after defaulting on a bank loan. But unfortunately Meathead of meathead perspective fame must have been blowing Levithant last night, or was wearing a strap-on vagina and getting it on with Orestes or something, because The Head seemed to have some advance notice and posted a little bit of almost-funny wackiness before I could update WTC.

So I've instead decided to discuss fan reaction to this news; specifically, some of the fascinating points of view the folks at Echoing The Sound have brought up.

They have been saying things such as "Trent should buy the back catalog masters! That'd show them!", "If we get the masters, we can make Trent play/not play these songs live!", and my favorite, "Let's all save up, bid, and then Echoing the Sound will own pretty hate machine!" Well, I know there's been a lot of anti-ETS sentiment on this board lately, and I've been at the heart of a lot of it, but let me break down reality for some of you people out there:


Can you grasp that? Does you water-addled brain understand the concept behind something as simple as You Are A Moron??? I'd give all you ETS readers the benefit of the doubt, but apparently, given your dumbshit comments on this topic, I'm a little hesitant.

You know what's funny to me? Is that you guys think that you can all save up MILLIONS OF DOLLARS! That's hilarious! WerewolfFeet was able to put together The Great Poster Experiment of 2005, which was a $30,000 affair, and even that became a drama of unimaginable proportions; yet you guys think that a bunch of dumbass teenagers and 40 year olds who are bored at work are going to raise all that money?

Also, do you really think that owning the physical master recording to a particular record has ANYTHING TO DO WHATSOEVER with whether that artist plays any of the included songs live or not? Hey, news flash -- there's two types of music licenses: one for the master (i.e., the actual physical noises of the record we know as PHM that Trent Reznor put to tape 15 years ago), and one for publishing (which covers the composition of the songs we all know, such as "Head Like a Hole", and "Something I Can Never Have").

Are you with me so far, or have you already shat out your six remaining brain cells? Okay, good. Then you've probably realized that in a concert situation, since the songs are BEING PLAYED LIVE, the license that would apply (if somebody gave a shit) would be the publishing license. Oh, and Trent Reznor already owns that. Wow. So you owning the Master Recording of PHM would have about the same effect on NIN's live shows as you owning the GODDAMNED CD would. What a fucking stellar revelation. You all're so goddamned smart. Buy yourself a Twinkie as a thank-you.

Also, there's the cries of "I guess this is why he started The Spiral", and "I hope he got the money from Malm!" Hey, you FUCKING LOSER -- do you really think he started a whole fan club, with all the infrastructure and rigamarole required, just so he could buy back the masters for an album he doesn't even seem to be that close to anymore???? I mean, I'm sure being a total fucking moron is a great way to live life -- sorta like how I was always jealous of the jocks for their total lack of self-awareness back in high school; being oblivious must be a blast! -- but the whole risk/reward ratio of that motherfucking proposition is about as appealing as the concept of stapling your penis together in order to get a girl to touch it. DOESN'T MAKE A LOT OF FUCKING SENSE, NOW DOES IT???

And the Malm money? Yeah, have you been alive long, becaue I don't see how anybody older than 2 weeks would really think a court decision against some fellow to pay some money happens, and then said fellow gives up enough money to bankrupt himself immediately, without any fight or appeal. I mean, shit, I have to bust ass to get money from my insurance company, and that's just to get a scrape on my fucking Civic's bumper fixed. Wake Up And Smell The Existence, dipshit.

Lastly, I'd like to address the whole, "Oh, I hope Michael Jackson doesn't buy the album like he did with the Beatles" point. Well, if you ETSers weren't all a bunch of stillbirth residue, you would know that Michael Jackson own the Publishing Rights to the entire Beatles catalog, which is where all the real fucking money is anyway. That way, when anybody plays a Beatles song, cover or not, he gets the cash. Publishing means every cover version, live performance, remix, and muzak version are a possible revenue stream. This (as I mentioned above) is not for sale.


Oh, and since you bring up the "I Hope Trent Buys It Back" notion... do you really think that Trent Reznor himself is going to up and buy all those TVT recordings, just to get PHM? Actually, you probably do, half-breed, so once again, let me clarify: If anybody related to Trent buys this, it will be his record label. Interscope may have some use for a whole back catalog of material they can properly capitalize on, but without nothing records, Trent's got as much use for all that old TVT stuff as you guys do for an issue of "Games" magazine and a Mensa application.

Denizens of ETS? You're a bunch of fucking morons. I hope you die. And to commemorate this moment, I've written a poem...

How Dumb Are You Fuckers?
words by Gabriel

I say Goddamn.

What the fuck is wrong with you all?
You can never know
How cuntastically
you are.

Set yourself on fire,

Fuck you.

Posted by Gabriel in things_i_hate | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBack


Dear Trent,

I have to admit that touching you in London may have been ill-advised. I'm totally not over it.

I think it made you too concrete, or something -- too real -- and now that the texture of your flesh has been burned into my everlasting memory, I'm just prowling the streets of Paris like a predator, undressing every remotely attractive man I see with my eyes, all the while thinking about what you'd feel and smell like if you were looming over me in a pale half-light, your cruel, thin lips parted slightly, a thin sheen of sweat on your brow, and your sharp eyes burning holes in the night. Frankly, it's all a little more than I can bear to consider any further in the harsh light of day, even over a double espresso and a perfect croissant at a picturesque French cafe.

I thought that after the orgasmic pleasure of seeing (and feeling you up) in London, I'd be able to go ahead and write myself something of a denouement, you know: put you out of my mind and get on with my European vacation with a primary interest in monuments and museums. I was wrong. Your performances there were so strong that they have me listening to your record with new ears, and I must say, it seems you are never far from my  imagination.

Trent, you are so motherfucking good, and I love you. Seriously, sometimes I  can't help wishing you would just cut the crap and GET IN MY BED.

I read a transcript of your interview on XFM, and was especially intrigued by the fact that you say you are "much more focused on words than anything else" these days. What a fucking juicy, delicious little detail. I love it when you say things like that, and I am positively on tenderhooks. I'll put it to you like this: hearing something like that pass your lips is like being teased by an excruciatingly skillful lover, and feeling that first little hint of arousal -- the beginning of an almost painful accumulation of anticipatory sensation, building inexorably towards the crescendo of pure pleasure I will no doubt be wracked with when I first hear that new emission of your staggering potency. And, for the record, I want you to know that I shuddered with both pain and pleasure when I typed that last sentence. If only I could somehow have worked in the words "turgid" and "purple."

Finally, I'm really sorry that Gabriel seems to have a full-blown and incredibly recalcitrant case of total hatertude. I think he's just going through some intense psychological shit right now, you know, some vaguely Oedipal thing where he needs to kill his "literary father" or whatever Harold Bloom was banging on about that one time. Whatever. Hopefully he will come to his senses. If not, fuck it. You'll still be you, and he will still be a 23 year old art student with an affected emo combover and a chip on his shoulder.


Posted by Dierdre ~ in dear_trent | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBack


[I'm_Looking_Forward_To_Joining_You, Finally]

Wish you had a forum to discuss your thoughts and feelings about WearingTheseChains in someplace a little more community minded than just the comments section here at WTC? Well Dierdre, Mimi and I are pleased to announce the formation of a new MySpace discussion group dedicated to you, the readers:


Please join up and say hello; we've just set up a few topics to start off and hope to see you all there!

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


[In_Dreams: The_Wedding]

by Mimi Jones-Taylor

           “I do.”

            The crowd applauded with glee as the groom kissed the bride with all of his passion.

            “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

            Siobhan smiled with loving grace, as he led her by the hand through the parted crowd.

            It was an informal ceremony, not too many people.  Just enough, they had both said.  They didn’t want a zoo like most of the other weddings they had attended.  This was their special day, and nobody was going to ruin it for them.  The conspicuous bodyguards along the perimeter in their form-fitted tuxedos would make sure of that.

            As she leaned in to kiss her new husband, a breeze blew his hair from his face, reminding her of the day they first met in Central Park.

            The November day had been exceptionally warm, and she had decided to walk through the Park instead of down her customary commuter path.  She saw the orange pylons blocking her way, but she was a native New Yorker.  She had to get to work, and she lived in Central Park West.  Who were these snooty film crews that thought they owned the rights to Strawberry Fields?

            He had spotted her right away.  He thought she was the model for the video.

            “Finally, you guys picked a hottie,” he said, eyeing her like a salacious wolf.

            A shudder went up her spine as his intense hazel eyes pierced through her vulnerabilities.  She narrowed her eyes in return.  Who the fuck was this guy, she thought, and why the fuck did he think he owned her?

            “I’m sorry, miss, but you’re going to have to show us your pass.”      

            Between the attitude of Security and the creep factor of the gawker (though she had to admit the gawker was better looking by leagues), she did what New Yorkers did best.

            “I have to show a pass to walk to work?  Fuck you.  This is my park where I pay taxes.  I can walk wherever the fuck I choose.”

            Before Security could grab her, she whisked past, down the hill, towards the path leading to the zoo.


            She didn’t want to turn around.  She knew it was the creep.  The rather handsome creep. 

            “Please.  We’ll pay you.”   

            He had piqued her curiosity.


            “Yeah, this is a video shoot.  Sorry, I thought you were the actress we hired.”

            Siobhan snickered in his face.

            “Look, buddy, I’ve heard a lot of lines, but that’s got to be one of the better ones.”

            “I’m serious.”

            He was standing in her personal space now.

            “You’re gorgeous. We could really use you in the video.”

            She tried to bite the inside of her cheeks, but outside, they had already filled with blood.


            She looked down at his combat boots. "Is this an army video?"

            He followed her gaze to his feet.  “No, I wear these all the time.”

            “They must be heavy.”

            She remembered hearing him laugh for the first time; it shattered all of the misconceptions she had gathered about him, and for the first time, she thought she might allow herself to find him attractive.

*  *   *  *

            It had been crazy after that – interviews, paparazzi, fake clippings of her hair for sale on e-Bay, press photo sessions (which he never did like, and she ended up hating, even though Annie had done a great job capturing their natural ease with each other). 

            And then, they had to deal with the backlash from his fans.  She had never been a fanatic for anyone – she only knew one song by his band.  She didn’t need to know about that life, because he had brought her past the persona, behind the barrier, into his heart, showing her his true essence, his strengths, his vulnerabilities.  She understood that he had to “be” someone else when he was onstage, but could not fathom the depths of the passionate obsession of his worshippers.

            It started out as simple, almost harmless hate e-mails sent to the fan Access page.  They multiplied by thousands.  Then someone had posted a threat about a car bomb, and Siobhan was banned from driving for three months. 

The final straw, the day she saw his full anger and hurt explode, was the day that the pig’s head arrived via FedEx at the record label’s office.  The heads had called him in; there were talks of dismantling the website, the fan club, even the band; the whole package he had spent his life building, and nearly lost his life rebuilding.  She had spoken to him on the phone, trying to understand who could do such a thing.

“I know who it was,” Trent cried.  “It’s those damned message board fuckers.  They can’t handle reality, they can’t stand to see me happy on my own.  It’s written all over their bad poetry postings.  I guess they thought they would show me their art on a new level.  Fucking psycho bitches.  Even I didn’t think they could sink so low. After all I’ve done for them, and this is how they show their gratitude?  They don’t deserve my music.”

She had been lucky enough to avoid seeing it, though she couldn’t stop shaking. 

But in spite of the threats, the hatred, and even the dead animals, she flew over the moon the day he presented her with the Emerald Cut Harry Winston.  She couldn’t imagine being with anyone else, and would willingly fight each psycho stalker, hand-to-hand, in order to spend the rest of her life beside him. 

*   *  *   *

           It’s 10:30 AM, local Paris time.  Trent Reznor is scheduled for an interview with TV2 France.  The host hands him a microphone pack, and he hooks it through his shirt.  It’s a routine he’s repeated a million times during this promotional tour, and he’s grateful that this is the last interview of the European leg.

            The cameras begin to roll.

            “We are very pleased to have you here with us,” the interviewer says in perfect English, hinted with a Parisien accent.  “First of all, let me offer my congratulations.”

            “Thank you,” says Trent, unsure of the reference.

            “But, in my notes here, it says that you are single.  Did you elope?  Is this an exclusive for TV2 France?”

            Trent looks at the interviewer.

            “I am single.”

            “Oh, pardon me, Trent, but when a gentleman wears a ring on his left hand, in France we assume that he is married.”


            Trent looks down at his left ringfinger.  A band of gold is fitted perfectly at its base.

            “What the fuck?”

            He attempts to slip it off; the ring sticks as if it has been there for years.

            "What the fuck is going on?"

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack



The WTC community has spoken on just what exactly puts our dear, sweet Trent in a class of his own, and I think we mostly agree that it's his intensity that does it.

There were some votes for his eyes  (seriously: OH HELL, YES), his razor sharp enunciation, the metaphorical possibilities for the absolute perfection of his recordings, his honesty, the fact that he appears to actually mean what he's saying, etc.; but if I can sum up our last episode of Call & Response in one word, my darlings, I think that word is INTENSITY, and I think all of those other details could easily fall under its rubric.

All along, I must admit, I knew it wouldn't be his big shiny muscles or the fact that he's tall, dark and handsome, but I am delighted by how much we all seem to have zeroed in on the same region of Trent's je ne sais quoi. Interesting. I am all agreement. His intensity is H. O. double T. HOTT; there's no denying it.

Just imagine, for one single second -- I know that's about all I can take of imagining shit like this -- if he suddenly turned that intensity upon you? Can you imagine the moment before Trent Reznor kisses you? The serious look in his eye as he moves in? His cruel lips parting just enough to reveal those sharp teeth and a hint of tongue? Would he close his eyes? NOT IN MY IMAGINATION HE WOULDN'T! While you're imagining that, just remember, for one second, that this is the guy who wrote "The Great Below" and sings all those gorgeous harmonies on "All The Love In The World".

And... uh, Right. I'm in public, so I think I better stop imagining that.

ONWARDS AND UPWARDS, dear readers. Here's question # 2:

In light of all the hatin' that's been focused on WTC, I think I'd like to explore the question of what makes Nine Inch Nails fans so fucking full of hate. I mean, all I did was mention on ETS that I love Trent, and now I've been banished! Is that so wrong? The very first time I professed my love, I was told to KILL MYSELF, of all things! GEEZ!

Let me be clear though: this question isn't all about the ETS vs. WTC debacle, though, this is about the way Nine Inch Nails fans IN GENERAL are so ready to break out the hate. I mean, they make fun of Trent mercilessly, they're forever getting bitchy about a fan club or a new video they don't like... even when they clearly LOVE Trent, they feel the need to constantly point out how lazy, fat, and ridiculous he is for years on end!

(Not that I'm complaining - Meathead's archives have provided me with hours of entertainment, for which I heartily thank him, even though he probably hates me, too.)

This is my point: I think I could go on ETS and post millions of times about how much I think Trent is a loser hosebag sellout, and carry on about how he's lost his edge, and "The Spiral" should be re-named "The Trent Reznor Retirement Fund" and people might argue with me, but I'd bet money that the special venom that seems to be reserved for love would not have come down upon my head. What is it about Trent that makes him such a ripe target of derision, and why is a girl's (or boy's, Gabriel) love for Trent the love that dare not speak its name? From whence comes the HATE?

Come on WTCer's! Bring it on!

Posted by Dierdre ~ in call_&_response / with_questions | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBack



I've got a few thoughts on the latest update to HRH Trent Reznor's Website "access" section.

Firstly, I think it's nice of Trent to give the boyz a day in the sun, because I've seen five shows on this tour, and for all I know, they're all made out of cardboard, because I did not notice them onstage, so blinding was the brilliance and heat emanating from Trent himself that they were completely obscured.

I did see Jerome this one time, though, because he came out to play drums while my new favorite band The Dresden Dolls covered Karma Police -- although, to be fair, I only glimpsed him briefly because Amanda and especially Brian were pretty fucking riveting.

At that point, I did notice that Jerome's got a great rig.

Now, you may have noticed that new guitar flunky Aaron North has made an attempt to put that brilliant Frankenstein of a former Nail Robin "Vagina" Finck into a dubious light by quoting some long and incomprehensible thing he had to say about god-knows-what. Lookit, I'm not going to pretend I have any goddamned clue what the Finckster was trying to get across with that shit, but I am going to say this: WHO GIVES A RAT'S ASS? We never gave a flying fuck what he had to say! He looked fucking great up there, and he played the songs. Good enough.

That goes for you, too, Aaron. I think you need to shave some hair off, or some shit. You know: kick it up a notch or two! That "I like it up the pooper" handkerchief and running around in circles on the stage thing isn't cutting it. On the bright side, you are playing the songs, and that's the important thing, so, there is that. Like I said, with Trent on the stage, it hardly matters... Unless you make him mad. That might bump you up a notch. He's hot when he's mad.

Having said that, I am delighted to learn that Mr. North's illustrious cock-gobbling reputation has followed him all the way to his new gig as a Nail and now includes hardcore gay sex with big, hairy, muscular guys and a tattoo-worthy crush on Jerome. Nice.

It's refreshing to see that, now that Trent has eschewed his former tantalizing gayness, there's someone in the guitar slot picking up the slack. Again, though, I have to say, Robin was gayer.

Come on Jerome, no "Kinda I Want To"? What gives?

Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack