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Alright. Last time, we brought the hate, some of us with more gusto than others. We wanted to make Gabriel proud, but he repaid us by fucking finding Jesus on a mescaline trip in the desert. Cough*bullshit*cough.


The main thing I discovered in our last episode is that many of you are hating on a number from With Teeth that I really love: "The Collector". What gives, people? That's a good one! Don't you like when Trent says he's a good boy and he'll swallow it all? Geez!

Let's have another try at making Gabriel proud, and open up the can of worms that has so often been spewed without end all across the ninternet. Here are the official WTC rules: based on the content of Trent Reznor's work, is it your theory that he does or does not believe in God? You must make some attempt to justify your opinion with details from the Reznor oeuvre. I take his oeuvre to include anything he does, or says, in public; so interviews count.

So, to be clear, here's this week's question: what are your thoughts on Trent "hotpants" Reznor's spiritual modus operandi, and why do you think that? It's a two-parter, like always.

Bring it. And, people? Let's fight.

Posted by Dierdre ~ in call_&_response / with_questions | Permalink | Comments (51) | TrackBack



This is a long one, people, and this time, we're not joking around, so be ready for that.

So, yeah. Unrequited love.

People like to make fun of it, especially when it involves writing letters on the internet to sexy-little-ass-having rockstars that you don't so much know. I get that, and I know why; but you know what? It's all bullshit. Love is love, and it's nothing to scoff at, requited or not, and no matter where it's directed.

All the enlightened Buddhist Lamas out there can worry about me for my 10-years-running never to be requited passion for a man who doesn't know I'm alive, despite the fact that it's a bit ironic that they, of all people, whose spiritual path is one of renunciation, would advise me to invest in the concrete desires of the flesh, when the love I speak of is, in fact, of a more spiritual, renunciatory nature. You can tell me that the love of real boys I actually know -- love that stands a chance in hell of being requited -- would be better and more fulfilling than being run through by Trent Reznor's mojo from afar. You can say I'm a pathetic dreamer, and that this kind of love means I'm crazy and need psychological help. Sure, you could say all that.

You know what, though? I don't care.

I hereby swear on a all that's real and true, that I'm never going to camp out in Sparklepants's bushes, or otherwise impinge upon his sovereign right to not return my affection; hence, my love from afar isn't doing him any harm. Meanwhile, all things being equal, I must tell you, that to date, no man I've ever personally met has even come close to filling me up, mind, body and soul, the way Trent Reznor did 10 years ago, and still does, today. In fact, I have no idea, really, how you could listen, and really hear that voice -- listen to the way his music, his words, and the entire grain of him is so ineffably soulful and utterly committed, in a way that is so entirely disarming, and for all of its strum und drang, is really just all about wanting to be truthful, authentic, and wanting to love and be loved -- and not be a little in love with him.

Unrequited love, my dear readers, is all about dreaming. It starts with some real catalyst, say, an especially beautiful and perfect performance, or a particularly clear voice that for some reason, goes right into you, or even less -- maybe just a fleeting expression in someone's fine, dark eyes, or the way he moves through space -- but after that, you want more of him, so you listen carefully, and watch attentively, and look more closely than you ever do at other people.

Not on purpose, really, but because you can't really not, you start collecting the pieces of a puzzle that tell a story about  someone other: his story. You collect all these little details -- magnificent perfections and flaws, spiritual and physical, all his good and bad  -- and recompose it as poetically as only art or love could do, and  you rebuild that magnificent creature in the space between his reality and your imagination, out of all his most beautiful pieces and parts, using your most aching empathy, sharpest attention, fondest wishes, and pure devotion as glue.

But, he's not imaginary, is he? The man moves, of his own volition, and when he does, he blurs your perfect picture, complicates it with things he says and does. In his hands, he's holding all your fragile hopes for the beauty of a human man, along with the strength to break them, and he makes you nervous, because you want him to be just like you imagined; but even more than that, you want him to be real, and surprise you with beauty you couldn't dream up by yourself.

Before you know it, every new thing he does or says thrills you, because you're not completely sure exactly where your dream ends, and his reality begins. It's like a roller coaster, because every time he acts, there's a chance he could falter, that his work could become heartless, or his voice could become shrill, and stop speaking to you; or, he could somehow just prove, conclusively, that he is incapable of carrying your hopes -- in short, that he is not the man you'd hoped he could be.

I've been carrying Trent in my heart for a long time, and I won't lie: he's had some bad days. there have been times when I could not hear him, times when he has seemed nothing but sad and ridiculous -- times when I'd nearly given him up for dead -- but there's always been a process in him, an ongoing story that I've needed to hear, and in some very serious way, remarkably, he has never been a disappointment, because what I've always loved about Trent is his work, and his work has always come from the soul, even if it's been hard for me to swallow it all.

That Trent, himself, in his work, so clearly imagines purity, truth, ideal love, and their diametric, impassioned opposites -- that he so ardently strives for his own unalloyed truth -- makes him seem essentially unrequited, too, in a way; but in my heart, he is every thing he has ever aspired to, and more. I'll always be watching him and listening to him, and it will be the dearest wish of my heart that he can make everything that's best in himself real.

What are "real boys" to that? I mean, have you seen them? Wandering with bovine submissiveness behind their big-haired, dumb looking women in the mall, resplendent in backwards baseball caps, cargo shorts and stupid t-shirts? Seriously, go outside right now, and I promise you, you will see an entire herd of steers that couldn't stand and deliver despite enormous cost, like Trent does, if you drew them a fucking map. Do they even have souls? Do they aspire? So many real boys are just so paltry in comparison, and even the ones who say they aspire to something fine are usually all talk.

The real boys I've met may be able to requite a momentary need with their real cocks, but they don't seem to have the tool that can quench the pure, eternal flame of the love I'm talking about, and that's because they can't even imagine that such a thing exists. I know Trent can. I'm totally positive that he does.

What? You say Trent, himself, is a real boy? You say I've built him a pedestal far too monumental for his freaky feet of clay -- that he is flawed and imperfect? That, as much as I like to tell myself that it's nothing but a photoshopped monstrosity, he may even have smiled like a retard and allowed the infamous "red robe" pic to be taken (and, that link is hereby dedicated to Gabriel Miller, try not to touch your monkey when you look at it, ok G?), which will traumatize us all for all posterity? What about the fact that in the past, Trent has been at the bottom of the most squalid pit in the garbage dump of hell, covered in disgusting slime and sleaze, and probably vomit, has had intimate congress with Courtney Love, and very likely has behaved as ignobly as it is possible to behave.

Yeah, sadly, I know that, too.

Maybe as much as 95% of him is just an ordinary man who shits and eats, and gets dirt under his fingernails, and makes big mistakes, just like anyone else. I know that. I know that guy wakes up with nasty ass-breath, scratches his nuts, and gets pimples on his back. Also, he's short, quite possibly a bit napoleonic, can sometimes be ill-mannered with the help, and wears black socks at inappropriate times. He obviously spends far too fucking much time looking at his muscles, and plays lame video games. I know that man is there, and that he is probably endlessly capable of being thoughtless, unconscious, uninteresting and worst of all, utterly common.

But you know what? The fact that he is just flesh and blood, like anyone, makes it more unspeakably gorgeous that there's something else about Trent, too. That's not all he is. There's another part of him that I can see with the x-ray eyes of my love, and it's pure poetry. It's the part of him that falls from grace, and struggles back up from those depths, the part of him that wants what it can never have, but it keeps striving, and nothing can stop it -- the part of him that decided it wanted to live and work despite all he's undergone, so he listens for his muse, faces fear and all his demons, and feels divine and godlike when he creates. There's a part of him that's always going to be singular and secret, and it's the part that holds the truth of his soul, and the soul of his work, beating as quietly and as surely as my heart does.

That part of him is just as real as every shit he's ever taken, literally or figuratively, and it's every bit as divine as my ideal love. And you know what? On the day that love is requited by a real boy, I'll thank Trent for  making sure I'd know what it looked like, and that I'd still be waiting.

But, having said that? At the same time, I'd be delighted if Trent would quit fooling around and satisfy some of my momentary needs with his real cock, too. I mean, I wouldn't throw him out of bed for eating crackers, or anything.


Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre, unrequited_love | Permalink | Comments (54) | TrackBack


As we all know here, life in the House of Reznor can be hard -- fraught with uncaring stares, judging assumptions, and disdainful disregard. We may be the outsiders, the freaks -- but we will not be silenced, or feel ashamed.

BT Digital Music is holding their yearly People's Choice Awards, and it has come to my attention that some other NIN-related sites have been canvassing their readers for votes, trying to pump up their goodwill in the NINmunity -- perhaps they think they'll get comped more free stuff from Interscope and get to hang out with Trent more that way.

I say fuck that shit, George. Stand up. Embrace your inner misfit. Defeat the status quo.

Click the link to the right, and vote for WearingTheseChains for Best Music Website.

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (28) | TrackBack



By Mimi Jones-Taylor

[From the Editor: In light of recent events, I am posting Episode V of the In Dreams saga in its complete, unedited format. As a mere man, it is not my place to judge the worth of others, their art, or even the moral content therein. These are the pathways to temptation and deception. Honesty, truth, and acceptance is the way of The Word. -Gabriel]

The cold, sweet cream slid into his mouth.  He pursed his lips together, kissing the air as the flavour twisted his tongue.  He hesitated for a moment before releasing the substance down his throat, clenching the tip of the spoon with his teeth as She tried to pull it from his mouth.

            “So are you going to guess?” She asked.

            “Mmm hmm,” he nodded, cocking his neck forward.

            She tittered as She whacked the wet spoon against her palm.

            “Madagascar vanilla ice cream,” he said with a final swallow.

            “Ooh,” She squealed to Her Twin, “he’s good!”

            “I told you he would be,” Her Twin replied, holding the glass of water to his lips.

            “What should we do next?” She asked.

            “Ooh, this one.” 

Her Twin held up the red jar.

            “Are you ready, Trent?”

            Trent nodded, opening his mouth to speak.

            “Shhhhh,” She whispered, placing her index finger against his lips.  “Not until we tell you.”

            Her Twin waggled her red, jellied finger underneath his nose before shoving it into his mouth.  Trent’s lips pulled back as he wrinkled his brow and strained his cheeks.  He tried to spit the jelly out, but Her Twin cupped his chin.

            “Ah ah ah…” said Her Twin.  “You have to guess first.”

            “Mmmmmmmmh!” Trent cried.

            “Come on, darling,” She said, her lips moving closer to his ear.

            Trent backed his neck up, pressing his lips together.

            “Are you ready to guess?” She asked, as her breath fluttered against his outer ear.

            Trent nodded.

            “No spitting,” commanded Her Twin.

            Trent bit his lower lip, nodding.

            “Okay, guess!” She said.

            “Unsweetened cranberry jelly,” said Trent, smacking his lips to every syllable, attempting to purge its lingering taste.

            “Wow, you’re right, sis, he is good!” She said.

            “Water…” he whispered.

            “Hey!” said Her Twin, smacking his cheek with the back of her hand.  Red jelly spittled out of his mouth, dripping onto his bare chest.

“We said no speaking unless you’re spoken to.”


Her Twin gritted her teeth as She stared into his blindfold.

“Do you want us to hit you again?”

Trent shook his head.

“Good.  Good boy.  Here’s your water, bitch.”

She held the glass to his lips, as he gasped to get as much of it down before She could jerk the glass away. 

“What’s next?” She asked.

“This,” Her Twin said, holding up a green bottle.

“We can’t give him that!” She cried.

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to kill him, do we?”

Trent struggled to undo the knots binding his hands to the chair, moving his head from side to side as he followed their conversation.

“It’s harmless.  Don’t worry.”

Trent could hear footsteps moving closer to his seat.  He let his arms go limp.

“Ready for the next taste?”

            Trent nodded, his head sinking towards the floor.

            Her Twin held out the spoon with the green liquid.

            “Open up, lover.”

            Her Twin shoved the spoon into his mouth, standing back while he spewed it across the room.

            “That’s fucking Bitrex!” he cried.

            The two girls laughed. 

            “Awww,” She cooed, flooding his mouth with water.

            “Here,” said Her Twin, shoveling a spoonful of brown glop into his mouth.  “This should cover the flavour.”

            Trent rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth, coating it with the coarse paste.

            “Hmmm,” he said, “Wahnuh bu’r”.

            Her Twin laughed. 

            “Yes, it’s walnut butter, very good, but we didn’t ask you to guess that.”

            Trent flinched in anticipation.

            “Excellent, sister,” said Her Twin, “We have him trained.”

            She poured water into his mouth once more.

            “So, Trent, are you ready for the final taste?”

            Trent nodded his head with care, and opened his mouth.

            “Excellent,” She said, pulling out the Mason jar.

            “I thought we were saving that,” said Her Twin.

            She laughed, dipping a spoon inside. 

            “Are you ready, Trent?” Her Twin whispered in his ear. 

She slipped the spoon into his mouth.

            Trent let the contents roll around on his tongue.  The soft jelly had a slight tack to its texture; the salt seasoning was light, almost as if the ingredient were an afterthought.  He let his tongue play with it for a moment longer, pulling it away from the back of his teeth.  Trent sat up straight, his forehead rigid, and spat the substance out with fervour.

            “Fuck,” he shouted.

            The twins laughed.

            “That’s fucking spunk,” he said.  “And it’s not even mine.”

            “You’re right, sis,” She said, “He is that damned good.”

            “You’re right, Trent,” Her Twin said, “It’s not yours.  It’s from the last guy who didn’t cooperate with us.  Now how come nobody’s called looking for you?”

            “Yeah,” She said, “I find that odd, too.  I mean, we left enough clues for them.  Maybe they just don’t want you back anymore.”

            “Maybe they’re just sick of you ordering them around,” said Her Twin.  “You can be such a domineering bitch sometimes.”

            Trent pulled the ropes binding his wrists.

            “Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” said Her Twin.  “And if you think you can get away, we’ll just have to make you taste some of this…”

            She ran a sharp blade along his forearm.  Trent cried in pain, as She popped her finger, rife with his blood, into his mouth.

* * * *

            Trent opens his eyes into the full blast of morning’s sun.  It takes him a few moments to get his bearings.  He is at home, in his own bedroom.  Trent smacks his lips together; they are sticky and covered with morning tongue fur.  He makes a face, and throws off his blanket, noticing a long scratch on his forearm that has just begun to heal over.

            In shock, he turns to the other pillow in his bed, where his cat is sitting, staring at him with large green eyes.  Trent revisits the scar, and laughs.  He sits up from his bed, and tries to run his fingers through his hair.  They get stuck in encrusted hair product. 

            “Fuck,” he says to himself as he turns on the bathroom light, peeling a chunk from his scalp.   As he is about to put it to his nose, he spies the deep, raw rope burns on his wrist. 

             Trent tears his bedroom apart, looking for any sign that someone may have spent the night with him and stole out in the morning.  There is nothing. 

“Who’s fucking spunk is that?” he cries.  “And how come I could taste it in my dream?”

Trent looks around the now chaotic room.  Except for the rolling cat, there is no other sign of life inside.  He picks at the dried spunk once more, looks at a piece and throws it into the bin.  He sees an empty pint container inside that once held Madagascar Vanilla Ice Cream.

Trent sits at the edge of the bed.

“All right, all right, I give the fuck up,” he shouts.  “Would someone please just tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Posted by Gabriel in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (29) | TrackBack



Gabriel, I don't know what's up with this whole girl you slept with turning into Obi-Wan Kenobi and then really being Christ with a flaming head, speaking to you with the voice of Bea Arthur, but I am sicker of your shit that I ever have been in the history of my life.

If you want to bang on about your newfound joy in Christ in your typical melodramatic fashion in your own posts, I, unlike you, am not a fucking fascist, so I will not excercize MY EDITORIAL RIGHTS here on WTC to silence you. However, there are two things I will no longer tolerate. The first is the fact that you have denied that same right of self-expression to Mimi, and the second is the new site banner.

Make no mistake, bitch, this is an ultimatum:

You need to post Mimi's story immediately, SPUNK AND ALL. There is nothing in her story that violates the basic editorial rules we established on founding this website, and I don't care how uncomfortable the MERE MENTION of semen makes you, you need to GET THE FUCK OVER IT and post her story RIGHT NOW.

With regard to the site banner: in the interest of keeping peace with you, and also because I have a fucking sense of humor, I tolerated your "Old Man Reznor, Nine Inch Monkeys" thing. Heck, I liked it. It was funny. I like to think that Trent's a big enough man (figuratively speaking, of course) to find it funny, too; but this addition of JESUS CHRIST to our banner is NOT funny, and it's not acceptable to me, as the co-founder of this site, and as your EQUAL CO-EDITOR.

Out of respect for you, I will give you time to see sense, and make these changes yourself. If you do not, I will make them for you, and then I will tell the entire world wide internets the entire sordid story of you, Alex, Veronica, and the herpes. IN GRAPHIC DETAIL, because you know what, bitch? I wasn't as wasted as you thought I was, and I SAW EVERYTHING.

I'm sorry it's come down to this, Gabriel, but I've had enough. I hope my threats aren't necessary, and that your newfound faith will show you the path to having a little respect for others, and that you will make this right without any further fucking palavering.

IN THE MEANTIME, can the rest of us get back to how fucking HOT Trent is? There's a new gallery from Melbourne here, and it is full of pictures of Colonel Jughead Reznor ROCKING IT. I especially love the one that prominently features his hairy, meaty arm and fist, and that crease in his forehead.

Seriously, I came.


Finally, Jeordie White? NOTT!

Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre | Permalink | Comments (41) | TrackBack


[it_took_Him_ to_make_me_see_the_light]

Friends and Believers--

It's good to see so much activity here at WTC has been going on in my absence. It makes me quite happy to know that Dierdre and Mimi and I have begotten such a thriving young community here; it truly makes my heart sing.

My experience in the desert this past week was... unexpected. I don't know what I was looking for out there; enlightenment, redemption, clarity, purpose? All I knew is that something was wrong in my world, and somewhere between the cactii and the sun and The Fragile and the mescaline and my broken spirit I hoped to find some sort of answer.

I've always heard stories of people discovering a sense of singularity within the universe, and their connection to it therein whilst going upon such spiritual quests. Truth be told, I always found these stories to be bloated and indulgent, and full of the same sort of desperate need for external-identification that I had left behind the moment I first witnessed the beauty of The Downward Spiral.

I thought it was all a bunch of shit. I figured the best you could do was maybe see some shit melting, maybe have some fucked up sex with a cute girl that'd turn into your father halfway through (who's head was on fire and spoke with the voice of Bea Arthur, for some reason) and wonder why you shaved your genitals smooth the next morning. And, you know, that was cool -- that would be enough.

But on Thursday night something different happened... I witnessed a revelation. A moment of sparkling, vibrating purity and clarity, between the soaring stars and melting sky and whirling desert winds, and from the darkest recesses of my past came the one thing I never thought would happen.

A bearded figure in robes approached me. At first I thought I was tripping about Obi-Wan Kenobi, which would have been awesome -- I mean, seriously, I figured I'd hallucinate some bitchin lightsaber battles -- but as the figure approached, and sat, I realized there was something much more momentous happpening here.

This was no father boner trip, no Jedi mind fuck. And I finally understand what the great empty vaccuum within my soul -- the desperate yearning, that had been driving me to such anger and hate lately -- I finally understood what it had been yearning for. What the shape of the hole in my heart was, as He spoke to me.

And I palavered with Him. With Christ. Our Lord.

The ramifications of this have been overwhelming... I ended up losing my way back to my Geo Metro, and spent two extra days just wandering in the wastes, turning what had happened over and over in my head. Connections began to form; between The Word, my life, our world, the work of M.T. Reznor; everthing.

I spoke to my father. I forgave him. For that is the way of The Word.

I gave away many of my posession on the drive back to San Diego. For that is the way of The Word.

And I understood the simple Holy Truth behind the works of Trent, the reason why we have all been so compelled to his art for all this years, even though we never knew why. And I accepted what it meant.

This is also the way of The Word.

I hope to share these insights with all of you in the coming weeks. It is a beautiful, wonderous thing, this life, full of life and love and hope and holiness, and I look forward to sharing this journey with you.

Yours in Christ,

Gabriel Miller

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBack


Bonsoir Mesdames (et Monsieur LaHaine)! I am writing to you today from the beautiful vineyards of  Prince Edward County in Ontario, Canada, sipping on a glass of baco noir. The summer rain is covering the valley in a blanket of mist, as the warmth of day meets the cool of evening.  I have just finished a lovely little amuse gueule of pâté de foie gras avec truffles et croutons, and I am just being served my venaison avec asperges a l’hollandaise et pommes purées.

So I have had a week to reflect on the malicious hand of censorship that befell me. I am no longer angry. I am actually very sad. I am sad that Monsieur LaHaine has lost the purity of his soul and his sense of courage. I do not know what he is doing in the desert, but I hope that he rediscovers these things, because they are that which drew us to him in the first place.

Speaking of courage, it seems that Monsieur Formidable needs a large dose of this from all of the hatred he is encountering in the southern hemisphere. I believe, mes cheries, that it is this influx of hatred circulating in the world that has caused Trent to become ill. Our states of health are tied in with the atmosphere surrounding us. When we are full of joy, laughter, and love, our immunities are stronger that the bulging muscles on the arms of Monsieur Formidable. But, even if our hearts are full of joy, if the atmosphere surrounding us is full of stress, negativity, disdain and hatred, it plagues our soul and our physical beings are weakened by this psychological warfare.

By now, you must have read the critique of the concerts from Australia. You have seen the maliciousness spread by Monsieur LaHaine on this site. And I am certain that you have read many other criticisms about Trent on sites where we are no longer allowed to tread, and various other forums. All of this anger, hatred, jealousy, and negativity reverberates around the world and is directed at Trent’s spirit, and now it is catching up with his physiology. Le petit pauvre is now becoming ill, and will need to repose in order to continue with his fall tour in North America.

But what will happen when he returns home? For one thing, je te jure, mes amies, that all of the people who are non-Spiral members will backlash against those of us who are, because we will get to touch the hand that feeds, and then there will be more rioting and gnashing of teeth, and this will further wear down the stamina of Trent.

It is time to stop the hatred against Trent. If we want him to feel better, then we must all be positive. We must band together in a solidarity of love, and pass these vibes throughout the universe to Trent, eradicating all hatred from our thoughts and minds (and website editors-in-chief) so that he will be able to survive the remainder of his touring days without befalling any other ailments.

Et maintenant, my venison is finished, and now I am moving on to a little piece of gâteau de Chopin with a little glass of Vidal Icewine. In tribute of spreading the love and overcoming the hatred, and to Trent’s health, I raise my glass and share with you this little poem, inspired by the words of Trent Reznor, and dedicated to the eradication of Monsieur LaHaine in the hopes that the pure and benevolent Gabriel Miller will emerge from underneath yet again, full of hope and inspiration:

The Illness of the Soul
a get-well poem
by Mimi Jones-Taylor feat. (the currently ill) Trent Reznor

Smashed up my sanity
Smashed up integrity
Smashed up what I believed in
Smashed up what’s left of me

Burning scarlet covers your healthy skin
Yet the show must go on, say you
Showcasing your wares to the unbelievers.
How they cast your efforts into the sewers!
Still, you go on playing and placating them
Quel justice au monde de la haine!

Watching the hole it used to be mine
Just watching it burn in my steady systematic decline
Of the trust I will betray
Give it to me I throw it away
After everything I’ve done
I hate myself for what I’ve become

You are stronger than you realize;
Leave their decaying stench behind.
Look to us to give you what you need now, with
Our hands reaching out from what could be your heaven
Come to where the clockwise swirling waters of joy comfort you
And you shall feel whole again.

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in mimi's_musings | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBack



My dear WTC friends, I think it's time for a new photo essay, don't you?

In the previous episodes, we've had a little look down memory lane at the various challenges Trent has faced with his adventures in hairstyling, pointed out that he has the sexiest teeth on earth, and established beyond a reasonable doubt and in a fashion that would fully hold up in a court of law that he has always been asking for it.

Today, we are taking our cue from current events in the Empire of Dirt, and asking the question, for the 7,567,371 time, which is better? Old Trent, or New Trent.

I've addressed this topic once before on WTC, and I must tell you, I don't think my conclusions are going to be any different than they were then. I would argue that while the Trent of Yore was FUCKING AWESOME, there are some things that we can all be pretty grateful are a thing of the past, actually.

Plus, isn't it so much more fun to make an argument while looking at pictures of that gorgeous creature, TRENT REZNOR?

Yeah. I think so, too. So, without further ado, I give you:


Posted by Dierdre ~ in pictures_of_you | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBack



Dear Trent,

I read today that due to the fact that there's now little likelihood that you'll be suffering a nervous breakdown onstage, the The Australian reports that "Nails" has lost its "point." I can only imagine how tough it must be to bear such sharp-minded criticism from the thinker-upper of such a clever metaphorical description of your unfortunate suckitude, but needless to say, you have my sympathy.

Oh, Trent, if only you were still languishing in hell as "the serpentine king of the goths," your nail would be unblunted, but with this new haircut and a tan, all you can manage is to look "apologetic" about that animal fucking thing, and "whimper" over your "naked piano" while singing "Hurt". All I can say is that it's a good thing you weren't caught smiling. God forbid.

On top of that, I hear you're under the weather, but that the show will go on. Oh dear. Perhaps all that running around and yowling will help sweat it out of you?  I suppose it's all part of the trials and tribulations of being a rockstar, Sparklepants. Drink plenty of fluids, sweetness, get plenty of rest, and do take good care of your dear self.

I feel certain I can speak for everyone at WTC -- except Gabriel, who is a stupid hater, and who is currently on sabbatical in the desert, getting in touch with his inner fascist -- that we are all sending vibes of love your way using all of our psychic powers, and wishing you well with every bit of our enamored, girlish hearts.


PS. You are totally smokin' hot, by the way. Have I ever mentioned that? Yeah. It's true.

Posted by Dierdre ~ in dear_trent | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBack



Salut, mes copines!  I am writing to you from a WiFi connection in the wilds of Northern Ontario, from a little patisserie that I managed to find during my creative depression. They make the most heavenly brioche here. And I love brioche. For those of you who have never experienced the thrill of brioche (like M. LaHaine, I am certain), let me try to explain. Brioche is found in that luxurious baked world between croissant, pain and croquembouche. It is a little piece of heaven, made with flour, eggs, butter, just a teeny pinch of salt and sugar, a little yeast, and lots of love and care. Brioche simply melts in your mouth, and slides down your throat leaving behind a trail of happiness. Sometimes, one may want to increase one’s pleasure with a little bit of strawberry preserves, but only a little – brioche is meant to be pure, untouched. Brioche is the bread of love. And they must be seulement des fraises in the preserves – none of those chemicals used to make the food a special colour, or a special flavour. Why on earth would anyone want to eat fake food products? It disgusts me to think of all of the recycled Evian bottles that go into one Kraft Slice. I am certain that M. LaHaine consumes such plastic food on a daily basis. All of those edible oil products can turn your mind into a black, scarred field of hatred.

Alors, I have mon iPod here with me, listening to the soothing voice of our one common love, Monsieur Formidable. I decided to go a little, how you say, retro and listen to The Downward Spiral. I know that this CD is loved by all, including M. LaHaine. How can anyone not love this masterpiece of music? You know, there are certain songs on this magical CD that causes the act of eating brioche to bring one’s fantastical thoughts to life.

I think maybe next week, upon his return, I will bake M. LaHaine a petite brioche, so that he may perhaps remember what it is like to feel loved. For you see, Mesdames, I believe the problem with his jalousie is that he no longer knows what it is like to feel the joy of having someone call you “cherie” or “p’tit choux”; the joy that fills you with les arc-en-ciel dans le coeur, very much in the way brioche does to your taste buds.

Et alors, all of this talk of brioche, l’amour et LaHaine has led me to write another little poème with the assistance of notre objet d’amour, featuring the most virtuous love song written by Trent Reznor:

Le Goût de L’Amour
(dedicated encore to M. LaHaine)

A duet of words
By Mimi Jones-Taylor and M. Trent Reznor

Here is a blanket                     Need You
To comfort your soul               Dream You
As she mourns the loss            Find You
Of your inner artist                 Taste You

Cry you bitter tears                 Fuck You
Inside my mouth                     Use You
Pour your poison words            Scar You
Inside my ears                        Break You

Your soul is hungry                 Lose Me
Sit at my table, and                Hate Me
I will prepare a feast               Smash Me
To cease her rumblings           Erase Me

You search for a new muse         Kill Me
With eyes sealed by hatred         Kill Me
Let me dab them with silk          Kill Me
And open them to your future     Kill Me

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