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2006.04.24

[WTC_Bookclub: Go_Ask_Ogre]

My dear compañeros, I can't tell you how excited I am to be talking about Jolene Siana's wonderful book, Go Ask Ogre, here at WTC. I'm so glad so many of you read it, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts on it.

By way of kicking off our discussion, I'd also like to share a letter I got from a reader which I think relates, somewhat obliquely, to the material in Jolene's book, but which I also wanted to respond to on these pages, and give you all a chance to tell me your thoughts about the same subject. I think it's a genuinely good question about the kind of project we have going here at WTC, and also about the kind of impulse that might lead an unhappy teenaged girl to write hundreds of pages of letters to Ogre. The letter is from an anonymous lurker on these pages, and someone who, like some of us here, knows what it is to harbor a more intense affection for some far off other than is generally thought to be acceptable, or deemed to be "well-adjusted."

Here's what she asked me:

...I wonder, reading your endlessly entertaining website, the way you go on about Trent, how you can continue to do such a thing? Don't you ever, become deeply *depressed* by the fact that, to paraphrase 'notre amour' you want something you can never have??? Didn't at the first evidence of his relationship with another human being who wasn't you, your heart die just a little? Or is your online persona, just that, a persona with no real feeling behind it??? Don't become upset with me, that's not at all what I mean by this email, just I'm wondering, how you can continue for all these years, from the little I've gathered on your website anyway, to hold *such* an incredibly strong torch for someone that at the very best, will only know you as that 'crazy' fan, and maybe give you an autograph. Doesn't that *hurt*??

...B/c you know, at the end of the day, we can buy all the cd's we want, go to all the concerts we want, get all the pics we want, maybe even meet the man, but still...still at the end of the day, we won't *be* with this man. We won't be friends or lovers or anything else real or intimate. So why continue? Why go on and on about it? I mean, perhaps in a small way it's cathartic to get it all out, even if it is in the anonymous space of the internet. But in the end, it only goes to one place - and that's nowhere.

What I liked about this letter is that our dear anonymous correspondent allowed, without question,  that what prompts the big, massive love letter that constitutes a hefty portion of WearingTheseChains.com (certainly the part authored by me, Dierdre) is an authentic, deeply felt, genuine emotion. I don't want to get back into semantics about whether or not it's possible to "love" someone you don't "know," because that way lies a quicksand of signifiers and signifieds related to one another in infinite, totally subjective permutations, and well... this site is not about semiotics, it's about Trent Reznor, his beautiful, heartfelt work of art, and OBVIOUSLY, his smokin' hot teeth. At the very least, though, I like that our friend is not dismissive of what goes down on these pages, because the dismissal that so many are eager to deal out on a subject like this, like so many po-faced Judas Iscariots to the beating of their own hearts, is, I think, very knee-jerk, and perhaps motivated primarily by things like denial and shame, and I think that's rather sad, really. Moreover, if they've surfed on over to WTC, and are harping on about it to me ON THIS WEBSITE, then... well... you know.

Whatevs.

Still, her question is a good one, and that's, if I'm reading correctly, is: doesn't it HURT to love someone who will never be yours? The answer, in brief, for me, DIERDRE, is NO, it does not hurt. In fact, it feels nice. I love to love Trent Reznor. It makes me happy, and it's a feeling I cherish. But, why?  How can I continue to carry the torch when I know that no matter how much I want him, that man can never be mine? I think the answer lies in several things. First, I think we can benefit from a good hard look at what it is that we really love about Trent -- or whomever it is -- and think about why we love that thing; and second, I think the assumption in that question is that when we love someone we don't know in a daily sense, we experience an emotion to which there is no response -- in short, that we get nothing back -- and that being unrequited in that sense is ineluctably painful.  Personally, I would challenge that assumption, because I think there is are very real things that we get out of that kind of love, and I'd like us to think about what it is...

Which brings me to Jolene's book.

Go Ask Ogre has been marketed as a book about teenage dysfunction, namely near-suicidal depression, and the sad phenomenon of "cutting" as an expression of depression, and there's no question that the time in Jolene's life that is chronicled in her letters to Ogre is a difficult chapter, full of real, naked sadness and loneliness. Jolene's motivation, in publishing her letters to Ogre, was the hope that her story might help other young people through their own hard times, and she's probably right: hers is a remarkable story of overcoming a very real sickness of the soul to become the active, vital, beautiful woman she is today.

Worthy motivations, to be sure, but what struck me in reading Jolene's story was not so much the dysfunction, but what I felt was the surprising and seemingly paradoxical health there is in her ability to believe, for even one minute, that Ogre might hear her: that implicit belief that her feelings were worthy of expression. I love that her letters to Ogre are all about her -- her life, her feelings, her dreams and loves -- and are very rarely about him. For me, the most compelling thing in Jolene's book is the fact that what saves her, in the end, is her remarkably honest, unexpurgated self-expression, and her also remarkable willingness to believe that her letters and artwork might be of interest to someone like Ogre -- someone far away, someone she doesn't really know, and someone she sees as ideal in some way. I love Jolene's sense of indignation in response to her circumstances, and her belief that she is essentially not wrong about the way things should be, and her assumption that Ogre might understand her, might agree, and certainly wouldn't judge her for being who she is. Personally, I think all that sounds particularly healthy, and that sometimes, what we see as dysfunction is actually a healthy response to something that just isn't right.

Obviously, there are millions of questions we could raise about all that, and I haven't even mentioned the way in which this book shows us how deeply important a relationship with a work of art can be in a person's life (which for me, is the other most compelling thing about Go Ask Ogre), but what I'd like us to think about are these essential questions:

  • What do you think Ogre meant to Jolene? Why do you think she wrote to him like she did?
  • Do Jolene's compulsively written letters to Ogre seem pathetic or crazy to you? Why, or why not? What do you think about Ogre, in Jolene's story?
  • All of us here at WTC, harbor a special love for Trent Reznor. What is it that he means to us? Why do we feel like we need to say something to him?
  • How would you answer our anonymous reader's question?

And, of course, add any other thing you want to the discussion! I think this is an incredibly rich book, and I can't wait to hear what you all thought. What moved you? What did you relate to most strongly? Did you like it?

Do tell!

Finally, I have a bit of bad news. My computer died a tragic death this past weekend, but I am currently thanking Jesus that it's under warranty. Hopefully, it will be fixed, but because I live in a difficult location for the repair of a Mac ibook, and it will probably have to be shipped off for the repairs it needs, I will be computerless for several weeks. I can still post and participate in discussions, but will have to do so from the computer at my job, and during the hours when it is available, so I probably won't be able to actively volley answers back and forth with you guys in US timezones. Also, posting frequency from me may be down. Please know that I love you all, though, and will be back in action ASAP! Keep WTC alive for me while I'm indisposed!

Love,
Dierdre

Posted by Dierdre ~ in wtc_bookclub | Permalink | Comments (77) | TrackBack

2006.04.20

[Dear_Trent_#_32]

Dear Trent,

Hey sweets. How you doin'?

I guess there isn't a whole heck of a lot to say to you lately. I mean, truthfully, as far as your smokin' hot ass, scandalously pornographic teeth, and scrumptious hairiness go, I think we've pretty much covered it. It's no secret that there are literally armies of young women and men who would be delighted to be on the recieving end of a good rogering if you were dealing it out. What can I tell you, Sparklepants? We at WearingTheseChains are some of them.

Likewise, I think we have firmly established where we stand with regard to either the (perfectly reasonable and justified) love or the (totally irrational and obviously hysterical) hate where your new record is concerned, right? For my part, [With_Teeth] still totally makes me want to make out with you until I can no longer remember my own name, but the feeling, apparently is not unanimous. You know what though, Trent? I wouldn't worry about the hate too much, because I happen to know that Gabriel plans not only on buying tickets, but actually flying from Los Angeles to New York to see Guns n' Roses, so... Yeah. Nothing to worry about there. Some people are just hopeless fucktards, is all.

I guess what I'm left with, then, in this installment of the declaration of my eternal, unflagging love, is the fervent hope that while you are taking a break from the tour that never fucking ends, you are pouring your gorgeous little heart out to make me a new record. Oh man! That would be so awesome! Either that, baby, or could you schedule the webcast of a mud-wrestling tournament in which you take on all the former members of Nine Inch Nails who are behaving like jilted lovers? I think Maise could use a little entertainment. In case you haven't heard, punkin, her job is pretty boring.

I love you!

xxx,
Dierdre

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

2006.04.13

[The_Secret_Life_of_Gabriel_Miller: Goth_Me_DEADLY]

[Gabriel fanfic spirals down even further...]

Gabriel had mixed feelings about the “new” Aries. Although it was kind of cool to hang out with an operative who was famous in the outside world and although he really liked her newest song, “You Didn’t Fucking Fuck Me, I Fucking Fucked You,” and although he was fond of her very tiny shorts, he was not as fond of her penchant for randomly kicking him in the balls for the amusement of herself and her entourage.

It was eventually decided that during the Irvine, CA show, Sagittarius would launch an attack onstage in the middle of “Gave Up.” Then Gabriel, who would be positioned backstage, would use his nunchucks and general hand-to-hand combat skills to fight off security and the other band members and carry off Alessandro. They would then be transported to the coast in a van driven by Leo and then take a ride in Aquarius’s speedboat back to headquarters. Then, Gabriel supposed and hoped, he would be allowed to retire in peace. It was a simple enough plan--if unnecessarily public and brazen--and Gabriel did fancy the idea of saying, “Eat it, Trank!” as his entire muscle-bound cock rock production collapsed around him.

And yet…

Maybe it was the fact that Gabriel had been in retirement too long. Maybe it was the fact that when NIN was onstage, the songs sounded just as good as he had remembered. Maybe it was the fact that Alessandro looked so amiable and harmless. Maybe it was just Trent’s shiny pants, which he did fill out rather well these days. Whatever the reason, it was there, waiting in the wings on the appointed day at the appointed hour, that Gabriel lost his stomach for kidnapping. And as Trent sang to the crowd, “Smashed up my sanity/smashed up my integrity/smashed up what I believe in…”, Gabriel saw the first of Sagittarius’s exploding arrows fly through the air towards the stage and knew that his moment of personal reckoning was upon him.

“Fuck it," Gabriel said. "No one’s taking Alessandro while I’m here.”

He rushed onto the stage, nunchucks at the ready, and as two security guards charged him, he deftly swung his nunchucks over his shoulder and above his head. He struck one guard in the face and took the legs out from under the other. Both crashed to the ground and offered no further resistance. The scene was chaotic as Saggitarius’s arrows began to detonate. Roadies and techs ran screaming across the stage. The drum kit caught on fire. The gauzy curtain that descended during “Eraser” and “Right Where It Belongs” fell to the ground like a white flag of surrender. It took the audience a few moments to realize that this wasn’t exactly the performance that was scheduled, and they formed a screaming, stampeding mob, trampling each other to flee. [About half an hour later, the first Internet message board posts appeared, decrying the “lame” and “unprofessional” premature end of the concert.]

Trent stood in the midst of this rock apocalypse in silent disbelief. Jeordie walked up to him, calmly said, “Dude, I quit,” and strolled nonchalantly offstage, with his bass in hand. Alessandro hid behind his keyboards as Gabriel stood in front of him. Gabriel gave him a thumbs-up. “Don’t worry…I’m here to protect you.” But Alessandro just stared at him, baffled.

Suddenly Gabriel was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Agent North, CIA,” the shaggy-haired guitarist said. His eyes were cold behind all that eyeliner. “I was wondering what you and your little Zodiac friends were up to…Pisces.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, I fucking know who you are. Let me see if I can refresh your memory…Tangier? The kasbah? The teahouse? The camel stables?!”

“Oh God!” Gabriel cried, clasping a hand to his mouth with the sudden realization.

“That’s right. My hair was shorter then.”

“I lost my Aries on that mission.”

“Well, you couldn’t say I didn’t try to warn you. You know, it’s too bad you had to come out of retirement. Cause I’m going to make a prediction…based on the retrograde position of Mars and the orbit of Whatever-The-Fuck, in a few seconds, you’re going to have a head like a hole…”

At this point, Agent North was tackled from behind by Peaches, the new Aries, who rendered him unconscious with an expertly landed karate chop to the head. She screamed to Gabriel, “Grab him! Grab the Italian and let’s get the fuck out of here!”

“I can’t do that, Aries,” Gabriel replied, swinging his nunchucks again. “I tried to tell you people that I’m retired.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she exclaimed, “you can’t trust a man to do a goddamn thing. Fortunately, we were prepared for some pointless little act of rebellion from you…” She nodded her head in the direction of Alessandro. Gabriel turned around and saw him being carried off by Leo and Libra, two attractive young women armed with very large automatic weapons.

Gabriel took a step towards them, but Libra growled, “Pisces, if you so much as lift up those fucking little nunchucks, I’m blowing the keyboardist’s head off. I don’t even have time for your little ninja games, you fucking traitor.”

Gabriel watched helplessly as Alessandro was roughly escorted off stage. Aries joined them with a diabolical laugh.

“Signor Trent, aiutimi!!! Help!!!” Alessandro cried.

Trent still stood at the front of the stage, even as the arrows continued to fly and then explode upon landing. He looked out numbly at the empty amphitheater, looked at his burning set, saw Aaron lying unconscious on the stage with a large gun in his hand and that skinny goth-looking roadie who had been hanging out with Peaches all week standing before Aaron wielding nunchucks, and two hot women kidnapping Alessandro. Josh Freese was standing in the wings, begging Trent to join him offstage in safety. Trent started smashing his guitar in impotent rage. Suddenly, one of the explosive arrows flew right at Trent.

At that moment, everything seemed to go in slow motion. Josh ran out on stage, dove in front of Trent and took the arrow right in the chest. Trent held him in his arms as Josh said weakly, “Boss, I think I’m going to be okay.”

Then the arrow detonated, the force of which threw Trent several feet backwards but fortunately left him only singed. Josh, however, did not fare as well.

Thunder clapped, and rain started to pour. Trent cried out, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

After the arrow attack ceased, Trent stood in the rain, sobbing over the body of his fallen comrade. Gabriel walked up to Trent and put a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Reznor, I’m so sorry,” he began. “I tried to stop all this…”

“Where did they take Alessandro?” Trent asked with an eerily calm voice.

“Back to their secret underwater headquarters,” Gabriel answered. “I promise, Mr. Reznor, sir, I promise I will get him back for you.”

“I’m going with you,” Trent declared.

“No, Trent…it’s too dangerous.”

Trent stood up, grabbed a microphone stand and broke it in half with his bare hands. Holding a sharp, jagged piece of microphone stand in each hand, he said, “You and me…we’re in this together now.”

[To be continued…and remember, kids, if you really enjoy an artist, please don’t ruin the show for everyone by lobbing explosives or any other projectiles onstage. The More You Know!]

Posted by maise in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBack

[Call_&_Response_#_13: New_Directions?]

Um... Would anyone be horribly disappointed if I changed things up here at WTC and transformed the whole thing into a shrine to skinny Britpop arse-waggler and erstwhile Pulp frontman, Jarvis Cocker?

Cocker

Because, I think I'm retroactively in love with him since I watched a video of him singing "I Spy" on the interweb's greatest invention ever, YouTube, and I think it's pretty clear that he is a big flaming genius. Truth be told, all other things being equal**, I've always preferred a tall, lanky man with pale skin, big feet, long fingers, and a razor-sharp wit to a short guy with huge-mongous muscles and a crew cut, wielding a blunt instrument...

Anyone mind?

Oh! And, I found out that Mr. Cocker has had a Goth phase:

Spooner

So, I think it could be a smooth transition for all of us Gothemo fans...

Don't worry, though, you guys! I still love Trent, and the good lord in heaven knows that I would never toss his blunt instrument out of bed for eating crackers. If you're feeling distressed about eminent change-ups, I think you should all go watch this fucking hilarious display of totally gay hair circa 1990, in which Trent and his stick-like legs rock out a little "Get Down, Make Love". As for me, I'm going to go right back to mainlining Pulp videos, and redesigning the site to make it ALL ABOUT JARVIS.

But wait! This is a [Call_&_Response], right? Well, I guess the question is, when you aren't taking your Vitamin T, what are you taking?

**which they aren't, FYI.

Posted by Dierdre ~ in call_&_response / with_questions | Permalink | Comments (53) | TrackBack

2006.04.10

[Another_Go_at_the_WTC_Bookclub]

Howdy, Pardners.

I figure, with Trent wrapping up another leg of his endless, toothsome tour (shudder), and heading off into the Beverly Hills sunset for a month of hopefully writing what I am certain will be the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful, yet kickass record he's ever made in his entire fucking life, we may be in for some slow days on the NINternet. Despite that, I have no doubt that our passion for dear, dear Sparklepants will not die out, but will smoulder and burn like hot coals in the very heart of the fire, waiting only for the right fuel to blaze anew. Until then, I thought we might give ye olde bookclub another go.

Whaddaya say?

We had a long list of suggestions on our booklist, and I want to put one of them forward that I personally love the bejesus out of: Jolene Siana's Go Ask Ogre. An update on the now legendary,  (and legendarily fictional) Go Ask Alice, Go Ask Ogre is a collection of letters and artwork sent by a lonely and depressed teenage girl to her favorite fabulously scary rock firegod, Skinny Puppy's Nivek Ogre. Starting at the age of 17 and continuing until she was 20, Jolene wrote to Ogre compulsively, and in a truly touching and surprising way, he heard her. It's a really beautiful story about a whole bunch of excellent, true things that's unflinchingly honest, sad, funny, and unselfconsciously, authentically poetic, but the reason I think it's loveliest and most pertinent (God, yes) for us here at WTC is that it's about why being a little in love with your favorite rock star isn't really all that dumb at all sometimes. That's a topic that, as you regulars may have noticed by now, is near and dear to my heart.

What do you think, my dears? I hope you're in. The book shouldn't be tough to find -- it's available from Amazon. It's a quick, riveting read, and I think it will be a choice that we can all enjoy, loaded with relevance to our project here at the home of the NINternet's most unwanted, so let me know... Are you in?

If so, drop me an e-mail, or post a message here when you've got the book, and as soon as we have a group that's ready to rumble, we'll saddle up.

Love & Kisses,
Dierdre

Posted by Dierdre ~ in wtc_bookclub | Permalink | Comments (48) | TrackBack

2006.04.04

[And_All_The_Ladies_Say_Hey]

Yo, my sweet bitches. So I know that despite my cream mandate, some folks around here haven't been paying attention and have instead been complaining that my elocutious musings on all things seminal aren't necessary, have grown tiresome, or are just plain inappropriate (and by "some folks" I mean Dierdre Keating and Dierdre Keating).

But as all of you fucking idiots should know, I, Gabriel Miller, am all about the public will. If the people don't want the jizz, the people won't get the jizz. But I'm happy to say after finally checking my email box (what, like I have time for that shit?) I found this missive that let me know all is well and good in the Empire of Spunk:

From: <gabriels_whore@yahoo.com>
To: <gabriel@wearingthesechains.com>
Date: Mar 31, 2006 6:16 PM

i found your picture on wtc today. i printed it out and kissed you. my lips are black from the ink. the paper became soggy when i licked your face. i want to eat what you make. i have never been so hot as when i read your works. do you spunk on everyones face there or do i have to plead? fuck those bitches who chastise you for being a man.

on my knees awaiting your reply
your personal whore
-------------------------------------------------
New Yahoo! Messenger with Voice. Call regular phones from your PC and save big.

That's right, motherfuckers. Not only is the spunk in effect, it's gonna get me laid.

Yeah, Trank may have dropped the conversations about tasting his own jizzum, but that's just one more reason proving how Trank the Tank is a washed up pussy playing it safe, and I am the cutting edge artist for the new millenium.

GABRIEL MILLER: SEX MACHINE. Groupies; take a number.

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (93) | TrackBack

2006.04.03

[The_Secret_Life_of_Gabriel_Miller: Operation_DEATH]

Gabriel Miller fanfic continues! So suck it, Liebchen.

Volume 2

Gabriel lay on the titanium floor and stared at the titanium ceiling for hours. He attempted to compose poems for his own edification, even though he had no paper or pen to save them for posterity, but even his Poetic Muse had abandoned him for the moment. He sat up when he heard the heavy titanium door slide open with a grinding sound. Two women walked inside—one was short and curvaceous with a dazzling, artificially whitened smile. The other was…formidable and armed with a stun gun. The petite member of the pair bent over to tousle Gabriel’s hair affectionately.

“Hey, Fishhead!” she exclaimed brightly.

Gabriel felt a wave of relief, “Virgo!” he cried. “You know, I never realized until right now how much I missed you.” He nodded at the other woman slightly less enthusiastically. “Taurus.” She grunted in reply.

Virgo smiled happily, “Yeah, it’s been a while, huh?”

“Well, it looks like I’ve been drafted back into service. Unless you’re here to rescue me…”

Virgo bit her lip and made an exaggerated frowny face. “Sorry, sweetie pie, no can do. We’ve got strict orders to take you to the boss…”

She wants to talk to me? What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They don’t tell us peons what’s going on. So Fishhead, let’s just get you up. We don’t want to have to use that awful stun gun, do we?”

Gabriel’s face fell. “No, we do not.”

Taurus demonstrated its effects on him with a sadistic grin. “Ahhhhh, fuck!” Gabriel cried as he fell to the floor again.

Virgo rolled her eyes. “Taurus, sweetie, let’s not play around too much. She’s waiting on us…”

Gabriel, feeling weakened, wasn’t so much restrained by his former cohorts as he was supported by them as they walked down a labyrinth of blinding white, empty corridors. Gabriel was at first disoriented, but his memory eventually returned as he was led to the largest and arguably most comfortable room in the entire compound. The door opened, and Gabriel was forcibly pushed into a very comfortable plush chair in front of a large mahogany desk. Behind the desk, large windows revealed a breathtaking ocean scene; the entire building was, in fact, completely underwater.

A middle-aged woman sat at the desk, typing into a laptop. She did not look up when Gabriel was brought in. She looked like a friendly, nondescript soccer mother, but he knew better than to speak before being spoken to. Finally, she addressed him with a terse “Pisces.”

“Capricorn…ma’am.” Gabriel acknowledged in return.

“I’ve been told that you were less than cooperative on your way here,” she noted wryly.

“Would you expect any less of me?”

“No, of course not. Well, I’ll cut to the chase, as we don’t have a lot of time. Pisces, we have a job that requires your unique skills, knowledge, talents, and expertise.”

“In other words,” Gabriel replied, “a suicide mission.”

“Bingo,” Capricorn said with a smile. “Pisces, I don’t have to remind you about our continued rivalry with The Tarot, do I?”

Gabriel briefly pondered whether it would have been more or less manly to have joined a secret spying syndicate based on tarot cards as opposed to astrology. He wondered why the only spying organizations he had ever heard of seemed so New Age-y. Couldn’t they have been named after deadly reptiles or natural disasters? Perhaps one day, he thought, I’ll start up my own outfit and call myself “Eruption.” But returning to the matter at hand, he recalled that he had no love for members of The Tarot. Not after a mysterious figure known only as “The Fool” threw Aries off of the rock of Gibraltar right in front of Gabriel’s helpless eyes…

“Tarot…hmmm…that name rings a bell,” Gabriel shrugged.

“Good,” Capricorn said. “Because we’ve been keeping a close eye on them and their so-called ‘Doomsday Weapon.’”

“Do you mean that you’re actually going to save the world, Capricorn?”

“Don’t be insipid,” she scolded. “We want it for ourselves. The Doomsday Weapon is being developed, naturally by ‘Death’ because they’re not terribly creative. Of course, he’s an elusive little man, but we have managed to track down someone who could give us a little leverage…his only son. Your mission is to intercept Death’s son and bring him back here—alive and unharmed—so that we can figure out what he knows or at least use him as a bargaining chip.”

“That’s it?!” Gabriel scoffed. “You forcibly reactivated me for a simple kidnapping?”

“Oh, this is no simple kidnapping, Pisces dear,” Capricorn replied, “For Death’s son is a rock and roll type, a keyboardist named Alessandro Cortini, and your mission is to abduct him in front of a few thousand people in the middle of a concert…”

“Couldn’t we just grab him when he’s by himself sometime…maybe late at night?” Gabriel asked.

“Shhh,” Capricorn dismissed him with a wave. Taurus zapped him with the stun gun, for good measure. Another individual entered the room and stood next to Capricorn.

“Peaches?!” Gabriel sputtered.

“Pisces, meet the new Aries,” Capricorn proudly proclaimed. “She’s been doing some important reconnaissance. Aries, would you like to give us some more information?”

“Well, ma’am,” Aries began, “the most dangerous factor in this entire operation is not security or the public, but rather the lead singer/songwriter, Trent Reznor. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on—if you pardon the expression, ma’am—but he is short-tempered and powerfully built. He will not gladly suffer this skinny-looking prick carrying off his keyboardist in the middle of his show. He doesn’t appear to know any martial arts, but he does throw things around quite a bit.”

“Thank you, Aries,” Capricorn smiled. “Pisces, Aries will be filling you in on more information and getting you the proper credentials to get you backstage at the right moment. In the meantime, you’re going to need these,” she said to Gabriel as she returned his trusty nunchucks. “And do know that we’re going to be keeping an eye on you just in the unlikely case that you develop any ideas of your own.”

To be continued…

Posted by maise in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBack

2006.04.01

[The_Secret_Place_ Where_Fun_Lives]

Hey kids -- so Ms. Dierdrepants has mandated that if we DARE DISCUSS something other than what she's decided we need to in her precious Go Ask OgreFace Bookclub thread (I haven't gotten the book yet, but I hear it's supposed to be pretty great, so do check it out) that she would delete all of WTC from the "interbot".

"Interbot" is Dierdre's version of a "funny", btw, in case you were confused.

Well now that it's clear her hesitation towards turning this site into a messageboard was part of a larger plan to enforce draconian tactics if people don't fall in line with her pre-set lesson plans (and consequently, create a place that literally DIES when she herself does not post -- see the exciting ONE post, by staff member Maise, between 4/21 to 4/24 for reference), I've decided to create this little fun discussion segment for you kids.

Meathead made a pretty genius music video for "Every Day Is Exactly the Same". As I said in my previous post in the BookClub Thread that got my po-face threatened, it's the only thing of recent memory of Meathead's that I actually wish I'd created.

It's funny, it rips on Trank, and it's by far the best video off the entire "With Teeth" collection.

So if you so desire, DISCUSS! I hope Dierdre approves, but if not... suck it, hater!

-Gabriel

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBack