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[WTC_Bookclub: Saul_Williams_Anyone?]

Dudes, I don't know about you, but I'm dying to read it.

I love Saul Williams's brilliant records, I love that he's getting his knobs twiddled by notre amour, and I love the possibilities for cross-pollination that there so abundantly are in that rich association. Bottom line? I don't want to be missing any part of the picture when two bitchin' dudes release two of the records I am most looking forward to in the whole world.

Are you in?

Saul's latest, The Dead Emcee Scrolls, looks good, and I'd be in, but I'm just going to throw my preference out there and say that I'd like to go back in time and read She, because I think it's about love, and relationships between women and men, and really, with regard to the Dead Emcees, I'm not sure I have enough of a relationship with Hip Hop to really GET it. I mean, I love me some Public Enemy, and think Chuck D should run for president 'n shit, but I'm hardly an expert with my finger on the pulse.

That said, I'm willing to be schooled. What about you guys?

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So someone is sporting a new hairstyle for this leg of the tour, and we would be greatly remiss not to comment.


(Better pics can be found here, which are available for purchase, if your heart so desired.

Personally, I feel kind of "meh" about this look. It reminds me of the days when my husband (then boyfriend) would randomly show up with a completely shaved head. I didn't hate it, but I've always preferred him to have some hair. Don't get me wrong...I LOVE the Marine look on Trent, but now I think he's...ahem...gone too far this time. Just a bit. But it's not a tragedy or anything. Trent, like Bruce Willis, has a nicely shaped cranium. The bald look looks a lot more natural on him than, say, someone else we know.

But...probably the more important news is what has been showing up on the setlists so far...

Somewhat Damaged
Non-entity (I'm really not sure if this should be an open, closed or hyphenated compound)
La Mer (!!!)
Into the Void
Get Down Make Love (?!!!!)

Seriously, boys and girls, I can't wait til Cueball rolls into my town.

Posted by maise in maise_bites | Permalink | Comments (44) | TrackBack


[Dear_Trent: WHY?]

Dear Trent,

I don't know why I'm surprised or disappointed to see the latest posters commemorating the [With_Teeth_2006:_The_Endless] tour dates. I was pretty sure we had hit a spectacular low-water mark last time, when the new posters allowed all us fucking retards to collect all four posters and hang a giant NIN branded cock on our walls should we so desire, but these latest monstrosities?

Jesus Fucking Christ, they suck.

Seriously, Trent what in the SAM HILL are you trying to say with this shit? Is that supposed to be part of some kind of an anti-war message? If so, those posters are failing spectactularly to do anything but seem vaguely exploitative, using images of war to sell bullshit merch at a rock concert, and that's to say nothing whatsoever about how they are just fucking ham-fistedly BAD. I never thought I'd say this, but couldn't y'all have whipped up something abstract using someone's butt this time?

Historically, Nine Inch Nails has always had such uniquely gorgeous visual presentation. From the earliest days there's been a unifying sensibility to it all, and it's always been harmoniusly perfect for the records. The machinery/ribs on Pretty Hate Machine? The red and blue heat of the flames on Broken and Fixed? The feathers and wax of The Downward Spiral that suggested the tragic flight of Icarus and Daedalus? The soft beauty of the flowers, and unfocused blur on The Fragile? Bill Viola's staggeringly gorgeous images for "The Great Below" in concert? Words like "beautiful", "evocative", "subtle", and "poetic" leap to mind. At the very least, they were apt reflections of what was to be found in the work of art they complemented beautifully. Even WTC whipping boy and all around frat-tastic asshat Rob Sheridan has done some (I can't believe I'm saying this!) nice work -- the cover art and online liner notes for [With_Teeth] are beautiful, with that blend of the organic and the digitized. The threads leading from what looked like DNA blot prints into the song lyrics were an especially graceful kind of a reflection of the way that music feels like the true expression of a singular nature -- but what have we got now?


Trent, these latest posters are not only ugly and inartistic, they're anvil-over-the-head obvious, yet still fail to make any kind of point. They're badly executed, visually unappealing, and somehow manage to be simultaneously overly explicit and insufficiently clear. At best, they are fucking awful. What gives, man? Why are people like this creating your visual presentation? WHO'S DRIVING?

You know I love you, baby, but honestly? UGH.


Posted by Dierdre ~ in dear_trent | Permalink | Comments (28) | TrackBack



I'm not entirely sure if this warrants its own post, but it may take a while for me to put my grandiose WTC ideas into motion, especially with my move coming up, and I do want to keep things moving along.

Ladies and Gabes, Trent has finally updated his blog. And he's got a terse movie review. Or a cryptic piece of advice. I'm not sure which, but I'll be happy to flesh it out here.

If you have a chance, I suggest you check out the film "An Inconvenient Truth".


As you may know, "An Inconvenient Truth" is a documentary about Al Gore's attempts to educate people about the dangers of global warming. I've heard nothing but good things about it, and if I get a chance, I will check it out, although I'm not sure if that's a good idea for me, personally.

I tend to be a bit of a worrywart, you see. I actually just had a discussion with the husband about this last night. He doesn't quite understand why in any given situation, I actively worry about every single thing that can possibly go wrong. In my opinion, I'd much rather foresee trouble than be surprised by it, but he seems to think that this leaves me a neurotic mess. If, for example, I see a headline like "Scientists determine that there is a .005 percent chance that a Texas-sized asteroid will collide with the earth in 2050," the very idea will paralyze me with anxiety for hours, if not a couple of days. So pictures of disappearing glaciers will probably do nothing for my peace of mind, a concept that is foreign to me these days, but isn't that the point? We should be shocked out of our complacency and motivated to do something.

Anyway, the whole point of this post is just to get a new ball rolling. Has anybody seen this yet? Anybody planning to? Any advice for Trent as he launches his new career as a reviewer? [I would have punctuated this entry a bit differently, but at least he gets straight to the point...] Anything else you would like to discuss?

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



OMG, you guys! Today is the 41st anniversary of Trent's birth! Is it just me, or do you totally LOVE THAT GUY, too?

Happy Birthday, Trent!

I hope old Sparklepants knows how many of us truly hold him in our hearts with nothing but sincerity and respect, and I hope he knows how we wish him only the best of all good things, and that we are all absolutely certain that his most beautiful work is ahead of him. I hope he knows how much we love the absolute bejesus out of him, and most of all, I hope he knows that even with back hair, he totally kills the Brad Pitts of the world in the all-important sexxxiest man alive competition. I hope he is aware that we have spent hours and hours immersed in unmitigated aural pleasure while listening to his beautiful music, and that we are totally standing by for more. I hope he knows that he makes music that matters, not in some vague way, but in millions of secret personal ways in the hearts of his listeners, and that there are those of us who will be eternally grateful...

...but let's tell him all that again anyway, shall we? Let's pretend that Trent is a faithful WTC reader, and let him know how much we do love our dear old Sparklepants.

Because Trent? We totally do.

Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre | Permalink | Comments (45) | TrackBack



Can't get enough of the deliciously wonderful stories of our two yarn-spinners in residence, Maise and Mimi Jones-Taylor? Well here they all are, catalogued and ready for your enjoyment, again and again! May we present... The Tales of Terror!

The Secret Life Of Gabriel Miller
by Maise

Chapter 1: Back In Action

Chapter 2: Operation: DEATH

Chapter 3: Goth Me Deadly

Chapter 4: Gothemopussy

A NINmas Carol
by Mimi Jones-Taylor

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Jerome The Vampire
by Mimi Jones-Taylor

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Renfield

Chapter 3: Van Rezning, Part I

Chapter 4: Van Rezning, Part II

Chapter 5: Van Rezning, The Final Chapter

In Dreams
by Mimi Jones-Taylor

Chapter 1: The Poster

Chapter 2: The Wedding

Chapter 3: The Den

Chapter 4: The Pool

Chapter 5: The Twins

Chapter 5: The Twins: The Unedited Edition

Chapter 6: The End

Posted by Gabriel in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


[The_Secret_Life_of_Gabriel_Miller: Gothemopussy]

[And now…the thrilling conclusion!]

As Gabriel Miller swam in the depths of the Pacific, he felt a sense of tranquility that had eluded him for days. He was glad that Trent Reznor was swimming next to him; you could see the burning lust for revenge in his steely gaze and tense trapezius muscles.

The CIA, as represented by Agents North and Sheridan, was not officially involved in this rescue mission, of course. But seeing as it was keenly interested in the existence and location of any Doomsday weapon that could be pointed at the legion of enemies of the government (such as Iran and Stephen Colbert), Gabriel and Trent were able to obtain some unofficial supplies and help. For example, they were provided with some innovative scuba gear, designed by Agent Robert Sheridan himself…

“You know how when you’re working deep underwater, you’ve got all that ungainly scuba gear?” Agent Sheridan asked rhetorically, “Well, if you put this simple, small device in your mouth and inhale and exhale normally, you will have a supply of fresh oxygen for 14 hours.”

“Amazing!” marveled Trent.

“Ummm, Rob?” Gabriel began.


“That’s…uh…that’s a dildo. Like, a 13-inch black dildo. With veins and everything.”

“I know, isn’t it cool? I mean, no. No it’s not. I don’t know where you’d get that crazy idea from.”

Gabriel’s reverie was disturbed as the headquarters of the Zodiac suddenly rose up impressively and ominously in front of them. Gabriel led Trent to the entrance of the large sewer pipe, through which they would enter the structure. Trent had originally been skeptical as to the soundness of this plan, but Gabriel had insisted, “Dude, it will be just like the ‘Pinion’ video.” For what seemed like an eternity, they swam through the filth of some of the deadliest spies and assassins in the world. Finally, Gabriel indicated to Trent that they should break through the pipe. Using a piece of his microphone stand and brute force, Trent smashed through the pipe, and they climbed out into a large and curiously unattended control room. “We’ll look for Alessandro in one of the interrogation rooms,” Gabriel suggested. “But we can’t be seen.”

Meanwhile, a weary Alessandro had spent the last twelve hours in an interrogation room, being grilled relentlessly by Scorpio, who despite her admirable cleavage and friendly smile, was getting nowhere. Peaches, aka The New Aries, sat next to Scorpio and drummed her fingers impatiently against the table.

“Per l’ultima volta…non lo so niente di mio padre o del suo lavoro. For the last time, I don’t know anything about my father or his work.”

“Do you always have to say everything in two languages?” Scorpio asked in exasperation.

“Ich kann auch deutsch sehr fleissend sprechen…”

This smart-ass moment on Alessandro’s part resulted in a frustrated Scorpio’s placing a grapefruit-sized black scorpion on the back of his left hand. “Eeeeeeuuuurrrrrrrggaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!” exclaimed Alessandro, a sentiment that was understandable in any language.

“That’s enough, Scorpio,” Capricorn stated authoritatively while entering the room, “you can remove your pet.”

Scorpio scowled, lightly picked off the scorpion that was steadily crawling up Alessandro’s trembling forearm, and placed it in her pocket. Capricorn then set up a laptop on the table in front of him. After pressing a few keys, she turned the computer towards him. He was shocked to see the face of his worried father.

“All right, Capricorn,” Death sighed, “I see that you have him. I’ll talk.”

“Excellent,” Capricorn purred.

“Son,” Death began, “I'm so sorry...I never meant to get you involved in any of this, but I did a terrible thing. Remember when I went to see your concert in New York City last year? Well, I hid the Doomsday weapon in your keyboards. I never thought they’d touch you…mi dispiace.”

Alessandro thought for a moment. “Ma è distrutto! But…but Signor Trent smashed those keyboards to bits during a sound check a week or two later. I’ve been using the new ones ever since.”

“Che?” asked an astonished Death. “Whaaaaat?” growled Capricorn.

“Ma è vero…it’s true. Those keyboards—and your damnable Doomsday weapon—were destroyed.”

Capricorn slammed the cover of the laptop down. “Kill him,” she said to The New Aries and Scorpio through clenched teeth and walked out of the room. At this moment, Gabriel and Trent, who had been hidden in an air duct above, came crashing down from the ceiling. “Signor Trent!” Alessandro cried happily.

Gabriel and Trent stood before the two women. The New Aries was armed with a chain that she was swinging over her head, and Scorpio brandished a whip. “Get them!” Gabriel cried, rushing forward, nunchucks aloft. But he sensed that Trent was not following him. He turned around. “Dude, what the fuck? Come on!”

Trent sighed. “Well, it’s just…you know…they’re chicks. I can’t hit women. And look, there's Peaches! She is the SHIT.”

“Trent, come on. These aren’t ‘chicks'...they’re deadly assassins. I’ve battled their type a hundred times.”

“Okay, then you handle that, and Alessandro and I will find those escape pods you were talking about.” He and Alesssandro then rushed out of the room.

“Argh, fucking Trank!” Gabriel cried. Fortunately, a nunchuck strike to The New Aries' chest and a roundhouse kick to Scorpio’s head was all it took to neutralize the threat that they posed. Gabriel then quickly joined Alessandro and Trent. They ran down the corridors as alarms were sounding. Suddenly, they were stopped in their tracks as they faced down a masked man wearing a jester outfit. “You!” Gabriel seethed as he stared down his longtime adversary in the rival Tarot—The Fool.

“Yo, whassup, nucca. Long time, no see.”

“You killed my Aries! You threw her off of the Rock of Gibraltar!”

“Yeah, shit happens, nucca. I had to toss that bitch.”

“You sound kind of familiar,” Trent observed.

“Shut up, Trent,” Gabriel replied, “this isn’t about you.”

“Chill out, nucca. Why you gots to be all emotional all the time about shit that don’t mean shit? I come here looking for some motherfuckin’ Doomsday weapon. Then I hear that it’s been broken by TR during some shitfit. Surprise, surprise, nucca. But am I all out for vengeance and shit? Nah. I’m just going to blow up this motherfucking toilet in the sea. By the way, y’all gots about 30 seconds to get out of here. Later.” The Fool then ran past them in the corridor. Gabriel and Trent and Alessandro looked at each other for a moment and then sprinted towards the escape pods.

The members of the Zodiac were not unaware of the threat, and they were scrambling to get into all available escape pods and launch away one by one. Finally, Gabriel and Trent and Alessandro found themselves facing Capricorn herself for the last remaining pod. With a diabolical laugh, she held a gun to Gabriel’s forehead. Gabriel clenched his teeth, awaiting his almost certain demise.

Trent calmly approached her and quickly tapped her seven times at various points on her torso. Capricorn fell to the ground with a gasp and lay there motionless. “You know the ancient art of Dim Mak?” Gabriel asked in astonishment.

“A little skill I picked up between albums,” Trent shrugged. “It’s all about the pressure points…I haven’t killed her, but she’s not going anywhere either.”

“We’ve got about five seconds,” Alessandro pointed out monolingually.

“Don’t leave me,” Capricorn hissed.

Gabriel and Trent exchanged a guilty look. Trent sighed, “Well, she’s an older, evil chick, but she’s still a chick.” Gabriel agreed. Trent carried her, and all four entered the escape pod, just moments before the Zodiac headquarters detonated spectacularly.

And in the end, Capricorn was picked up off of the shore of San Diego by Aquarius in her boat and in gratitude for Gabriel’s life-saving actions, agreed that he could finally retire in peace. Agents North and Sheridan were fired by the CIA for allowing the Doomsday weapon to be destroyed under their very noses, but they were rehired by Trent, who was working on his new album. Alessandro and his father participated in some family therapy in Italy. And Gabriel happily realized while surfing one day that his poetic muse had returned to him once again. ("The stars aligned against me...can never escape my past..." he muttered as a small wave knocked him off of his feet.)

As Trent said over a celebratory virgin strawberry daiquiri, “Everything is right where it belongs.”

[The End.]

Posted by maise in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack



Dear Trent,

It isn't that I don't think of you, Sparklepants, it's that my computer is broken, and here in the wilds, it takes a long time for apple parts to be ordered from America and then even more for repairs. A few stolen moment is all I can manage at the computer!

Lately, I've been thinking of the impending anniversary of your birth, and the way you've changed over the past few years. Some people would rather have you frozen in a 1994 time capsule, writhing endlessly in kinky, over-sexed, existential angst -- I can see the appeal of that, and God knows that if you want to writhe, I'll totally watch -- but, very wise man that I like to call Uncle Carl once said that for a man who nutures the life of significant soil, the only true vector is transformation and integration, and that if that kind of effort is the orientation of a man's soul, the things that concern him in the first part of his life simply cannot sustain him through his middle and later years. If I have a point here, Trent, it certainly isn't that you're middle-aged, or some shit. I guess what I'm saying is that I know it's always been more important to you to nourish the life of significant soil than it has been to please the rabble or keep the bling rolling in, and I just want to say that I, for one, can't wait to hear what you're working on these days.

I'm not gonna lie, either, Trent: the kind of awesome things Saul Williams is saying about your collaboration with him, especially that part about how you both tend to go hard, but that what you've actually come up with is "something that sounds more beautiful than hard...a  middle finger up to the idea of genre, yet a beautiful, long, loving embrace to the idea of song structure and quality," pretty much make me want to french kiss both you and Saul until my bones liquify and amnesia takes me. In other words, under the sheer force of your combined incredible hotness, a heat made all the more staggering and inexorable by your aesthetic virtues, about 8 seconds. You know, about as long as one can be expected to ride a bull at the rodeo if one is good at bull riding. Or french kissing...


Dear, dear Trent. I hope all is well with you. Plus, in case you've forgotten, allow me to be the one to remind you that your teeth are pornographically HOTT.


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


[Vacation: All_I_Ever_Wanted]


So over the next week or so, y'all might notice "Hey, the hit count and posts on WTC have decreased approximately 68.7 percent." This is likely to be because the husband and I will be going on a MUCH-NEEDED vacation until May 13th. (If I ever get there, that is. I was working until 3:30 a.m. last night at home, and I have no idea how long I'm going to be stuck in the office today. I also may be beheaded by The World's Worst Client or at least verbally berated for a screw-up on my part, but that's all neither here nor there.)

The point is that while I am sleeping my days away and getting sunburned by the ocean and imbibing lots and lots of girly drinks, I will miss all of you. And you guys are going to have to pick up the slack while I'm gone! A curiously strong fixation on Trent Reznor doesn't end just because Maise skips town. So, please, do keep Dierdre company.

I'm always a little nervous about flying, at least until I get my ginger ale and little bag of pretzels. (If they even give those things away anymore.) So I will close this post by adapting a delightfully morbid little poem that was once written to me by a dear friend in a bon voyage card:

If I die while in the sky,
Know that I was your friend
Til the bloody end.

But I'm sure it won't come to that. So, if you don't hear from me before I leave, auf Wiedersehen!

Posted by maise in maise_bites | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack