[Pictures_of_You_#_24: This_One's_For_You, Gabriel]
I don't think I need to comment on this, really...
PS. Thanks, anonymous reader, for SHOOTIN' that one over.
[Inside_Dierdre: Orgasmic_Joy, Coupled_With_Deep_Scorn]
Because, as I'm sure you all know by now, HRH Trent Reznor is finally getting his slinky little ass over to my side of the planet, and I am finally going to get to see the show here in the more civilized part of the world known as EUROPE.
Moreover, reports from inside the Empire of Dirt -- in fact, reports from the Big Giant Head himself -- are that a new record should "drop" in April, by which I assume Mr. Cool means "will be released". I can only dream that these developments mean that the tour which commences in the early part of 2007 and includes my adopted city should also include the following scenario: me, Dierdre Keating, reduced to slack-jawed admiration and brought to shattering climax upon hearing Trent sing new songs, alive and in person. In fact, I totally came as I typed that sentence, and when I did, I totally saw fireworks.
You guys know how much I kinda like Trent and his songs, right? So... yeah. That's my reaction.
You know what, though? My expectations for the new Nine Inch Nails record are very specific: basically, I am hoping that Trent will write the songs on it, and that he will sing them. I'm pretty sure that if those two criteria are met, it will totally ROCK my ASS, and some other parts of me besides, including my heart and mind. Yeah, it's cheesey to say that, but FUCK YOU, hater. I can only hope that when he arrives in Europe, Trent will not only be bringing the incredible continuation of his always riveting aesthetic journey, but that he will also be prepared to sonically make sweet, but nasty and sometimes violent love to all of us, because I adore it when he does that.
Not everyone, however, is inclined to BE FUCKING GRATEFUL FOR WHAT THE GOOD LORD HAS GIVEN, and by that, I mean what the good lord has given to Trent in terms of his volcanic artistic virility, some of which he will soon distribute to us via whatever channels he sees fit in the new year. Some people, people who call themselves CHRISTIANS, and who dare to call Trent THE PASTOR, don't really see fit to accept this unlooked-for mana from heaven (I mean, who knew that "shortly" meant LONG BEFORE we NIN fans even got the slightest bit antsy?! Praise the Lord!), and instead, would rather carry on and fucking on about how much it's going to "suck more than ever before" and how they are sick and tired of the same band line-up, and what the fuck ever else. Jesus Fucking Christ, it's tiresome how some people do carry on.
I've really only got one thing to say to those people: SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU BITCHY QUEEN. I mean, not that the current collection of Stank COVERS OF TRENT'S SONGS isn't awesome in a rubber-necking-at-car-crash, Guns-n-Roses-show kind of way, but let's face it: Trent's worst moment -- yes, I mean "Deep", "Starfucker's, Inc.", and that time he wore sunglasses on Top of the Pops -- is still an accomplishment you can only dream of while you endlessly buff the bishop, squeezing off a few measly drops of diseased jizz, thinking about how awesome it would be if you had even a FRACTION of that potentcy, so why don't you just go outside and play a nice game of hide and go fuck yourself.
We'll just hang out here and count to 56 bazillion.
Dear Scrumptious, Bearded, String Quartet Accompanied, Hoodie-Wearing, Bridge School Benefit Trent,
I'm sure this performance was nothing short of seminal on a musical level, but since I haven't heard it, I will have to restrict my comments to the following: Sweet Jesus Holy Motherfucking Christ, you are delicious. I want to have, like, 10,000 of your babies.
PS. Oh my God, your hands. Oh. My. God.
You know what's lame? Guys. Guys are lame. It's no coincidence that if you switch the letters in "lame" around, you can also spell "male." I mean, SERIOUSLY, what is your guys's problem?
Ok, I don't mean to lump you in. Generalizations about half the human race are lame, too, and I'm sure you're a perfect boyfriend. Actually, you could go ahead and be less than perfect, and I'd forgive you for some of it on the basis of your sexy teeth alone, to say nothing of your piercing green eyes, and the way you fucking rock, even in manpris. That's an accomplishment, baby.
I know I'm quiet lately, Sparklepants. I've been busy. You've been quiet, too, so I don't feel that bad about it. I hope you've been busy. I just wanted you to know how much I still totally love you.
Boys and girls, get out your Rave hairspray because for this edition of [Your_Dirty_Old_Aunt_Maise] we will be taking a trip back to the '80s. 1986, to be exact. Because in my search for Love After Trent, I am not limiting myself to time and place or even reality. After rewatching Labyrinth recently with a friend, I came to the astounding realization that it is my most fervent hope and desire to be The Goblin Queen.
And, you know, hook up with this guy:
That's right, bitches. Motherfucking David Bowie.
And no one--NO ONE--had better give me shit about the hair. Oh, you're going to go there, are you?
Okay, then. SHUT UP.
Anyway, all I could think about while watching Labyrinth was how HOTTTTTTTT Jareth the Goblin King is in this movie! Those sharp features, that mixture of mischief and malevolence in his glittering eyes, the MANY glam costume changes, the fact that he is served and constantly thwarted by Muppets, the fun '80s Bowie songs that he sings that have NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with the plot of the film, his air of sadness as he realizes that Jennifer Connelly is just a little too pre-pubescent to fully appreciate that he is Sex Personified...I really wish the goblins *would* take me away!
He's fierce when he plays with his balls.
And check it out...he's good with kids.
But the clincher for me, WTC-ers, is that Jareth the Goblin King is not afraid to bring the FILTHIEST bulge right in the middle of a freaking kids' movie! OMG, someone get this man some PANTS! Or not.
Towards the end of the film, when whiny Jennifer Connelly defeats David Bowie, he ruefully says something along the lines of, "I could have ruled you." Jareth, honey, you can rule this bitch DAY AND NIGHT.
Yeah. I said it.
Hi Trent, it's Maise.
Babe, I need a new job. Seriously, there are not words to convey the ennui. I've said it before, but I think I know what would be an ideal second career for me--writing your blog on nin.com for you. Come on, you know I enjoy it more than you do. And if you're hesitant about matching my current salary merely for writing up some terse blog entries, I'd be happy to throw in my sexual services as well. So here are some sample entries--my portfolio, if you will. Feel free to use any of these any time you want, and then you can go take a walk with the dog at the beach instead of having to slave away in front of your computer.
Today Saul laughed and said, "Trent, you are SO literal. You know, in a good way." I'm not sure if that's supposed to be a compliment or not.
I made this huge pot of soup that I've been eating every day. It's this new recipe with escarole and white beans. I've been eating it all week, and I don't care. I could eat it every day for the rest of my life, it's so good. And I made it all by myself.
Guys, my new dog is so fucking passive-aggressive. Last night I yelled at her when I found her eating one of my socks (again). So she was pouting about that, and then an hour later, I saw that she had crapped right on my favorite pillow. I'm calling the Dog Whisperer.
If you have the time, I recommend that you see Jackass: Number Two. It's so gross, but so totally funny.
JR wanted some fucking code to break, like Kate Winslet in that one British movie about WWII. So I created a fucking cryptogram for her. Because I don't have anything better to do with my time, but hey, pleasing my fans is my fucking number one priority. Enjoy.
This is a quote from me: