Are you sick, Sparklepants?
I swear, this Thursday night, in Vienna, I saw something I never thought I would ever see at a rockshow helmed by your beautiful, volcanic genius: a robotic performance.
I swear, when you humped the microphone, during some song, the name of which I can't even remember, I wondered if I was seeing some kind of animatronic Trent-bot up there. Faces, movements, whines and moans all coming out like fucking clockwork. About halfway through the show, I felt like *I*, on the fucking RAIL, was going through the motions of being stoked.
Trent, baby? Nothing can stop me from loving you forever, but can you tell me why it's necessary to besmirch my beautiful memories of how raw, glorious, and heart-rending "Eraser" was when you sang it like you meant it? I felt like there were sparks of awesome during "Last", "Ruiner", and "Survivalism", and you turned in a totally professional rockshow performance, with no tangible reason to actually complain... except that something just seemed... off. You just seemed a million miles away.
That's not like you, baby. Take care of yourself, ok?
You know what, guys? I am fucking BORED.
I hate the Year Zero ARG.
I know there are a lot of totally obsessive NINnies out there who can't eat enough shit with a spoon, and they fucking love it, Mmmmm-mmmm, and sure, there are some nice elements -- the "presence", the political perspective with which I couldn't possibly agree more, the "art is resistence" slogan -- but the whole fucking thing smells a little too much like a dipshitty geekfest master-minded by Rob Sheridan to me. Yeah, I know Trent says he and that idiotic beer-can vagina fucking frat boy thought it all up, but I don't give a shit, and I don't have all fucking day to learn morse code or some shit, after trolling the internet for the latest garbled website chock-loaded with painfully obvious paranoia-for-fun.
You know what else I'm fucking bored with? Gabriel and his fucking stupid minions. Seriously: all the spunk, dog-fucking, I-am-Christ tomfoolery is SO FUCKING BORING. I'm over it. All that ever happens around here is a bunch of total fucktards worshipping at the altar of the biggest bitchboy I have ever known. Jesus, people. GET A LIFE.
One thing that isn't boring, though? I'm seeing Nine Inch Nails tomorrow -- WITHOUT THOSE BITCHES. You know what else?
This is Gabriel Miller, reporting live, from a fucking dope ass Internet cafe in Prague. That's in the motherfucking Czech Republic, which is in motherfucking EUROPE, whores.
Yes, that's right, we are all here -- to my left is Maise, barking for the ball she really wants, and beside her is Iris, acting like she's all nice and innocent... but I think we all know there's some wicked twisted shit going on her crazy fucking mind.
Because that's the way we roll. Gothemo Gangstas, bitches, and these be my ho's.
Cause I am motherfucking Gabriel.
So you're probably wondering where Dierdre is. Well, like the whiny complainer she is, upon our arrival she's been busy doing "important shit", like her "job", so she can "make money", and "pay for the flat we're all staying in and we should be grateful instead of complaining like a bunch of ingrateful American bastards."
Well American bastardization is what we do best, so European or not, bitch needs to chill, nuccas. Chill down real cool.
Well, okay, at this particular moment she may not be working.... at this particular moment she may have kicked the three of us out of her flat for violating the sancitity of her personal space. See, when we arrived Dierdre showed us a gift that some dude she just started seeing gave her. She was all excited, it made her happy, like a little girl, BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBARFFUCKINGHELLBLAH.
What was this precious token, you ask? This wonderful bauble of the promise of true impending love?
A fucking STUFFED MONKEY. I shit you not, Dear Readers. A fucking stuffed monkey -- WITH VELCRO FEET AND HANDS no less. I mean, I'm a romantic with the best of them, but cut my cock off and call me Dorothy -- A FUCKING MONKEY???????
Anyway, the three of us thought it was kinda GAY, because, well, IT IS. So after Dierdre left for work, we thought we'd have some fun... you know, in anticipation of this coming week's events (something about a band with a jumping leprachaun named Trent Reznor, maybe you've heard of them, NINE INCH NAILS? I mean, can we FUCKING FOCUS HERE?) So, in honor of the greatest cinematic acheivement of all time, the video for "Closer", we staged a little recreation for Dierdre upon her return.
Personally, I thought she'd be excited. She showed up at her flat, we had the song ready to go... we were singing, the lights were dimmed.... it was all perfect. But miss EUROPANTS didn't like it so much. She threw an enormous shitfit.... and that's how we ended up here drinking absynthe. Waiting for her high bitchness to cool her tights. I think she'll come around... I mean check it out my friends, did we really do anything THAT offensive to her fucking plushie hump toy?
I mean, HOW AWESOME are Iris, Maise and I, right? WE STILL CELEBRATE the real reason for this website: NINE INCH FUCKING NAILS. But if DIERDRE KEATING wants to hold to some stupid ancient principle about "personal space" and make a statement, then she can go fuck herself. I never liked her anyway.
Well, I hope she comes around eventually. She has all the concert tickets for later this week.
Hey folks. Gabriel Miller here, blogging live from Heathrow International.
If any of you are flying to England anytime soon, and choose to fly British Airways, let me give you a nickel's worth of free advice:
DON'T HAVE THE CHICKEN RISOTTO.
Yeah, it'll taste good on the way down, but you'll be paying for it the entire rest of the flight.
I'm just sayin.
Testing...testing...one, two...is this thing on?
As everyone here well knows by now we may all be out of commission for a bit as the WTC crew tours the sites and sounds and porn shops of Europe. In the meanwhile, until our full out report, I have decided that my first official post should be something near and dear to my heart. Bad Fan Art. Today’s medium: pastels.
In making this contribution I have found that I no longer have fingertips. No, some days ago they became one with my paper and rubbed right into the grain. But Momma always said to find the silver lining in any situation so in this case it comes as a bonus that I can do all the AiR tagging throughout Europe I want without leaving pesky incriminating prints over everything. Hoorah!
Now I could be extremely long winded with this one but it pains me to type with the stubs where my fingertips used to be and there’s a suitcase near that isn’t going to pack itself. So without further ado I give you:
Yo folks. In just three days I will have the immense luxury of being on a fucking plane for almost ELEVEN HOURS STRAIGHT.
You know what that means? ELEVEN HOURS WITHOUT SMOKING.
Yeah, travelling is gonna RULE. But fortunately, I got my Skinny Puppy, I got my David Bowie records, I got my fist for fucking myself, and I've also got a pen, so I should be good.
What I don't have is concert tickets.
While the WTC crew is in Europe, we're gonna try to check out some NIN shows. DUH. Like that wasn't obvious. We've had good fortune getting tickets for shows thus far, but one has mystified us - the 3/30/07 show in Vienna, Austria. At some big fucking tank called the Gasometer. For some reason, this to me just brings to mind visions of Bad 50's movies, 50ft tall woman, and SMELL-O-VISION. And with a bunch of fucking stanky NIN fans in a gas tank for 4 hours, Smell-O-Vision is exactly what that shit is gonna be.
BUT ANYWAY, we've all hit some snags procuring tickets for this show. So I thought I'd open the door up and see if anybody out there had any ideas, had any extras, or just wanted to congratulate me for being awesome with my hilarious Smell-O-Vision routine.
Either way, we'd love it if you dropped a line and said what up.
[-12 days BWTCEV]
So you're probably wondering why we've been so quiet around here. Well, maybe you haven't; you've probably wondering what the fuck to make of the latest round of YEAR ZERO business, and reading Meathead's latest post and thinking of All The Funny That Could Have Been... and sadly wasn't. And hasn't been. Like, in ages. But we've covered his ass before, so let's not cover old territory.
Anyway, we've all been busy here getting things in order for the first offical Wearing These Chains European Vacation. In just 12 days, Dierdre, myself, Maise, and dear Iris will be convening in Europe, in a super secret location, to travel throughout distant lands, graffiti AIR Flags on important European monuments, and in general, get drunk on cheap beer and wine and shake our asses at totally faggy EuroDiscos.
In short, we're gonna kick it Purest Feeling-style.
As such, we've all been a bit distracted. But don't fear --- we will be reporting live from abroad, and who knows... we may even find a way to see everyone's favorite 400 lb. midget scream like a four year old on stage with his band of merry pranksters (assuming he doesn't cancel the rest of the shows like a total pussy because his wittle bittle baby voice is hurting him booFUCKINGhoo).
There is one thing I would like to draw to everyone's attention, however. Diredre, Maise, and I, would like to announce the formal addition of a new member to the WTC staff --- our very own Iris is now joining Wearing These Chains full time, and not only will this mean she will be flash random men throughout Europe as a token of her appreciation, it also means you're going to get to read more of her awesome posts and amazing artwork. So stay tuned kiddies -- you already know she's a genius one, and she's got some kick ass shit in store.
"But Gabriel," I hear you collectively ask, "Why haven't you updated the links section with a link to her About page so we can all learn more about her? What's wrong with you, you fucking lazy twat?"
And to that I can only say, Do You Really Need To Ask?
So enjoy crotchmonkeys -- A new era of WTC is about to dawn. You ain't seen shit, yet, bitches.