I'm flying in the face of Gabriel's bullshit embargo, because, apparently, I am the Paris Hilton of the NINternet, and moreover, this is my website and if I want to send a missive of LOVE to you, dear Sparklepants, my veritable raison d'etre, I fucking well will. I feel like it's time I told you that I love you with the same pure fire, the same undying and eternal flame with which I have loved you since forever.
Dearest Trent! Nothing has changed. My love is true.
I know that with the whole Avril thing that's going on here, the embargo, and all the total bullshit that never seems to stop being manufactured around this website, coupled with our relative silence lately on the topic of your every move and breath -- or even your latest recording -- that maybe I don't love you like I used to. It might seem like that, but, in point of fact, that is absolutely false.
Here's what's true, baby: I haven't been that big into the whole ARG thing. I know, KILL ME! But, I've never been much of a video game/sci-fi fan. I'm a snob, quite frankly, and speaking as a girl who, at one time, read literary theory for a hobby, I have to tell you that it is my somewhat professional opinion that there are, relatively speaking, only but a very few examples of that genre that are worth more than the paper they are printed on, and the narrative contents of this particular example of it have only resisted that generality insofar as they are not actually printed on paper... but that's neither here nor there, in the end.
My sweet love, I know you're all about looking forward into the future of your work, but I'm not sure you've brought your vision to it's full flower in this episode. The truth is it's left me with not so much to say, really. I like your record, of course, because it's yours, and I like you. I mean, I really like you. I like what you are in your bones, and I like what it means that you do it. I like everything about the unfolding process that is your pilgrimage in the land of your work, and when you send us your postcards from that land, I recieve them eagerly, and gobble them hungrily. They have never disappointed me, and nothing about them -- nothing whatsoever -- disappoints me now, because more than anything, it's the process that thrills me.
I am patient, dear Trent, and I await the next communique from your empire as eagerly as ever before. Journey on, my darling, I will always be here, my romantic heart throbbing your sweet name with such ceaseless insistence that it will be as if Avril Levigne and Gabriel Miller NEVER EXISTED.
I know we can be a bunch of snide motherfuckers around here, but I just wanted to let you know that the bottom line, no matter how much we carry on, is that we love and admire you.
We're so sorry to hear that your grandfather died, and I know I speak for all of us when I send my most heartfelt sympathy. It has to be hard to be so far away, and lose someone important to you.
We're thinking of you and wishing you well, as always.
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?
Oh my darling Trent!
I'm sure, by this time, that you are wondering if I'm even ALIVE! What can I tell you, Sparklepants: I've been up to my ears in work, work, work, and now, look at what you've done! You've gone and given me HOURS upon HOURS of HOMEWORK to do to get ready for the next eruption of your volcanic genius. All I can say, you delicious, sweaty creature, is that I LOVE YOU AS MUCH AS EVER, and that even now I am delving deeper and deeper into your dark maze of dystopian paranoia, and I must say, baby, I am a little creeped out, which, uh... RULES!
Oh Trent! Would it be possible for me to overstate how thirsty I am for the sweet elixir that shoots forth from the fount of your aesthetic potency? No! Even if it burns my throat and scalds my very soul -- even if it's viscous, salty, and a little bad tasting -- I swear I will swallow it all. I mean, it's been a fairly short drought, really, considering the usual wait, but it's a thirst that never dies, just like my love for you.
I'm going to just go and get back to my homework, ok sweetness? You keep getting all sweaty in European venues, and I'll see your hott ass soon. Me, and all my peeps. That's right Trent: WEARING THESE CHAINS will be in full attendance. We will be armed with Haikus, and Gabriel will be totally gay for you, even if denies it, and claims to like girls now.
I love you!
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.
I know it's been forever since I last wrote, but don't think I don't love you the same as always. I totally, totally do. I hope you're having a nice break, baby, and I hope you're cooking up something beautiful for me in the new record department. As a longtime follower of your doings, I feel a little foolish for looking forward to such a thing in the near future, but I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, Sparklepants. Maybe I'm a fool, but I believe you when you say "shortly."
In the meantime, here are a few of the things I've been doing:
- Suffering a mortal illness, probably typhoid, that means all I do is lay in bed all day and cry.
- Dreaming about Nyquil, which isn't available in my neck of the woods, and that makes me cry harder. I bet you aren't allowed to take Nyquil, huh Trent? That's a pity. I'll bet there are literally SHELVES full of it in Los Angeles!
- Watching all 8 hours of The Thorn Birds in one day, and crying when Fee tells Meggie that Dane is dead, and then crying more when Meggie tells Archbishop Ralph that Dane was his son.
- Falling madly in love with Stephen Colbert. Trent? When we get married, you know how you've got to have a list of people whom, no matter what, you'd HAVE to sleep with if given the opportunity, and the other person would HAVE to forgive you? Stephen Colbert is on my list. I hope you'll be able to forgive me. If you wouldn't, I'd probably cry.
Trent, my dear? We miss you. We miss your sexy ways, and all the crying is really doing nothing for my looks. Come back soon.
I've been wracking my brains for the right words to tell you how magnificent and resplendent you have been this past year, and to thank you for your beautiful work, which, as it always has, has made my life inestimably richer with all the things it's made me think about and feel. If this website has any purpose, it's to tell you every single day that you are not just loved, but adored, and not just for your hot ass, but for the way you have shown us all just how rich the human heart can be.
If that sounds operatic and overblown, I'm sorry, but I just can't seem to find the clever irony that will convey hip distance and absolute sincerity in the same sentence, so I gave up the effort. Here's the bottom line, Trent: I love you, and I love your work. You make me so happy. It's as simple as that.
I've heard a lot of people say that they're glad the horrible [With_Teeth] era is over; mostly people who are pining away for another round of The Fragile. Personally, I have no idea how anyone can want that, and for me, that kind of nostalgia is about the most stultifying thing ever. I'm glad your endless tour is over because that means you can take your tremendous creative vitality into the studio and make me another record. I am on the edge of my fucking seat on that score, because I have high hopes that it will be the most beautiful record you've ever made. I know everyone's hoping that "shortly" is an upgrade on "soon," but I hope you take exactly the time you need. I want you back, you sexy beast, but I want you to stun me with beauty I never dreamed of, and I am so thrilled by how open your road is right now. However long it takes, Sparklepants, I'll be here.
On that note, I'm opening the comments up to all of my compatriots here at WTC. I think you should know that all of us love you, and I hope they will all tell you how much and exactly why in this thread.
I hope you're well and happy, dear Trent. I wish you all the best things, and more than anything else, I wish you satisfying work.
I'm not sure I can do it, but I wanted to try to tell you what it's like for me, a longtime follower of your doings, to see you look like this at the end of a tour:
I mean, I just keep thinking back to last time, and to the end of the Self Destruct tour, remembering the vaguely evasive look in your eyes, and the sense of scratchy vulnerability just beneath the skin. Then I look at this.
Seeing you looking so well? Glowing with physical and creative vitality, engaged in stemming the boredom of endless touring with totally brilliant little plots like working with Saul WIlliams, or these beautiful radio performances, and writing your own new record? Surrounded by people you obviously respect? Shit, man. Words fail me.
A long time ago, you told me a devastating and beautiful story. You had a kind of rare courage, and a near inability to be untruthful, and you inspired me to be bold; to let my own truth have its voice. I've said before that you and your work were like a compass for me -- a true north -- and that's absolutely true. I'm not going to tell you the whole story of my life, or anything. Suffice it to say that I, personally, did not spiral downward into a deadly narcotic and alcoholic abyss, but I did say "No" like you did, to lots of things that it would have been much easier and safer to say "Yes" to. When your trajectory took you so far south (and I don't mean to New Orleans, I mean to the gaping maw of hell, where hell = stupid rock star death), I thought... maybe it's better to learn how to say "Yes" to those fucking things.
I'm still not sure I know the answer. Like you, I guess, I'm just trying to live my life, and do the things I should do. I can't say I always succeed as spectacularly as you do in your work, Sparklepants, but I just wanted to say that seeing you there, with your good skin and fresh shave, your eyes closed to sing, your grip tight on that microphone -- in other words, IN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ELEMENT -- fills me with the feeling that good things are possible; that there is hope, and that human beings can be beautiful, resplendent creatures.
Thank you, Trent. I needed that.
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.