So you all may have noticed that Gabriel's kept kind of mum about his "big important secret revolutionary gathering symposium happening event weekend." It occurred to me, friends, that Gabriel's uncharacteristic lack of expressiveness in this matter is not quite what it appears to be. I mean, when has Gabriel ever failed to speak his mind, even when grossly uninformed or simply stubbornly ignoring objective fact? And something that he believes in as strongly as THE CAUSE? Please--if he really cared about it, he would have written a Stank song about it by now.
Since that weekend, I have come to the inescapable conclusion that Gabriel's motives are hardly as pure-hearted and civic-minded as he claims. And normally, as his manager, I wouldn't bust his ass out online over it, since it's kind of bad for business for me to air our dirty laundry to the internets, but this time...this time Gabriel Miller REALLY HAS GONE TOO FAR.
Let's go back a couple of weekends ago, just before Gabriel was set to leave for his weekend of "underground art." Gabriel and I had a phone conversation that is more or less directly transcribed below:
Me: Liebchen, I'm positively stoked for this weekend! I'll bring l'orangerie stank merchandise, some AIR flyers I just put together on the fly, travel Yahtzee, the peanut butter...
Me: You know, so we can make our presence known at this event!
Me: Yeah. Our. You know. Gabriel and Maise. Artist and manager...
Gabriel: Who crawled in your diapers and gave you the idea that you're coming with?
Me: Um, run that by me again?
Gabriel: You're a ghost dog.
Me: Er, yeah. I can get in for free as your pet.
Gabriel: You're not my pet.
Gabriel: You're not my pet. The Gabriel Miller doesn't have pets. Pets are a waste of Gaia's precious resources, and anybody in their right mind with a pet, would eat said pet, and decrease the surplus population!
Me: Oh. I see.
Gabriel: So... uh... I'll tell you about my awesome time when I get back.
Me: Have a nice fucking weekend. Asshole.
[I hang up]
Okay, so that's what went down. And I'm not ashamed to admit that some tears were shed, boys and girls. Never in all my life or afterlife has ANYONE even dared to tell me...but you know what? It's not about me. And it's certainly NOT about the fucking resistance or Year Zero or any kind of movement. If Gabriel cared THAT much about preventing the events of Year Zero from becoming our not-too-distant future, he would have insisted that I join him. I mean, a super-elitist resistance would be beyond retarded, right? If you want to change the fucking world, you need all hands (or paws) on deck.
So I came to the conclusion that this incident and EVERYTHING THAT GABRIEL MILLER HAS EVER DONE AND WILL EVER DO is about one thing and one thing only.
Of course he didn't want me there that weekend! Your loyal, dependable manager/fuckbuddy is a bit of a hindrance when the only thing you're after are the patchouli-stinking asses of 19-year-old blonde hippies in the desert, isn't it? I hope the threesome with "Sequoia" and her twin sister, "Granola," was worth it, buddy.
Meanwhile, it is time for me to CALL GABRIEL OUT on being completely full of shit and thinking of nothing but his dick THIS WHOLE TIME, regardless of all his recent sanctimonious prattle.
Want proof? Oh yes, I have it. IRREFUTABLE, bitches.
Click away, if you dare.
Now, all y'all might be wondering, at this point, why I, DIERDRE KEATING, haven't fully DUG INTO the whole dystopian paranoia, "art is resistance" vibe. Quite frankly, it's because I'm not a fucking GEEK with HOURS to spend trolling the internet for anything even vaguely NIN related. More importantly, though, it's pretty tough for me to get all orgasmic about all this internet shit when it has so little of the key ingredient that hooks me every goddamned time: TRENT REZNOR.
Here, however, is something that I can TOTALLY get all orgasmic about. Something that inspires me to repeated use of the CAPS LOCK feature on my keyboard. Something that, I gotta confess, I will NEVER, EVER get enough of:
OH MY SWEET MOTHERFUCKING LORD, is Sparklepants looking hot. Check out that piercing look! His eyes are like FUCKING LASERS! Seriously: he should patent that shit. And, check out those tight little hips, and the way he's all scrumptiously bulky around the middle. Dudes, need I remind you of the things we can't see in this picture? The hairy chest? The fingers that go every which way, because they are so HYPERPOWER!!? Need I refresh your memory about those teeth that could eat a girl alive?
I think it's pretty clear that I'm going to need to hear the WHOLE of Year Zero before I make a comment, or give the huge proliferation of wierd websites more than a cursory look, but one thing is as clear as FUCKING DAYLIGHT:
Trent Reznor is the hottest man EVER.
[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.
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.
With all the poetry smackdowns, concert reviews, bookclub proposals, moviegoing, and kvetching about posters we've been getting up to, It's been awhile since we've had a good old fashioned PERV-OUT here at WTC, hasn't it?
Well, let me just show you a little something that one of my extremely kind readers sent me, because ladies and gents? I think it's time we took a moment to remember something about Trent:
THAT MAN IS FUCKING HOTT.
Please tell me I'm not the only one who literally cannot stop thinking about licking that staggeringly sexy, sweaty, hairy chest. Please tell me that I'm not alone in feeling that there is very little on planet earth that is more beautiful than the veins on Trent Reznor's scrumptious, meaty forearms, and people, is it just me about those teeth of his? Goddamn!
I've got more questions, too. Don't you LOVE IT when he does that thing he's doing with his right arm and hand? How gorgeous, on a scale from 1 to 10, are those freckles on his shoulder? Does that crease in the center of his forehead drive you wild, too? How about that that hairline, or that fist of his, wrapped around the microphone like that? Does that make you think very, very naughty thoughts? Are you literally SHIVERING WITH DESIRE, or am I all alone in my own private Idaho, here?
Can we also bear in mind the fact that, at the moment when this picture was taken, Sparklepants was engaged in singing one of his fucking beautiful songs? Who cares which one! Fucking hell! How is someone THIS DELICIOUS allowed to roam the earth? Please just take a moment of silence, gentle readers, and imagine being made love to by THAT MAN. You know, the one who wrote both "Suck" and "Right Where It Belongs", and who has THOSE HANDS.
Are you dying? Yeah. Me too.
Sweet Jesus Holy Fucking Christ, I'm so not kidding.
Have you checked out that latest scrummy goodness in the current photo department of nin.com? No? Well, lemme help you out with that:
People, this picture is not only NUCLEAR WEAPONS GRADE HOT, and a rare actual picture of Trent Reznor, but goddammit, I hope you all know that Peter Murphy is the fucking nazz, man. Apparently, this picture is from a live radio set performed by these two total rockstars, and there will be more of them, as detailed in the newest textual entry on nin.com's current page. I hope I don't have to tell you that that is CRAZY cool.
Last year, when that turncoat bitch Gabriel and I went to Coachella to see a certain someone for the first time in what seemed like FOREVER, we saw Peter Murphy and Bauhaus rock and vamp through the best fucking set on the mainstage the entire weekend. I, Dierdre Keating, include Nine Inch Nails in that assessment, and place them firmly in the category of bands that could not touch Bauhaus that weekend.
Yes, that's right.
Not only did Bauhaus deliver a tight, knock-out set, chock-loaded with total classics of the night, like the magnificent unflinching Gothfathers they are, but Murphy performed the entirity of "Bela Lugosi is Dead" HANGING UPSIDE DOWN LIKE A BAT. I cannot overstate to you how much that guy kicks motherfucking ass.
Sparklepants, You've come a long way, baby, haven't you? Additionally: YOU ARE DELICIOUS.
Hey. It's me, Dierdre.
Remember last week when Trent, with delightful, bitchy aplomb, notified Jerome Dillon that he "looks like an asshole" in his recent publicity photos? Man, I laughed my ass off. That Trent. He sure is funny, and, yeah -- it really is a lame picture. But, I got to thinking: is Trent really the guy to cast the first stone about looking fucking ridiculous in photos?
I think not.
With that in mind, I bring you the latest in WTC photo essays: an odyssey through only a VERY SMALL SAMPLING of the millions of times notre amour himself has stumbled, photographically speaking. Yes, this is a little traipse through only a few of dear old Sparklepants's most questionable moments of self-presentation, and a little explanation as to why, despite all the jackassery, we still TOTALLY LOVE HIM.
Without further ado, I bring you:
Enjoy, my darlings.
Well, it looks like there's proof of what Dierdre's been trying to say all along, and we can put all speculation on the subject to bed:
Trent Reznor really is "smokin' hot."
Good to finally have confirmation on that, isn't it?
You've done it. You've finally posted a picture of TRENT REZNOR on nin.com.
Usually, all you have on offer there are pictures of the other guys in the "band" (and, who cares?), or pictures of a whole cast of rock 'n' roll cartoon characters, garishly lit, their bulgingly-muscled commander, arms out-stretched, resplendent at their helm. And, let's be clear: if Trent Reznor is captured photographically in any way, shape, or form, I will look at it; I'm not picky. However, despite the obvious wet-dreamy coolness of your camera and lenses, all the access and practice you get in aiming and shooting your magnificent subject, and as technically proficient as you clearly are, I always find it disappointing that there aren't more pictures of TRENT REZNOR; you know, where he isn't in the middle of a BIG ACT, but is just Trent, doing stuff that Trent does when he's not on a stage where we can all see him for ourselves. Seriously, Rob. What's the point if you're not going to show us something we can't see without your specially positioned eyes?
This latest offering, though, shows notre amour exactly as I love him most: sharp-eyed with concentration, working on something. Something wonderful, I would wager. Something that, should I ever be fortunate enough to hear it, might just thrill me more than anything else he's ever worked on, which is to say A FUCKING LOT. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that room! Or, better yet, inside Trent's big, giant brain, watching the neurons fire their little electrical charges, and being able to somehow know exactly what paths they follow through the constellation of his memories, thoughts, emotions, desires, and proficiencies to align themselves in the production his beautiful work! Jesus Fucking Christ. I love that guy.
On top of that, there's that delicious bed, and there are no words in the English language to adequately express the scrumptious perfection of the image of Trent lying asleep in it, his dark hair and warm skin a stark contrast to it's cool, clean, whitness; his eyes closed softly, lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and peaceful. Oh, God. I can't even think of anything more delicious, and I am WRACKING MY BRAINS.
Then there's the dog! The dog who is allowed on the bed! The dog with its sweet, attentive face focused on its master, listening. The Dog! Jesus, THE DOG. What is it about the dog that makes you feel like you can see into Trent's heart when you look at it? Yes, yes. I know I'm insane, and that there is no math in what I'm saying, but I hope that while Trent lay in that bed, feverish, swallowing bits of glass, or drowning in phlegm, that his sweet dog licked his face, and rested it's delicate little chin on his thigh. I hope that dog looked at him with all the uncomplicated, unreserved love that can only come from the pure heart of a dog, and I hope that if he spent hours alone, suffering his illness like a man, that his dog was there to make it all a little less abject.
I know we have our differences, Rob, but all I'm saying is that, while I still think you don't have enough aesthetic sense, appreciation, love, or adequate humanist reverence in your frat-tastic Hollywood hipster heart to do your job as documentarian of that gorgeous creature ANY FUCKING JUSTICE, this latest picture is lovely; so thanks for posting it.
My friends, you would not believe some of the brilliant shit that comes my way via WTC mail, but this week, I got two little gems, pictures of notre amour that are just TOO GOOD not to share with you.
The first one comes by way of reader Genesis Durden, from Mexico. It's this picture of Sparklepants shopping for strappy black sandals with the help of a very queeny salesperson (or Jim Rose, whatevs), arms akimbo:
Who knew our man was such a shoe whore? I'm going to just pretend he's shopping to assuage his secret fetish for ladies' footwear. Please don't anyone type anything into our comment window that might shatter my dreamworld. I'd rather Trent were a pervy cross-dresser than embrace any other option as to why he might purchase ladies footwear.
Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, ladies, am I right?
This next one freaking rules, because you know you know how I feel about Trent's teeth, right? Well, a week or so ago, I received a charming e-mail from a young man whose father was Trent's dentist back when he was rocking The Perfect Moustache in New Orleans. Apparently, my correspondent's father performed (expert) prosthedontic work on Trent, Chris Vrenna, and Charlie Clouser, including the repair of a one of Sparklepants's front teeth that was badly chipped in a violent encounter with a microphone (HOTT!).
"I thought you might be interested," said he, "since you seem to like Trent's teeth."
Uh... YEAH. All I'm saying is that someone's dad is my hero, because those teeth are NUMBER ONE, baby. Apparently, Trent was "extremely nice, and even joked around" when visiting the dentist. More than I can manage at the dentist, I'll tell you what. Moreover, Mrs. Dentist ran into Trent in Walmart, buying video games, and the whole family attended a party chez Trent for the preservation of houses in the Garden District.
Here's a picture of Count Trentula in an apparently not so rare appearance in the light of day... AT THE DENTIST:
I love the photographs of TEETH on the wall, his surgically sculpted facial topiary, and the pirate headdress with earrings. Nice.
That's all for today's WTC mailbag, kids. If anyone out there has any other pictures I simply MUST see, please feel free to shoot 'em on over.