(fig b) Recess Is Over
( Let The Games Begin )
(fig b) Recess Is Over
( Let The Games Begin )
"hey, thanks for the add, i just wanted to drop a line saying that i tried your absinthe milkshake! it was AMAZING!!!! i got the grit-free ice cream though. :)~ thanks for the recipie and a night i barely remember!....no, it was great, i have pics, well, i don't really remember taking them, but there are pics, lets just say. :)~ they made for a very interesting night. everyone kept saying, "absinthe...milkshake?" and our responce was, "you don't even know!" any other absinthe concoctions you've got hiding up your sleave, let us know :)~"
That's what it's all about, right there. Helping people make memories they'll need therapy for later.
Medical brace to hold me in. Aquarium tubing to tie me together. Black garbage bag to save me from flat neutral painted walls. My favourite latex gloves size seven and a half stolen from my mother's stash of hospital things. Bruise palette makeup, because black was wrong and red was distracting. Bag stuck to the wall with static alone, tripod set up in front of me. A chair dragged over with the lamp clipped to it. A full length mirror sideways and angled behind the camera, balanced across my humidifier and trashcan. I was hungry. It seemed fitting. I powdered my lips petal pale and reached for my belt, looping it across my goat's eyes, kneeling on the floor with the long end under my knee to keep it tight and free my hands. I made a fist and my veins jumped out almost immediately, pulsing cables under white skin, eager.
I used to use all kinds of things in place of blood. I had countless mixes and little bottles left over from botched, aborted, or occasionally successful previous shoots. Store bought. Homemade. Improvised. The first time I used my own blood for a photoshoot was my command performance shot with Gabriel back in 2004, photos Manson requested months before we met or spoke personally. I remember gashing myself up with a safety pin, dozens of whitehot stinging kitten scratches, until my chest felt the way it was supposed to, my skin burning and stinging. I sipped my La Fee and snorted line after line of powdered caffeine tablets until the pain and the herb and the pace picked up and lifted me off the ground, set me on my feet on the path, my feet grown big enough for the footsteps already laid for me. That shoot was perfect for the time. Baby steps, laughable now, but exactly right for when it was. When I was. The next time I cut myself for a shoot it was (s)AINT, more a suggestion than a request. I'd wanted to do the whole video rather than just stills and while only pieces were ever filmed, it went much the same way. Cut, cut, cut. Three for my chest, and many more than three when it came time for the cocaine. Realism was the key, always realism. The faker doesn't fake, this shoot was important. After that it was the MMIX shoot. Crimson robed, newly single and damaged in every sense of the word, I razored open every scar he'd given me that I could find, and made a few new ones on top of those. My chest and my eyes leaked as one and I photographed this newest rite for my newest passage.
Peter Murphy was telling me about the passion of lovers. I knew all about passion as I unwrapped the syringe. It felt good in my hand and looked great with the glove and I had a sense of readiness and rightness. And nervousness. I'd taken blood this way before with mixed results, when I needed or wanted more than I could get from just a cut. Once I went too far in and the crook of my arm panged with a cold dullness that took days to stop. This needle was brand new, glinting metal gorgeousness, so sharp it caught the skin as I touched the tip to my elbow slightly below the tiny crater of a scar left over from months of faithful (read: desperate) plasma donations. (Ask me again the things I've done for concert ticket money, there are so many ways to sell yourself.) Peter wailed his heartbroken cry and the needle was in, a burning cold itchy feeling. It was tricky to hold it still and pull the plunger back but I have long fingers and managed it. At first, nothing. I shifted my leg to release the belt. The leather went slack, my hand went warm with the rush of blood and the body of the syringe immediately bubbled up with that beautiful purple red I love so much. I drew it full and decided against going for the second syringe that I'd considered filling after the first, mostly because I wouldn't be able to twist off the full one, move it somewhere safe, and twist on the empty one with only one hand and without pulling the needle out or making a giant mess. One would have to do. I slid the needle out and watched with satisfaction as the blood beaded up at the crease of my elbow, the near-black giving way to cherry red as I spread it over my skin in a thick line halfway down my forearm. Beautiful.
The syringe's warmth always startles me when I hold it. So alien, to see my insides on the outside, still warm from me. Almost sexual. I fit the needle into one end of the tube, pressed the plunger a bit and watched in rapt fascination as the blood flowed in red spirals along the tubing. I put the other end in my mouth, sucked hard. The moisture of my breath fogged the plastic, made the blood thin slightly, spreading further. I plunged more and sucked until I tasted copper, then fit the needle to the other end of the tubing, taping it to my arm where it was supposed to be placed. I didn't think I could shoot with the needle actually in my arm as I needed to be able to move to operate the camera and the bleeding would get to be very messy, tube or no tube. There's a limit to how much I can drink, too. so I left it out, worked around it. The tubing felt warmer with my blood in it, curled around my throat like a tiny snake or an expensive piece of jewelry, studded with rubies. It felt holy. It felt right. Later I untaped the needle, held it to my throat, imagined the red circle of blood through the needle to the tube, up and around into my mouth, swallowing it back into my throat again. I pressed it too close, felt it catch, a pinprick dot of red. The girl from Concrete Blonde sang of vampires and gardens. The camera clicked, beeped, stopped on DSCF0360. Card full. Game over.
Voroboros: The Hematophage
Hematophage, the blood eater. Voroboros, vore from the Latin word for "devour" and Ouroboros, the circular serpent forever swallowing its own tail. Eat me, drink me. Life, death, creation, destruction in one eternal being. If I was my vampire, what then? Am I forever bound to myself? Was I taking this because I wanted it for myself, because I didn't want anyone else to have it, because the one who could have it wasn't taking it and I didn't want it wasted? The reluctant vampire, so afraid of turning his passion outward that it becomes reversed. It consumes him as he consumes himself. By consuming myself I turn the corner and turn the page on a new chapter of possibilities, obstacles and events. I feel cleansed, renewed and ready for what is coming for me.
This is what you should fear.
I used to use all kinds of things in place of blood. I had countless mixes and little bottles left over from botched, aborted, or occasionally successful previous shoots. Store bought. Homemade. Improvised. The first time I used my own blood for a photoshoot was my command performance shot with Gabriel back in 2004, photos Manson requested months before we met or spoke personally. I remember gashing myself up with a safety pin, dozens of whitehot stinging kitten scratches, until my chest felt the way it was supposed to, my skin burning and stinging. I sipped my La Fee and snorted line after line of powdered caffeine tablets until the pain and the herb and the pace picked up and lifted me off the ground, set me on my feet on the path, my feet grown big enough for the footsteps already laid for me. That shoot was perfect for the time. Baby steps, laughable now, but exactly right for when it was. When I was. The next time I cut myself for a shoot it was (s)AINT, more a suggestion than a request. I'd wanted to do the whole video rather than just stills and while only pieces were ever filmed, it went much the same way. Cut, cut, cut. Three for my chest, and many more than three when it came time for the cocaine. Realism was the key, always realism. The faker doesn't fake, this shoot was important. After that it was the MMIX shoot. Crimson robed, newly single and damaged in every sense of the word, I razored open every scar he'd given me that I could find, and made a few new ones on top of those. My chest and my eyes leaked as one and I photographed this newest rite for my newest passage.
Peter Murphy was telling me about the passion of lovers. I knew all about passion as I unwrapped the syringe. It felt good in my hand and looked great with the glove and I had a sense of readiness and rightness. And nervousness. I'd taken blood this way before with mixed results, when I needed or wanted more than I could get from just a cut. Once I went too far in and the crook of my arm panged with a cold dullness that took days to stop. This needle was brand new, glinting metal gorgeousness, so sharp it caught the skin as I touched the tip to my elbow slightly below the tiny crater of a scar left over from months of faithful (read: desperate) plasma donations. (Ask me again the things I've done for concert ticket money, there are so many ways to sell yourself.) Peter wailed his heartbroken cry and the needle was in, a burning cold itchy feeling. It was tricky to hold it still and pull the plunger back but I have long fingers and managed it. At first, nothing. I shifted my leg to release the belt. The leather went slack, my hand went warm with the rush of blood and the body of the syringe immediately bubbled up with that beautiful purple red I love so much. I drew it full and decided against going for the second syringe that I'd considered filling after the first, mostly because I wouldn't be able to twist off the full one, move it somewhere safe, and twist on the empty one with only one hand and without pulling the needle out or making a giant mess. One would have to do. I slid the needle out and watched with satisfaction as the blood beaded up at the crease of my elbow, the near-black giving way to cherry red as I spread it over my skin in a thick line halfway down my forearm. Beautiful.
The syringe's warmth always startles me when I hold it. So alien, to see my insides on the outside, still warm from me. Almost sexual. I fit the needle into one end of the tube, pressed the plunger a bit and watched in rapt fascination as the blood flowed in red spirals along the tubing. I put the other end in my mouth, sucked hard. The moisture of my breath fogged the plastic, made the blood thin slightly, spreading further. I plunged more and sucked until I tasted copper, then fit the needle to the other end of the tubing, taping it to my arm where it was supposed to be placed. I didn't think I could shoot with the needle actually in my arm as I needed to be able to move to operate the camera and the bleeding would get to be very messy, tube or no tube. There's a limit to how much I can drink, too. so I left it out, worked around it. The tubing felt warmer with my blood in it, curled around my throat like a tiny snake or an expensive piece of jewelry, studded with rubies. It felt holy. It felt right. Later I untaped the needle, held it to my throat, imagined the red circle of blood through the needle to the tube, up and around into my mouth, swallowing it back into my throat again. I pressed it too close, felt it catch, a pinprick dot of red. The girl from Concrete Blonde sang of vampires and gardens. The camera clicked, beeped, stopped on DSCF0360. Card full. Game over.
Voroboros: The Hematophage
Hematophage, the blood eater. Voroboros, vore from the Latin word for "devour" and Ouroboros, the circular serpent forever swallowing its own tail. Eat me, drink me. Life, death, creation, destruction in one eternal being. If I was my vampire, what then? Am I forever bound to myself? Was I taking this because I wanted it for myself, because I didn't want anyone else to have it, because the one who could have it wasn't taking it and I didn't want it wasted? The reluctant vampire, so afraid of turning his passion outward that it becomes reversed. It consumes him as he consumes himself. By consuming myself I turn the corner and turn the page on a new chapter of possibilities, obstacles and events. I feel cleansed, renewed and ready for what is coming for me.
This is what you should fear.
Still American by birth. Still Antichrist by choice.
Posted on 07.04.2009 at 18:15In The Mix: Marilyn Manson - We're From America
Things To Do Today
File impersonation report with Orkut
Take annual snapshot with Jesus, gun and a beer while thinking about sex and generally feeling as American as possible.
Buy big-ass mirror @ WalMart
Attend family party
Get drunk
Watch fireworks
Not kill anyone
Photoshoot
Progress report later.
Buy big-ass mirror @ WalMart
Attend family party
Get drunk
Watch fireworks
Not kill anyone
Photoshoot
Progress report later.
Today's "Quote of the Day" comes to us from ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
ribbin in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
wtf_omgz
Yeah, dude, when you gotta hold your gut out of the way so the Person Of Indeterminate Gender can achieve a seal around your micropenis, it's time to lay off the cheese sticks.
In reference to this incredibly horrible photo.
There was supposed to be a giant "what's going on with me" post here, as I haven't updated in an age, but my creative writing time has been eaten by the inventory machine, and what few hours here and there that I'm left with I spend doing things like "eating" and "sleeping" and "doing all the shit I normally have more time every day to do when I'm not stuck doing shitty things like working".
So I owe you one.
ribbin in wtf_omgzYeah, dude, when you gotta hold your gut out of the way so the Person Of Indeterminate Gender can achieve a seal around your micropenis, it's time to lay off the cheese sticks.
In reference to this incredibly horrible photo.
There was supposed to be a giant "what's going on with me" post here, as I haven't updated in an age, but my creative writing time has been eaten by the inventory machine, and what few hours here and there that I'm left with I spend doing things like "eating" and "sleeping" and "doing all the shit I normally have more time every day to do when I'm not stuck doing shitty things like working".
So I owe you one.
Something awful happened to The Hierophant. Oh noes.
Posted on 06.19.2009 at 15:15Brain Says: oh, guess
The moral of the story, other than "it's a horrible idea to use a 'fanpage' to ridicule the artist you're a fan of", is "kick puppies, smoke crack, burn churches, fuck toddlers, but whatever you do do not fuck with Marilyn Manson"
In other equally exciting news.
We told you it was official.
Free adrenaline with proof of purchase.
Posted on 06.15.2009 at 17:45In The Mix: Ministry - Flashback
NEW BULLETIN
Date: Jun 15, 2009 6:39 AM
Subject: Death
I am too busy, but not unaware of the comedy that journalists, etc. etc. etc.
I want to make a human offering, To you that are so brave to say what you think.
Your address is cheaper than your salary, And you are not "critiques". You are foolish grave occupants. Mark my words. You want to twist my face, my answers, my love, than you should be prepared to face the world i will advocate....a world of ......of kids that only want to shoot schools. that's your fear? And until i suggest, that it should be you... Then... or otherwise, or etc. , etc, etc....
Your life is meaningless, as long as we are.
15
New stuff on the MySpace
Date: Jun 15, 2009 6:39 AM
Subject: Death
I am too busy, but not unaware of the comedy that journalists, etc. etc. etc.
I want to make a human offering, To you that are so brave to say what you think.
Your address is cheaper than your salary, And you are not "critiques". You are foolish grave occupants. Mark my words. You want to twist my face, my answers, my love, than you should be prepared to face the world i will advocate....a world of ......of kids that only want to shoot schools. that's your fear? And until i suggest, that it should be you... Then... or otherwise, or etc. , etc, etc....
Your life is meaningless, as long as we are.
15
New stuff on the MySpace
The machine must be fed, if not by photo than by promo. Or both.
It's worth a look. I uploaded a shitload of photos that I don't think I've shown anyone before. Stuff from old shoots, stuff from newer shoots, amusing snapshots, etc.
[Edited To Add]
Por favor do not send friend requests to my personal profile, just the public page. I'm keeping my profile down to close friends only and I feel bad having to deny everybody else, but my other profiles on Myspaz and etc are spiraling out of control and I need one place that I can keep tiny.
ahahahaha
When I Think About You, I Fuck Myself.
Posted on 06.11.2009 at 21:31In The Mix: Marilyn Manson - Devour
No, really. I'm having a wonderful time telling people exactly what I think of them and adding/deleting people from my life accordingly, as needed. I've eliminated a significant amount of stress already and I feel much better. That whole "pain shared is pain halved" thing seems to work as far as anger goes. Sure, it's selfish. So am I. I shouldn't have to suffer in silence over your stupidity. Now you can feel as bad about yourself as I feel about you.
Anyway. I doubt anyone really wants the truth (trust me, that sugar coating is more protection than you think. Sort of like the tasty shell around the Advil). But if you do wonder what I think about you for better or for worse, ask now. Maaaaaybe something bad. Maaaaaybe something good. That's just it. We don't know. You presses the shiny, jolly, candylike red button and you takes your chance.
Comments screened to protect what dignity you have left.
Anyway. I doubt anyone really wants the truth (trust me, that sugar coating is more protection than you think. Sort of like the tasty shell around the Advil). But if you do wonder what I think about you for better or for worse, ask now. Maaaaaybe something bad. Maaaaaybe something good. That's just it. We don't know. You presses the shiny, jolly, candylike red button and you takes your chance.
Comments screened to protect what dignity you have left.
If you can hear this, don't assume that I'm talking to you.
Posted on 06.02.2009 at 01:20In The Mix: Marilyn Manson - WOW
As much as I profess being honest and bold when dealing with people, there's some shit I don't want to or can't say, for one reason or another. So I've said it here. Some of these are for people who have accounts here, some for people who don't, some for offline people, maybe one or two for dead people or non-humans to keep things lively. You're welcome to guess. In fact, because I feel extra saucy tonight if you think one of these are directed at you, I'll tell you if you're right. Won't that be fun? No. Probably not. You're welcome to guess if you think it's someone else, but I may or may not tell you if you guessed correctly.
I'm blaming this on Marilyn Manson, who taught me that it's okay to be your angry hateful self sometimes, because the people who only like you when you're pleasant to be around don't really like you after all.
1. We've drifted considerably apart in the last few years. You rarely return my calls and I haven't seen you since sometime in 2006, I think. I'm not sure why I still consider us friends. Probably because you're the oldest one I have in terms of longevity and for us to not be friends anymore would make me feel almost uncomfortably estranged from the past.
2. A fat money order wouldn't fix our past, but it'd fix some of the problems you left me. Are you dead? No, really. Are you? Did you finally give up and kill yourself? For the sake of your troubled soul, I sort of hope you did.
3. I saw that. I didn't say anything because I didn't know how to respond, though my initial response and the one I would give you if pressed isn't the response you'd want. This isn't a fairytale and I'm no prince.
4. You are driving me absolutely fucking batshit. I have forced myself to delete so many annoyed comments directed at some of your entries, because it wouldn't be very polite at me. In fact, you're the reason I thought this meme would be a good idea, because I know you're a decent, nice person and for as much as I want to slap the bajeezus out of you, I don't want you to get hurt. And I feel bad, because you seem to be a pretty big fan and I know this is probably going to kill that, but it's beyond my control. I'm hoping you guess this so that at least I can say goodbye before I delete you, because I'm tired of that flare of annoyed that happens every time I see your username and have to brace myself for your next wave of maddening babble.
5. I'm so envious that you two messed around. Partly because you're hot and something dirty would probably happen between us if we met and I thought you were interested in drifting that way, and partly because he's hot and no matter how perfect an opportunity we get or how many times I have told him flat out that I am incredibly interested in some, he's not of like mind. Which is a goddamn shame. p.s If you didn't do anything with him, I apologize. I assumed you had, because you're both attractive sexual dark people and mutually attracted dark sexy people plus time plus alcohol usually equals sex.
6. Part of me thinks that if we hadn't killed you, we wouldn't be killing ourselves. Part of me argues that this is a ridiculous way to think, because it wasn't Real, it was only a story. Part of me argues back that it was never only a story, and that it was more Real than people give credit for. Part of me maintains that the sacrifice was necessary to strengthen the Other connection. The other part retorts that I'd sacrifice anything for something that wouldn't sacrifice much for me, and that I would give everything for something not worth it and that throwing precious things away to chase after something nearly intangible is masochistic, abusive and ill-advised. Most of me rallied and told that part to shut the fuck up. That part thinks I'm angry at it because I know it's right. That part can kiss my ass as far as this subject is concerned. Discussions like this are more frequent than you'd think.
7. You didn't know what you let in when you opened the door. I'm sorry I destroyed your life and I know I can't give you another and I can't even begin to make it up to you, all I can do is apologize and be grateful for everything you've given me.
8. There are things I could tell you about me that would probably make you feel better about you, but I don't think this is the time or the place. Though I would like to have that discussion sometime.
9. The fact that you've disappeared so completely makes me inclined to believe you never existed in the first place.
10. If you wanted it so bad, why did you leave it on the counter? I had to throw it away hours later. Nasty.
11. Quit asking for my input on everything. First off, my opinion shouldn't matter as much as you think it does. YOUR opinion matters. I can't critique everything you do. I don't have the time and frankly if I did, I wouldn't want to. I don't have angry thoughts about you. I don't have any thoughts about you. You just don't figure in my life or weigh on my mind as much as you fear that you do. Stop worrying about what I think about you. Every time you come up on my radar, you're freaking out about whether or not I'm mad at you and that level of paranoia and insecurity and your nearly insufferable belly-crawling self-deprecation pretty much guarantees that when you do show up, my thoughts will be negative. This isn't "never contact me again", this is "You want a brutal critique? Here it is. Fix this shit."
12. I feel like I can't be myself around you, but if I was myself, you wouldn't like me anymore. I spend more time hiding from you than I do anything else. It makes me sad that you will probably never know your son.
13. The fact that you hate me so much only means that I'm winning. Green is a beautiful color for you. Too bad you're such a failure, now sit down and watch someone you despise fly over ground you were never worthy to crawl on. Though it was fun to hear about you trying. Oh, I know all about it. I heard the whole story about just how badly you fucked yourself. I read the emails. I saw the photos. I've been there every step of the way. I was there before you, and I'm still here now. You don't get it. You never got it. And now you're gonna get it.
14. My nine o'clock misses your thirteen o'clock. A lot. Time rolled back like a roundtrip LON-LAX crossing and I want you to fuck me so hard that the Me two lives from now can't walk for days.
15. I feel as if I squander a lot of our time together. Out of everyone I want to talk to and of all the conversations I crave and dread, you top the charts. The next time I find myself in the right place with the right time, I'll be using it to my advantage. Don't let me destroy us. Don't you do it either.
[EDIT]
Two hours after I post a pile of vague messages to unnamed people, Manson posts his first blog since 2004. What is it? A vague message to an unnamed person. Yeeeaah.
I'm blaming this on Marilyn Manson, who taught me that it's okay to be your angry hateful self sometimes, because the people who only like you when you're pleasant to be around don't really like you after all.
1. We've drifted considerably apart in the last few years. You rarely return my calls and I haven't seen you since sometime in 2006, I think. I'm not sure why I still consider us friends. Probably because you're the oldest one I have in terms of longevity and for us to not be friends anymore would make me feel almost uncomfortably estranged from the past.
2. A fat money order wouldn't fix our past, but it'd fix some of the problems you left me. Are you dead? No, really. Are you? Did you finally give up and kill yourself? For the sake of your troubled soul, I sort of hope you did.
3. I saw that. I didn't say anything because I didn't know how to respond, though my initial response and the one I would give you if pressed isn't the response you'd want. This isn't a fairytale and I'm no prince.
4. You are driving me absolutely fucking batshit. I have forced myself to delete so many annoyed comments directed at some of your entries, because it wouldn't be very polite at me. In fact, you're the reason I thought this meme would be a good idea, because I know you're a decent, nice person and for as much as I want to slap the bajeezus out of you, I don't want you to get hurt. And I feel bad, because you seem to be a pretty big fan and I know this is probably going to kill that, but it's beyond my control. I'm hoping you guess this so that at least I can say goodbye before I delete you, because I'm tired of that flare of annoyed that happens every time I see your username and have to brace myself for your next wave of maddening babble.
5. I'm so envious that you two messed around. Partly because you're hot and something dirty would probably happen between us if we met and I thought you were interested in drifting that way, and partly because he's hot and no matter how perfect an opportunity we get or how many times I have told him flat out that I am incredibly interested in some, he's not of like mind. Which is a goddamn shame. p.s If you didn't do anything with him, I apologize. I assumed you had, because you're both attractive sexual dark people and mutually attracted dark sexy people plus time plus alcohol usually equals sex.
6. Part of me thinks that if we hadn't killed you, we wouldn't be killing ourselves. Part of me argues that this is a ridiculous way to think, because it wasn't Real, it was only a story. Part of me argues back that it was never only a story, and that it was more Real than people give credit for. Part of me maintains that the sacrifice was necessary to strengthen the Other connection. The other part retorts that I'd sacrifice anything for something that wouldn't sacrifice much for me, and that I would give everything for something not worth it and that throwing precious things away to chase after something nearly intangible is masochistic, abusive and ill-advised. Most of me rallied and told that part to shut the fuck up. That part thinks I'm angry at it because I know it's right. That part can kiss my ass as far as this subject is concerned. Discussions like this are more frequent than you'd think.
7. You didn't know what you let in when you opened the door. I'm sorry I destroyed your life and I know I can't give you another and I can't even begin to make it up to you, all I can do is apologize and be grateful for everything you've given me.
8. There are things I could tell you about me that would probably make you feel better about you, but I don't think this is the time or the place. Though I would like to have that discussion sometime.
9. The fact that you've disappeared so completely makes me inclined to believe you never existed in the first place.
10. If you wanted it so bad, why did you leave it on the counter? I had to throw it away hours later. Nasty.
11. Quit asking for my input on everything. First off, my opinion shouldn't matter as much as you think it does. YOUR opinion matters. I can't critique everything you do. I don't have the time and frankly if I did, I wouldn't want to. I don't have angry thoughts about you. I don't have any thoughts about you. You just don't figure in my life or weigh on my mind as much as you fear that you do. Stop worrying about what I think about you. Every time you come up on my radar, you're freaking out about whether or not I'm mad at you and that level of paranoia and insecurity and your nearly insufferable belly-crawling self-deprecation pretty much guarantees that when you do show up, my thoughts will be negative. This isn't "never contact me again", this is "You want a brutal critique? Here it is. Fix this shit."
12. I feel like I can't be myself around you, but if I was myself, you wouldn't like me anymore. I spend more time hiding from you than I do anything else. It makes me sad that you will probably never know your son.
13. The fact that you hate me so much only means that I'm winning. Green is a beautiful color for you. Too bad you're such a failure, now sit down and watch someone you despise fly over ground you were never worthy to crawl on. Though it was fun to hear about you trying. Oh, I know all about it. I heard the whole story about just how badly you fucked yourself. I read the emails. I saw the photos. I've been there every step of the way. I was there before you, and I'm still here now. You don't get it. You never got it. And now you're gonna get it.
14. My nine o'clock misses your thirteen o'clock. A lot. Time rolled back like a roundtrip LON-LAX crossing and I want you to fuck me so hard that the Me two lives from now can't walk for days.
15. I feel as if I squander a lot of our time together. Out of everyone I want to talk to and of all the conversations I crave and dread, you top the charts. The next time I find myself in the right place with the right time, I'll be using it to my advantage. Don't let me destroy us. Don't you do it either.
[EDIT]
Two hours after I post a pile of vague messages to unnamed people, Manson posts his first blog since 2004. What is it? A vague message to an unnamed person. Yeeeaah.
Photoshoot - acid_poptart & mokosh_perun - Feb 7, 2009
Posted on 05.25.2009 at 23:09
In The Mix: Marilyn Manson - Wight Spider
I'm happy to announce that I'm in this month's Gothic Beauty magazine (issue #28, pg 76-77) along with Acid PopTart and Larissa of Wilde Hunt Corsetry. There was no corseting for me this time around, but I did get to sport some fantastic rubber pieces by Eirik Aswang and a shirt by Kambriel. The shoot was a sort of fairy tale theme, with Acid as the wicked queen, Larissa as the seemingly sweet and innocent princess, and me as Prince (c)Harming. Dirty little love triangle. It's up to you to decide which of the lovely ladies won the heart of the prince, or at least a spot in the Royal Chamber for the evening. So hard to tell with fairytales these days.
( +3 )
GB has more shots than this and they didn't use all of the ones I posted here but these are a few that I liked.
Models: Me, Acid PopTart , Larissa
Photographer: Aaron Kennison
MUA: Mary Kelly and Beth Gray
Wardrobe: kambriel.com , eirikaswang.com , wildehunt.com
There's also a nice quarter page ad on pg 57 for Eirik that uses that shot of me with the mohawk that I love, the one Acid took. Fuck yeah to everyone involved as far as that goes, too.
( +3 )
GB has more shots than this and they didn't use all of the ones I posted here but these are a few that I liked.
Models: Me, Acid PopTart , Larissa
Photographer: Aaron Kennison
MUA: Mary Kelly and Beth Gray
Wardrobe: kambriel.com , eirikaswang.com , wildehunt.com
There's also a nice quarter page ad on pg 57 for Eirik that uses that shot of me with the mohawk that I love, the one Acid took. Fuck yeah to everyone involved as far as that goes, too.
Hollywood: An Aggravated Aggregate
Posted on 05.16.2009 at 01:20Current Location: LANY
Brain Says: sniffles
In The Mix: Prince - Baby I'm A Star
Waking up to the golden gleam of sunlight through struggling, ineffective blinds that turned a daffodil yellow room into something almost uncomfortably warm to the eyes. Pulling on clothes limp with a good week's worth of adventures. A few sprays of coconut-scented sunscreen to protect my pallor from the SoCal sun. Grabbing the room key and sunglasses and stumbling outside, through the parking lot and one block before the Boulevard exploded in a noisy whirlwind of tourists and traffic and neon. Men waving pamphlets for tours of stars' homes. The smell of street food. The squeak of balloon swords being tied by one of the two Capn Jack Sparrows that haunted the space in front of the Chinese Theater. A woman hands her infant child to a guy dressed as Jason, his shirt ripped to reveal a skinned chest and exposed bone. Three macaws squawk from their perch, wanting to sit on your shoulder. Photos are not free. Crossing the road because the sidewalk is closed due to a movie premiere (Manson will be walking on the same stars I am in about eight hours). Walking further down to the corner of Hollywood and La Brea for the ritual brunch of Cantaloop self-serve frozen yogurt. Dutch chocolate and peanut butter twist, with generous scoops of peanuts, chocolate sauce, caramel and toffee. Walking back to the hotel, walking in jittery diagonals to follow the narrow strips of shadow cast by the palm trees. T-shirts 4 for $9.99. Postcards 3 for $1. Map to the star's homes and famous crime scenes (DO NOT APPROACH THE RESIDENTS, one of several warnings along the top, as if they are very rare and expensive free-range wildlife and should not be molested in their natural habitats).
Pass by Ripley's. The Hollywood Wax Museum. The animatronic person with the boom box who is terribly pretty, but I still can't decide if they're male or female. I keep meaning to tip them but never have any singles by this part of the walk. Stop into Famima for ATM, or water, or kombucha, or no good reason. Keep walking. Past the Egyptian theater, past the stores full of stripper heels and skanky clothes. Look down Cherokee at Boardners and the closed gate leading to Bar Sinister. Far too early for that. Make a right on Cahuenga, down a short way to Panpipes. Talk to Vicki. Pat the tubby kitty. Buy supplies and keep walking. Cahuenga past Sunset and Santa Monica to Melrose. Stop in at Posers, watch Nick try on shirts, talk to the owner about Nazi Germany and Morrissey. Melrose to La Brea. Pass the Jack In The Box. Stop at Ralphs and buy a four pack of Grapples. Go past Pink's, inhaling deeply. Hanging a right at Hollywood and then back down the Boulevard. More tour buses of the wrong sort, confused tourists, dodging them as they stop to point cameras at their feet bracketing a fallen star. Left on Orange, right on Franklin. Spend a minute walking sideways, looking up at the Magic Castle before arriving back at the hotel, three or four miles and hours later.
Up to the room, dripping sweat. Cranking the AC, struggling with spotty and reluctant wireless. Email to read now, email to delete, to flag for later. Make the rounds of the usual haunts. Return some comments. Contemplate dinner. Call Kazuyo for freshwater eel, seared salmon, miso-horny soup, teriyaki chicken, green tea. Flop on the bed in underwear and t-shirts, basking in the cool as the sun sets, chasing rice with chopsticks. Watch a Lifetime movie, True Hollywood Story, 15 Most Shocking Murders, Maury, the news. Texts go in, texts go out. Phones ring. Make some calls, make some plans. More internet. Fund check, time check, date check. Perversion? Sinister? Somewhere else? Make more calls. More texts. Throw the dinner dishes into the slowly expanding mountain of trash neatly heaped in the kitchen. The slow ordered trajectory toward being ready to go out. Showers for everyone, shaving, picking at clothes. Not that, too hot. Too dressy. Too casual. Settle on something, get suited, booted. Now it's time for absinthe, cheap plastic glasses of expensive liquor. Clear at first, cold water and Kübler goes milky white. A toast, to us, to going out, to Los Angeles, to the Master, to 2009. Jostling for mirror space, a scatter of makeup and hair product, borrowing and swapping until we look good enough to venture out. More texts. The room's messier but at least it's dimmer, yellow sunlight replaced by sickly yellow overhead light. We're jaundiced with the excess of our sins.
Finish the absinthe. The edges fuzz out a bit, softer, syrupy smooth. Too smooth, maybe. There's a bag in a coffin in a bag in a bag. Golgotha, skull place, RIP to sobriety. Pop the lid, fishing out a tiny expensive envelope. Flier from the art show in 2002, already scented and dotted with better quality sin from a better quality sinner and as bitter to lick as the day it was given to me. Tap out a restrained pile, practiced gestures of chopping, grinding, aligning. It's ritual, it's beautiful, it's a Zen rock-n-roll garden. My credit card is my rake, the rocks meticulously ground into fine white sand. My hand is bigger than my nose, I recut two into four. Too many straws and not enough milkshakes. Two halves for me, two halves for you and it's back to the mirror for bat check, lipstick adjust, poking at hair. Pictures, always the pictures, finger finding the button just as the drain hits and we smile real, sharp smiles through narrowed eyes, laughing with numb throats. Beautiful, beautiful, these look great though a little blurry, maybe, thank fuck for the stabilizer function, right? Enough pictures, let's go, it's too hot in here, too bright, too boring. An empty bottle of kombucha, a few fingers of absinthe, a few more fingers of water. One for the road. Grab the room key, maybe we split these last couple lines here, you and me, to top up before we go, yes? Yes. We make faces in the mirror, murmur Fear and Loathing incantations. My Mickey Mouse hat fits over the remnants of our little pre-party and we hit the lights, open the door, stumble out to the hallway.
Hallway feels like Santa Fe, cacti and coyotes. Down the narrow hallway, spilling out into the parking lot. It's cooler, we're warmer. Turning the corner onto the street, the bustle of nighttime traffic, the circus gleam of bright lights, neon. The children are minimal and the people have changed much as we have. Beautiful girls with perfect hair and manicures tottering on five inch strappy stilettos, wedge sandals, tight wrap dresses, short skirts, tanned and laughing, some already trashed. Down the boulevard again. Homeless people with handwritten cardboard signs, street performers with open guitar cases, a buggy full of aluminum cans and plastic bottles for recycling. We pass the bottle between us, the sharpness of herbs and anise not matching well with a numb throat. Get it down without gagging. Keep moving. A lot of the stores have closed for the night, the bars are open, noisy. Valet stands busy, the streets full of laughter, honking horns, the occasional siren plus strobes. Right on Cherokee this time, chug the last of the absinthe before we're through the gate into Sinister. 10 to get in, past the little gaggle of smoking goths to the bar, another 10 for my rum and coke. Good thing I stocked up before I came. My heart is pounding, the room is packed with people, some lovely, some not so lovely. Upstairs to the sound of spanking, the thud of Covenant nearly a physical force. Our couch is already full of the people we came to meet. Kisses, hugs, handshakes, photographs. Another drink, one for me and one for the blonde. Little corset, little boots, big smile. Her hips push mine, my hands barely big enough for her tits. I'm grinning for a different reason. We dance. We drink. People I don't know come to talk to us, they leave. We should go, No, really. Right now.
Back down the boulevard. It's meaner now, the people drunker, it has an air of menace. The traffic is more impatient, the cops are frisking someone against the wall. Don't make eye contact, keep moving. Comfortably drunk, holding her hand, dragging us along upstream against the crowd still seeking the bars, wanting a score of one kind or another. Back to the room, my key in the lock, her hand in my pants, her pants in my hand, my key in her lock, eyes locked, hips shocked. Smudged lipstick in the palm of my hand to keep the noise down (if someone complains and they come knocking I'm making you answer the door bloody or not. shhhh...) Water, where's the water, we need water right now. And new bedsheets. Fuck it, it's Hollywood, I'm red white and blew and it's kisses and curtains. Out the door, goodnight, I'll call you. Just me now, the hum of the air conditioner, the hum of my nerves, jittery and smooth at the same time. Water for my insides, water for my outsides. Clean in all but mind before he comes back to the room, most traces of the transgression cleaned to the best it can be, the sheet half off the bed, a pile of gory towels on the bathroom floor. 3am is quitting time. Mouse ears snugly in place until tomorrow, the bottles corked, the phone silent for now with the everpresent Chance Of. Checking the email again. Friend adds. Comments returned. Too hungry to sleep, don't want to go back out. Popcorn in the microwave, a DVD in the laptop. The hum of the air conditioner, buttersalt crunch, drifting off as the skies pale to a purpled grey. Another end, another day.
Waking up to the golden gleam of sunlight through struggling, ineffective blinds...
Pass by Ripley's. The Hollywood Wax Museum. The animatronic person with the boom box who is terribly pretty, but I still can't decide if they're male or female. I keep meaning to tip them but never have any singles by this part of the walk. Stop into Famima for ATM, or water, or kombucha, or no good reason. Keep walking. Past the Egyptian theater, past the stores full of stripper heels and skanky clothes. Look down Cherokee at Boardners and the closed gate leading to Bar Sinister. Far too early for that. Make a right on Cahuenga, down a short way to Panpipes. Talk to Vicki. Pat the tubby kitty. Buy supplies and keep walking. Cahuenga past Sunset and Santa Monica to Melrose. Stop in at Posers, watch Nick try on shirts, talk to the owner about Nazi Germany and Morrissey. Melrose to La Brea. Pass the Jack In The Box. Stop at Ralphs and buy a four pack of Grapples. Go past Pink's, inhaling deeply. Hanging a right at Hollywood and then back down the Boulevard. More tour buses of the wrong sort, confused tourists, dodging them as they stop to point cameras at their feet bracketing a fallen star. Left on Orange, right on Franklin. Spend a minute walking sideways, looking up at the Magic Castle before arriving back at the hotel, three or four miles and hours later.
Up to the room, dripping sweat. Cranking the AC, struggling with spotty and reluctant wireless. Email to read now, email to delete, to flag for later. Make the rounds of the usual haunts. Return some comments. Contemplate dinner. Call Kazuyo for freshwater eel, seared salmon, miso-horny soup, teriyaki chicken, green tea. Flop on the bed in underwear and t-shirts, basking in the cool as the sun sets, chasing rice with chopsticks. Watch a Lifetime movie, True Hollywood Story, 15 Most Shocking Murders, Maury, the news. Texts go in, texts go out. Phones ring. Make some calls, make some plans. More internet. Fund check, time check, date check. Perversion? Sinister? Somewhere else? Make more calls. More texts. Throw the dinner dishes into the slowly expanding mountain of trash neatly heaped in the kitchen. The slow ordered trajectory toward being ready to go out. Showers for everyone, shaving, picking at clothes. Not that, too hot. Too dressy. Too casual. Settle on something, get suited, booted. Now it's time for absinthe, cheap plastic glasses of expensive liquor. Clear at first, cold water and Kübler goes milky white. A toast, to us, to going out, to Los Angeles, to the Master, to 2009. Jostling for mirror space, a scatter of makeup and hair product, borrowing and swapping until we look good enough to venture out. More texts. The room's messier but at least it's dimmer, yellow sunlight replaced by sickly yellow overhead light. We're jaundiced with the excess of our sins.
Finish the absinthe. The edges fuzz out a bit, softer, syrupy smooth. Too smooth, maybe. There's a bag in a coffin in a bag in a bag. Golgotha, skull place, RIP to sobriety. Pop the lid, fishing out a tiny expensive envelope. Flier from the art show in 2002, already scented and dotted with better quality sin from a better quality sinner and as bitter to lick as the day it was given to me. Tap out a restrained pile, practiced gestures of chopping, grinding, aligning. It's ritual, it's beautiful, it's a Zen rock-n-roll garden. My credit card is my rake, the rocks meticulously ground into fine white sand. My hand is bigger than my nose, I recut two into four. Too many straws and not enough milkshakes. Two halves for me, two halves for you and it's back to the mirror for bat check, lipstick adjust, poking at hair. Pictures, always the pictures, finger finding the button just as the drain hits and we smile real, sharp smiles through narrowed eyes, laughing with numb throats. Beautiful, beautiful, these look great though a little blurry, maybe, thank fuck for the stabilizer function, right? Enough pictures, let's go, it's too hot in here, too bright, too boring. An empty bottle of kombucha, a few fingers of absinthe, a few more fingers of water. One for the road. Grab the room key, maybe we split these last couple lines here, you and me, to top up before we go, yes? Yes. We make faces in the mirror, murmur Fear and Loathing incantations. My Mickey Mouse hat fits over the remnants of our little pre-party and we hit the lights, open the door, stumble out to the hallway.
Hallway feels like Santa Fe, cacti and coyotes. Down the narrow hallway, spilling out into the parking lot. It's cooler, we're warmer. Turning the corner onto the street, the bustle of nighttime traffic, the circus gleam of bright lights, neon. The children are minimal and the people have changed much as we have. Beautiful girls with perfect hair and manicures tottering on five inch strappy stilettos, wedge sandals, tight wrap dresses, short skirts, tanned and laughing, some already trashed. Down the boulevard again. Homeless people with handwritten cardboard signs, street performers with open guitar cases, a buggy full of aluminum cans and plastic bottles for recycling. We pass the bottle between us, the sharpness of herbs and anise not matching well with a numb throat. Get it down without gagging. Keep moving. A lot of the stores have closed for the night, the bars are open, noisy. Valet stands busy, the streets full of laughter, honking horns, the occasional siren plus strobes. Right on Cherokee this time, chug the last of the absinthe before we're through the gate into Sinister. 10 to get in, past the little gaggle of smoking goths to the bar, another 10 for my rum and coke. Good thing I stocked up before I came. My heart is pounding, the room is packed with people, some lovely, some not so lovely. Upstairs to the sound of spanking, the thud of Covenant nearly a physical force. Our couch is already full of the people we came to meet. Kisses, hugs, handshakes, photographs. Another drink, one for me and one for the blonde. Little corset, little boots, big smile. Her hips push mine, my hands barely big enough for her tits. I'm grinning for a different reason. We dance. We drink. People I don't know come to talk to us, they leave. We should go, No, really. Right now.
Back down the boulevard. It's meaner now, the people drunker, it has an air of menace. The traffic is more impatient, the cops are frisking someone against the wall. Don't make eye contact, keep moving. Comfortably drunk, holding her hand, dragging us along upstream against the crowd still seeking the bars, wanting a score of one kind or another. Back to the room, my key in the lock, her hand in my pants, her pants in my hand, my key in her lock, eyes locked, hips shocked. Smudged lipstick in the palm of my hand to keep the noise down (if someone complains and they come knocking I'm making you answer the door bloody or not. shhhh...) Water, where's the water, we need water right now. And new bedsheets. Fuck it, it's Hollywood, I'm red white and blew and it's kisses and curtains. Out the door, goodnight, I'll call you. Just me now, the hum of the air conditioner, the hum of my nerves, jittery and smooth at the same time. Water for my insides, water for my outsides. Clean in all but mind before he comes back to the room, most traces of the transgression cleaned to the best it can be, the sheet half off the bed, a pile of gory towels on the bathroom floor. 3am is quitting time. Mouse ears snugly in place until tomorrow, the bottles corked, the phone silent for now with the everpresent Chance Of. Checking the email again. Friend adds. Comments returned. Too hungry to sleep, don't want to go back out. Popcorn in the microwave, a DVD in the laptop. The hum of the air conditioner, buttersalt crunch, drifting off as the skies pale to a purpled grey. Another end, another day.
Waking up to the golden gleam of sunlight through struggling, ineffective blinds...
Now with track listings.
OhyeahandDevourleaked
April 14th? Whoops.
In The Mix: Marilyn Manson -
I collect strange souvenirs.
Back safe and sound from a nameless adventure. Can't go into detail but the punchline will probably be delivered just in time for me to take off again. Couple days in NYC, a week or so in LA, then back to NYC for another who knows how long. My Ohio tolerance is dropping more and more every time I leave. Things are looking likely that I'll be moving out, not anytime terribly soon. I need time to tour anyway, so it won't be too awful.
My brain is running on a nearly single track: what I just did, and what I'm about to do. Lukas is a dangerous third rail, humming along under a guard that wears situationally thin, waiting to paralyze me when I get careless. Now more than ever I need to concentrate on what I'm doing and not how much it cost me to get here.
You wouldn't believe me if I told you, because it's fucking unbelievable.
Will things ever be the same again?
Posted on 03.29.2009 at 07:11Current Location: headed for Vee-nus (Vee-nus!)
The official video, though great, was unembeddable. But this is even more appropriate, so it worked out.
Photo by Delaney Bishop
The first track from The High End of Low
"We're From America"
Will be vailable for download
March 27
WWW.MARILYNMANSON.COM
Enjoy.
Giant pic is giant.
In The Mix: IAMX - This Will Make You Love Again
My hair feels so fucking long.
Taken from Manson's MySpace comments.
Posted on 03.17.2009 at 06:38Brain Says: Matthew 24:50-51
In The Mix: Babybird - Bad Old Man
wasn't the point in starting a myspace page to be connected to the people who make you all your money? i think my boobs are bigger today. i wish i could think of some awful rumor to start about you since i know you'll never read this or give a fuck. but i can't oh'twell. i was so excited about finding this page, about being able to connect with you, cause in REAL life, where your not this huge persona, you'd actually be really cool and would be a friend. i wish a ton of people that i didn't know and didn't give a fuck about made me rich too. that's the life. again though, i am a sucker for assholes, and your the biggest. also fortunately for me, you write kickass music, and when you have something to say you say it so well. can't wait for the new album, douche bag. oh, yeah. you still haven't added me. don't you like me? jk. i don't give a fuck. hope to see you in concert.
I know this is a girl that I would love to be friends with, if I were Manson. She's articulate and intelligent and we'd have plenty to talk about, what with the huge level of personal compatibility I'm sensing just by the way she presents herself to a MySpace profile that he may or may not even read.
Do people ever think about what they say? Would they say this shit to his face, or is it just the keyboard that makes idiots out of decent human beings? This week has been overflowing with rampant internet dumb. More dumb than usual, which is kind of scary when you consider just how much idiocy I witness on a daily basis. You'd think I would start learning to avoid the places that piss me off the most but really, I think I continue to go because it's entertaining to look at the freakshow. And when you're a lazy fuck like me, being angry is the only exercise you get.
That, of course, is changing. Along with everything else. Normally everything about me is in a constant state of change but lately it's accelerated. I've gone from an easy meandering down the path of progress to what I'd term a "brisk trot". I'm not sure if the smell of the goal is getting stronger or if I'm getting hungrier to get my teeth into it. Doesn't really matter, the end result is the same.
I have in my hands (well, my inbox) my next ticket out of here. I almost bought it one-way but thought that might be a bit presumptuous and would end badly, so I put in a return date for a week or so later. A few days in NYC, a week in LA, a few more days in NYC. There is a lot to pack into this week: at least one party, shopping and eating, maybe a trip to Bar Sinister, the usual great unpredictability factor, and two really fantastic photoshoots. One of the shoots is with the really amazing Melissa Rodwell who has shot me twice before, this time with the addition of an extremely talented makeup/hair/wardrobe team and the fabulous Nick Kushner as my co-model. The ideas being batted around can be vaguely summed up by describing the shoot as "the third Reich falls off the wagon and into bed through the eye of a needle". It's probably going to be unpostable on MySpace, that's how good it'll be. The second shoot is with Paula Burr and a SFX team, plus Jezahell van Horn. She and I will be playing husband and wife. Til death do us part. I'm putting quite a lot of effort into this one, even having an amazing designer whip me up a little faux Gaultier because everything must be perfect. This doesn't make sense now, but it will when you see the pics. I was so inspired on this one that I sent out a six page email detailing everything when Jez and I were trying to sell Paula on shooting it. It sold. The rest of the trip, I don't know. I'm leaving it up to chance and fate. Expect nothing, hope for everything, travel light, be patient, and keep your phone charged.
Speaking of fate! Just gotta take a little moment to revisit a point of intense smugitude from earlier. Really can't go into any detail at all but think I can say that something bad happened to someone who deserved it. It was so bad and they so deserved it that I was in a good mood for days when I heard of the almost impressive amount of fail they achieved, and thinking about it now still brings a huge grin to my face. I didn't even have to wish for this. Doomed from the start. And now that whole mess is over, and they got exactly what they had coming to them, and now I dance and sing and roast marshmallows over their smoldering corpse.
lol, magic. Fucking tool.
I know this is a girl that I would love to be friends with, if I were Manson. She's articulate and intelligent and we'd have plenty to talk about, what with the huge level of personal compatibility I'm sensing just by the way she presents herself to a MySpace profile that he may or may not even read.
Do people ever think about what they say? Would they say this shit to his face, or is it just the keyboard that makes idiots out of decent human beings? This week has been overflowing with rampant internet dumb. More dumb than usual, which is kind of scary when you consider just how much idiocy I witness on a daily basis. You'd think I would start learning to avoid the places that piss me off the most but really, I think I continue to go because it's entertaining to look at the freakshow. And when you're a lazy fuck like me, being angry is the only exercise you get.
That, of course, is changing. Along with everything else. Normally everything about me is in a constant state of change but lately it's accelerated. I've gone from an easy meandering down the path of progress to what I'd term a "brisk trot". I'm not sure if the smell of the goal is getting stronger or if I'm getting hungrier to get my teeth into it. Doesn't really matter, the end result is the same.
I have in my hands (well, my inbox) my next ticket out of here. I almost bought it one-way but thought that might be a bit presumptuous and would end badly, so I put in a return date for a week or so later. A few days in NYC, a week in LA, a few more days in NYC. There is a lot to pack into this week: at least one party, shopping and eating, maybe a trip to Bar Sinister, the usual great unpredictability factor, and two really fantastic photoshoots. One of the shoots is with the really amazing Melissa Rodwell who has shot me twice before, this time with the addition of an extremely talented makeup/hair/wardrobe team and the fabulous Nick Kushner as my co-model. The ideas being batted around can be vaguely summed up by describing the shoot as "the third Reich falls off the wagon and into bed through the eye of a needle". It's probably going to be unpostable on MySpace, that's how good it'll be. The second shoot is with Paula Burr and a SFX team, plus Jezahell van Horn. She and I will be playing husband and wife. Til death do us part. I'm putting quite a lot of effort into this one, even having an amazing designer whip me up a little faux Gaultier because everything must be perfect. This doesn't make sense now, but it will when you see the pics. I was so inspired on this one that I sent out a six page email detailing everything when Jez and I were trying to sell Paula on shooting it. It sold. The rest of the trip, I don't know. I'm leaving it up to chance and fate. Expect nothing, hope for everything, travel light, be patient, and keep your phone charged.
Speaking of fate! Just gotta take a little moment to revisit a point of intense smugitude from earlier. Really can't go into any detail at all but think I can say that something bad happened to someone who deserved it. It was so bad and they so deserved it that I was in a good mood for days when I heard of the almost impressive amount of fail they achieved, and thinking about it now still brings a huge grin to my face. I didn't even have to wish for this. Doomed from the start. And now that whole mess is over, and they got exactly what they had coming to them, and now I dance and sing and roast marshmallows over their smoldering corpse.
lol, magic. Fucking tool.
"Marilyn Manson’s new album The High End Of Low will be released on May 19th and will be preceded by the single Armageddon ARMAGODDAMNMOTHERFUCKINGEDDON on May 12th."
Source
Okay, technically you could consider this "unofficial" as it hasn't been mentioned on the MySpace or the official site yet, but they're not exactly at the forefront of things at the moment, so I'm taking this as gospel unless proven wrong. Interscope said May and the dates are correct as far as releases tend to go, I see no reason to disbelieve it.
Source
Okay, technically you could consider this "unofficial" as it hasn't been mentioned on the MySpace or the official site yet, but they're not exactly at the forefront of things at the moment, so I'm taking this as gospel unless proven wrong. Interscope said May and the dates are correct as far as releases tend to go, I see no reason to disbelieve it.