Anyone who knows me, knows I have these little rages. I am constantly becoming totally obsessed with something or other, in an absolutely unhinged fashion, such that no other idea or bit of information could possibly violate my mind, which has become like a steel trap, complete with a positively terrifying capacity for archiving and endlessly examining minutia, on the the topic of that one particular thing that has siezed me.
It would be awesome if, when the rages took hold, they were for something useful, like cleaning my house, organizing my total disaster of an office, or writing the great American novel; or at least something that would make me seem cool, like an all-consuming dedication to indie rock, but no luck. On the less embarrassing end of the specturm, it's the function and dysfunction of the Human Brain, T. S. Eliot, Iyengar Yoga, or the Knights Templar; but on the other end, lie the mortifyingly arresting specters of the likes of Trent Reznor, The X-Files, and Adrien Brody's apparent total lack of sense. The only link worth clicking in that last sentence is the last one, FYI.
All I'm saying to you, people, is that you're lucky I started blogging after the worst of the Reznor and X-Files rages were over. I've mentioned that my one-time, passionate, true love for Trent was fully like heroin, right? Well, Trent Reznor and his poorly disguised solo art project, Nine Inch Nails, inspired me, at one time, to operatic postmodern reveries on masochism, feminism's greatest sins, the nature of duality and the struggle for truth in the face of the hive. Yeah. That bad. Moreover, rest assured that I have seen every single episode of the X-Files to examine it for evidence of Fox and Dana's fated love with a fine-toothed comb, and that, in the throes of my X-Files mania, I had developed a huge and detailed Jungian perspective on the significance of every, last, single, solitary detail of the byzantine world of the FBI's most unwanted.
When Mulder's attempt to finally kiss Dr. Scully in the X-Files feature film was thwarted by one of those alien virus-having bees, my heart was fully in my throat. It hit me hard, and Fox's heroic rescue of his beloved from the alien space craft in Antarctica did little to ameliorate the crushing disappointment I felt when it became obvious that he wasn't going to have the opportunity to give her every inch of his love on the floor of his seedy D.C. apartment hallway. I wanted payoff, goddammit.
As for Trent, he's had a vacation from being my favorite tortured, angst-peddling fetish doll, but you know what? I'm always in the market for some angst. Recent events that have taken place in my brain indicate that unless his new record totally blows (and I can't imagine why that would be, since he's a genius), he may very well be back in the hotseat. I've got a bad feeling.
I mention this, my friends, as a word of warning. The rages are epileptic, I've suffered them since I was a girl, I can't seem to call a halt to their freakery, and I wouldn't want to, because they are delicious. I'm not sure you, my gentle readers, will savor them as I do, however. It's been awhile since a full-blown siezure of passionate interest in some random thing took over every function of my brain, but I feel like I can hear the thunder rolling. Possible targets include: mental illness and its treatment, the aformentioned threat of Reznor redux, Prague, Prague, Prague, English Grammar, installation art, and the unparalleled state of evolutionary perfection achieved by Christian motherfucking Bale.
Maybe I really should be more embarrassed about this, but I don't mind telling you all that I am on the e-mail update list for anything that happens to be going on in the Empire of Trent. Generally speaking, it alerts me to when I can log on to (not) buy tickets that are sold out like, 3 BLOODY SECONDS after going on sale, or some such mularkey. This morning, however, I received the news that the soon-to-be-unleashed new single had begun airplay "on radio stations worldwide," and that I could hear (and see!) the entire song today at the world wide interbot HQ (it's the blue mess dated 3/17, if you're so inclined).
Now, you should know that where HRH Trent Reznor's master works are concerned, I hesitate to appraise until the entire communique has been received; but right now, I feel an irresistable and compulsive need to mention the following observations for the entire world wide interbot to read (which should tell you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that now might be a good time to consider reading ANY blog other than mine):
There's something deeply stupid about rock music, and it's amazing how clearly that can be communicated in less than five minutes.
It appears that this new single is a bit of a political number. Could it be that HRH has emerged from the black depths of his own dark soul only to be assaulted by the appalling fact that the world is fucked? AWESOME!
HRH continues to work a very unfortunate hairstyle for all it's worth. In fact, it seems to be a pre-requisite for being allowed to be in his traveling roadshow band. Is it a contractual obligation that his hired hands fall in line? This whole thing reminds me of the time I begged my bike racing team to all grow mustaches. They refused. It seems Mr. Reznor's homies are all content to rock dyed-black curtain hair, however.
The Rez has put on some pounds. The added bulk makes him look shorter, but also: meaty, delicious, and eminently capable of rocking ass. However, it seems the days of his pale, gothic beauty are over, and he's developed a bit of a thick neck. Maybe from all the headbanging?
Despite all mitigating factors, he appears to still be Trent Reznor, and damn him to hell, I cannot resist. As ridiculous and heinous as it is, I must confess myself to being a total slave to his grind! ARGH!
Sad but true.
All of this begs two questions. First: how is it that this whole inability to resist the Nine Inch Nails tractor beam has lain dormant for so long (years, really), only to re-emerge with this re-emergence? I thought I was so OVER this shit! And, second: WHEN WILL I EVER GROW UP?
Just to keep you updated on what a miserable life Woodsy does lead, here's a little anecdote: we ran out of toilet paper this morning, chez Crazy Jane. It happens, people! We were down to using the floral-printed tissues from my purse - the ones I pick up when I go to get some cash at the grocery store using my ATM, and keep in my bag so that no one can accuse me of not being a proper, tissue-having girl. Tonight, Monkey and I went to the supermarket to score ourselves some grub, and as we walked through the doors, my monkey said: "Whaddaya think, Mama? Should we spring for some toilet paper, or should we just use Woodsy from now on?"
The best thing about my dog, Little Woodland Jack, other than his chocolate brown nose, is the way he understands English perfectly well.
If you should wake him up from a deep, coma-like sleep on the sofa, and tell him to go to bed, he will jump down, and then - swerving like a drunken sailor, often leaning against the wainscoting to steady himself - will shamble off down the hall and leap straight into my bed, where he promptly returns to a state of complete unconsciousness that involves snoring and sleep-running.
I could eat him alive when, every morning on the way out the door, I tell my monkey: "Monkey, put Woodsy outside!" an utterance which causes the poor creature to adopt a pathetic and deeply sticken expression, immediately followed by skulking away under the furniture in the hopes that we will forget that he even exists. I love it when, if asked if he wants to go for a walk, or is perhaps confronted with the even more thrilling prospect of a ride in the car, he becomes apoplectic with excitement, and in his fervor, often launches himself straight into an asthma attack; or how, when he needs to dispatch his "business," and you ask him if he wants to go outside, he frolics with joy at how miraculously his needs have been understood by his human overlords.
What I'm getting at, here, is the fact that he's pretty much the filthiest, most horrible beast in the world. That's why I let him sleep IN my bed, UNDER the covers. I hate that dog. Especially when he hides fish sticks and garlic bread under my pillows.
Seriously, is there anyone on earth who could sell a costume like this, or rock a red jock like it was hot with as much conviction? In this fantastical artifact of early 70's rock kink, David Bowie looks like a tired, coked-to-the-gills whore, he's got a big red mullet, and God only knows what inspired him to wear anything that made it necessary for us to be on such intimate terms with his extra grody junk; but here's what I love: he wrote Moonage Daydream, he'll be a rockin' rollin' bitch for you, and there isn't a single minute where he's not positively convinced that he is the nazz, with his snow white tan and god given ass. You've got to admire commitment like that, people.