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.
You are warned, and I apologize in advance.