The Long Hard Road out of Hell
I just started - and finished - Marilyn Manson's autobiography, "The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell", all in one day. It's almost 300 pages long, and I read it all in one day. I almost never do that with nonfiction, but it read so much like some work of experimental fiction that was a bit hard to believe, but all the time I was like "this was his real life." Really fun, poignant, and ultimately inspiring. I think bart-calendar, especially, would enjoy it for the talk of hard partying, copious drug use, and weird-ass things that Manson and his bandmates and friends did while high. Oh, and bondage, sex, perversion, and all that other good stuff. This book takes the "sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll" concept and multiplies it like crazy, twisting it with sadomasochism and other shocking words and deeds. I also found the talk about his grandfather fascinating, since the man unknowingly introduced young Brian Warner to the world of perversion.
Another thing I liked about it was that it was interspersed with relevant, but different, pieces of writing and quotes from Marilyn Manson and others, such that one could either read straight through or read the inserts that were ahead in case one got in the mood for something different. The best of the quotes were, in my opinion, rumors about the band started by "fans" and the false and artificially lurid "affadavits" passed out by groups like the American Family Association.
And it's late, my brain is addled, I would love to end this more coherently like a proper review, but... fuck it. I will say one last thing, though: Now I'm interested in reading Blanche Barton's autobiography of Anton LaVey.
Another thing I liked about it was that it was interspersed with relevant, but different, pieces of writing and quotes from Marilyn Manson and others, such that one could either read straight through or read the inserts that were ahead in case one got in the mood for something different. The best of the quotes were, in my opinion, rumors about the band started by "fans" and the false and artificially lurid "affadavits" passed out by groups like the American Family Association.
And it's late, my brain is addled, I would love to end this more coherently like a proper review, but... fuck it. I will say one last thing, though: Now I'm interested in reading Blanche Barton's autobiography of Anton LaVey.