frisson/fress-on
The return to LA also saw me offering to show Dita's breasts to Tom Green, us making a spectac-ticle of ourselves making out under the closing credits - no one was hurt, but bystanders were overcome by cosmetics fall out and a stray platform boot - and legendary fressing with friends around the dinner table. The fact that we were cursed with a single orifice for both shovelling it in and blurting it out narrowed conversation until the last moment, but nobody seemed to mind. It picked up when the plates were clean and we nursed our drinks. I might have been surly for a few minutes, but it didn't take much for Dita to hoist me out of it in her quiet way.
I'm mentally exhausted, physically recovering. The first leg of the tour was short, but fraught with illness and temper temper temper. I, however, was a perfect gentleman at all times. Mhm.
I sat down in the small hours to answer a few more questions on The Oracle, but just a glance at the last question there made me close that box and crawl into another. (My bandages are coming off later.) Now I've opened this one.
So the Golden Age of Grotesque turned out to be bigger than we thought. The machine has embraced me on my own terms, though the cogs still catch their teeth on mine - I'm not making it easy for them and the parts in this particular machine like extra lube. I save my quiet words for quiet times, and outside the roar of the crowd almost drowns out the roar in my head. This is what it was all about. You might be surprised to know that this is all on paper spread out over a few notebooks. The life of Marilyn Manson, child entertainer, is like a loosely scripted improvisation. Where I am today is where I planned to be today. Of course nothing is entirely predictable, but it's tantamount to leaning on the boards and pulling the ropes to steer a windblown vehicle.
The beauty about this kind of showbiz is that the real mystery is out in the open. While everyone's peeking behind the curtain at the leering Jack-A-Dandy (who happens to be smartly dressed, grotesquely painted and looking out of the corner of his eye at your shining faces while pulling levers and pushing buttons with an exploding show of steam valves and yawning pipes) the secrets are painted on banners over the caravan. It's not meant to be kept from everyone, just put up for those who would be inclined to look, that curiosity rewarded by a box of tricks and a guide to use them. If you're not curious enough to look, it's not for you. Maybe later. Maybe not.
We have so much left to show you. But the information age and the technological age were both mired by the purposeful, planned, slow release of information so as not to paralyze the great unwashed with the mind-boggling concepts of what we could do as a people. So, too with the Golden Age on its scale. No, this isn't about making it easier to print, automating the processing of grain, manufacturing widgets or sending pictures of your cat around the globe in seconds. This is about walking face forward into a way of thinking that has traditionally been reserved for a select few. I'm here to tell you that there's nothing about art at any level that you can't understand, so too with language and literature. It's yours for the taking. I can say it without hesitation or qualification because I'm only talking to the curious. The herds won't even be looking.
MM
I'm mentally exhausted, physically recovering. The first leg of the tour was short, but fraught with illness and temper temper temper. I, however, was a perfect gentleman at all times. Mhm.
I sat down in the small hours to answer a few more questions on The Oracle, but just a glance at the last question there made me close that box and crawl into another. (My bandages are coming off later.) Now I've opened this one.
So the Golden Age of Grotesque turned out to be bigger than we thought. The machine has embraced me on my own terms, though the cogs still catch their teeth on mine - I'm not making it easy for them and the parts in this particular machine like extra lube. I save my quiet words for quiet times, and outside the roar of the crowd almost drowns out the roar in my head. This is what it was all about. You might be surprised to know that this is all on paper spread out over a few notebooks. The life of Marilyn Manson, child entertainer, is like a loosely scripted improvisation. Where I am today is where I planned to be today. Of course nothing is entirely predictable, but it's tantamount to leaning on the boards and pulling the ropes to steer a windblown vehicle.
The beauty about this kind of showbiz is that the real mystery is out in the open. While everyone's peeking behind the curtain at the leering Jack-A-Dandy (who happens to be smartly dressed, grotesquely painted and looking out of the corner of his eye at your shining faces while pulling levers and pushing buttons with an exploding show of steam valves and yawning pipes) the secrets are painted on banners over the caravan. It's not meant to be kept from everyone, just put up for those who would be inclined to look, that curiosity rewarded by a box of tricks and a guide to use them. If you're not curious enough to look, it's not for you. Maybe later. Maybe not.
We have so much left to show you. But the information age and the technological age were both mired by the purposeful, planned, slow release of information so as not to paralyze the great unwashed with the mind-boggling concepts of what we could do as a people. So, too with the Golden Age on its scale. No, this isn't about making it easier to print, automating the processing of grain, manufacturing widgets or sending pictures of your cat around the globe in seconds. This is about walking face forward into a way of thinking that has traditionally been reserved for a select few. I'm here to tell you that there's nothing about art at any level that you can't understand, so too with language and literature. It's yours for the taking. I can say it without hesitation or qualification because I'm only talking to the curious. The herds won't even be looking.
MM