Many rock stars pile on the sequins and fur and silk, opting to rebel against certain social confines with an excessive, wild, frenetic persona. Trent Reznor, on the other hand, chooses clothes as industrially serious as the music he plays - you know the kind that can build from a confidential whisper to a rage-filled scream in the space of a few lines? The kind that, between clanging steel and mechanical who-knows-what, makes you think you could start a revolution with the mess of power tools in your garage? Yeah, Reznor's look is perfect for *that* kind of music.
Tee shirt. Utility jacket. Usually black punctuated by militant greens. He's not here to strut, but to ask some hard questions and point out some painful truths. I femmed and bankered his look up for work today, but I tried to stay true to the vibe. Black. Olive. Nude. Agressive red orange from the NIN album covers. Done.
... now where's my power drill?
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Hank and I both had to trim our nails last night - I'm sure we had.... several inches... between the two of us. It took some industrial strength clippers, and both of us thought we'd get hurt. He meowed so much my head feels like a hole, but I know it's his instinct for survivlaism. I can tell the treats I bribed him with seem like a terrible lie. Still, we're closer for it in the end, and we both know we're in this together now.
