In which Courtney Douds communes with the poet of misspent suburban youth.

I predict this to be the least ironic post ever written for Bwog.

This past Tuesday, I attended the first of two concerts given by the band Marilyn Manson and their infamous frontman of the same name at the Hammerstein Ballroom. And though he played a fairly long set, I could have handled having my upper body crushed by a thousand people for ten more hours for him to perform his whole repertoire. I went as a princess of darkness, with black eyeliner, bright blue eyeshadow, and red lipstick smeared across my face.

Manson is old enough to be my Daddy, but he is at his physical and sexual peak. He wore a black tank top with a white ribcage print and magenta eye makeup. During the new single “Heart-Shaped Glasses,” Manson walked behind a mannequin of his current girlfriend, Evan Rachel Wood, lifted up her skirt and sang to her ass a bit, rubbing his face in it. Then he decapitated the dummy and serenaded the severed head.

For his grand finale, Manson performed “Antichrist Superstar” from a pulpit, flailing like a possessed marionette. Then he pulled out the Bible and lit it on fire. But contrary to perceptions of violence and hatred in his music, the concert was a place of harmony and acceptance. I had been a little bit worried for my safety going to the show, but the crowd lovingly picked up each fallen mosher.

After returning to Columbia, I woke up half my suite by blasting Marilyn Manson at two in the morning. I was coated in my own and other people’s sweat. I felt like a goddess. I could have pole danced naked for of a room full of strangers. I spent yesterday daydreaming through my classes about sitting on Manson’s lap, licking his teeth, having him smear his lipstick all over my neck. Seriously.

 The author before (l) and after (r) the show.  Photos by Alexandra Muhler.