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Thread: Brian Hugh Warner

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    Default Brian Hugh Warner

    Marilyn Manson

    Beta NF: EIE [Ni-ENFj (C-EIE) or (EIE-Ne)] or IEI [Ni-INFp (C-IEI) or (IEI-Ne)]

    My ex-boyfriend thought Marilyn Manson V.I.'d as an ENFp (IEE).

    Here is one picture:

    http://images.teamsugar.com/files/up...m2.preview.jpg

    Here are some quotes:

    - from The Long Hard Road Out of Hell by Marilyn Manson (with Neil Strauss); p. v: But someday, in a stronger age than this decaying, self-doubting present, he must yet come to us, the redeeming man, of great love and contempt, the creative spirit whose compelling strength will not let him rest in any aloofness or any beyond, whose isolation is misunderstood by the people as if it were flight from reality -- while it is only his absorption, immersion, penetration into reality, so that, when he one day emerges again into the light, he may bring home the redemption of this reality; its redemption from the curse that the hitherto reigning ideal has laid upon it. The man of the future, who will redeem us not only from the hitherto reigning ideal but also from that which was bound to grow out of it, the great nausea, the will to nothingness, nihilism; this bell-stroke of noon and of the great decision that liberates the will again and restores its goal to the earth and his hope to man; this Antichrist and Antinihilist; this victor over God and nothingness -- he must come one day.
    -- Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals

    - p. ix: INTRODUCTION
    Outside it was raining cats and barking dogs. Like an egg-born offspring of collective humanity, in sauntered Marilyn Manson. It was obvious -- he was beginning to look and sound a lot like Elvis.
    David Lynch -- New Orleans 2:50 A.M.

    - p. 49 [4 (The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Rejection Letters)]: I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life.
    -- George Orwell, "Why I Write"

    - pp. 58-61 [poem by Marilyn Manson (circa 1988)]:

    HOTEL HALLUCINOGEN

    Lying in bed contemplating
    tomorrow, simply meditating,
    I stare into a single empty
    spot, and I notice a penetrating
    of two eyes looking up and
    down and at various odd angles
    secretly inspecting me; and I
    feel my stare tugged away
    from the blank screen in
    front of my eyes and directed
    at the eight empty beer cans
    forming an unintentional pyramid.

    And I close my lids to think--
    How many hours have passed
    since I constructed such an
    immaculate edifice of tin?
    Or did I create it all?
    Was it the watchers?

    I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.
    But the pyramid has now
    become a flaming pyre, and
    the face within is my own.
    What is this prophecy that
    comes to me like a delivery boy,
    cold and uncaring of its message,
    asking only for recognition?
    But I will not fall prey
    to this revelation of irrelevance
    I will not recognize this perversion
    of thought.

    I will not.

    I hurl my pillow at the
    infernal grave, as if to save my
    eyes from horrific understanding,
    and I hear the hollow clang
    of seven empty beer cans,
    not eight--
    Was it fate that left
    one to stand?
    Why does this solitary tin soldier
    stand in defiance to my
    pillow talk of annihilation?

    Then, for some odd, idiotic,
    most definitely enigmatic reason
    the can begins to erupt in a barrage of
    whimpering cries.
    Does he lament because his
    friends and family are gone
    or that he has no one
    with which to spawn?
    They were gone. . .

    But no, that's not the reason.
    It is a baby's cry of his mother's
    treason.
    The screaming fear of abandonment.
    And this wailing, screaming, whining
    causes the dead cans to rise
    and I can't believe my eyes,
    that this concession of
    beverage containers is chanting
    in a cacophany of shallow rebellion
    to my Doctrine of Annihilation
    that was discussed in my
    Summit of the Pillow (which is now
    lost among the stamping feet of the
    aluminum-alloy anarchists).

    I am afraid, afraid of these
    cans, these nihilistic rebels.
    As the one approaches -- the baby cryer,
    I suppose my fear now
    escalates, constructing a wall
    around my bed, trying to shut
    everything out
    but without a doubt
    the cryer casually climbs what
    I thought was a Great Wall
    not unlike the one in Berlin.

    He begins to speak.

    His words flow cryptically from
    the hole in his head
    like funeral music: deep, resonant,
    and sorrowful.

    He says to me: "You must
    surrender to your dreams it's just.
    We sit all day planning for your attendance
    and upon arrival you
    very impolitely
    ignore us."

    In awe, I nod involuntarily
    and he closes my eyes.

    No.

    He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses,
    and I fall asleep in the shade.

    Asleep in a field of hyacinth and jade.

    When I crawl out of my sleep
    I get up,
    my hair a tangled mess of golden locks.
    I enter the kitchen,
    and go to the icebox.
    I pull out a single can of beer,
    and as I begin to drink
    I hear

    The weeping of an abandoned infant.


    Here are the songs:

































































    Last edited by HERO; 12-17-2011 at 03:11 AM.

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    Default Marilyn Manson

    I still can't decide whether Marilyn Manson is Ni-ENFj (C-EIE) [ENFj-ENTp], or Ti-ENTp (D-ILE) [ENTp-ENFj]; or IEI. I sang Disposable Teens last time at Karaoke.

    Anyway, an interesting fact is that the vast majority of Marilyn Manson's songs are in minor keys. Now here's a list, yet I can't guarantee that all the keys of these songs are identical to the album versions (yet they're still all minor). Reasons that might happen -- numerous. Although the vast majority will be identical, in key, to the album versions:

    1. Man That You Fear: (E minor) [Cancer]

    2. Inauguration of the Mechanical Christ: (E minor) [Cancer]

    3. The Dope Show: (E minor) [Cancer]

    4. In the Shadow of the Valley of Death: (A minor) [Sagittarius]

    5. Just a Car Crash Away: (E minor) [Cancer]

    6. A Place in the Dirt: (B minor) [Pisces]

    7. Get Your Gunn: (E minor) [Cancer]

    8. The Love Song: (D minor) [Scorpio]

    9. Blank and White: (F# minor) [Aries]

    10. The Reflecting God: (E minor) [Cancer]

    11. Lamb of God: (A minor) [Sagittarius]

    12. Born Again: (E minor) [Cancer]

    13. Rock is Dead: (F# minor) [Aries]

    14. GodEatGod: (D minor) [Scorpio]

    15. Lunchbox: (E minor) [Cancer]

    16. WOW: (A minor) [Sagittarius]

    17. The Beautiful People: (D minor) [Scorpio]

    18. Target Audience (Narcissus Narcosis): D minor (Scorpio)

    19. Great Big White World: (C minor) [Capricorn]

    20. Disposable Teens: (D minor) [Scorpio]

    21. Irresponsible Hate Anthem: (F# minor) [Aries]

    22. Antichrist Superstar: (B minor) [Pisces]

    23. Cruci-Fiction in Space: (C# minor) [Scorpio]

    24. Fundamentally Loathsome: (E minor) [Cancer]

    25. The Fight Song: (F# minor) [Aries]

    26. The Speed of Pain: (E minor / F minor) [Cancer / Libra]

    27. Coma Black: (E minor) [Cancer]

    28. Tourniquet: (G minor) [Gemini]

    29. The Death Song: (E minor) [Cancer]

    30. Devour: (A minor) [Sagittarius]

    31. Long Hard Road Out of Hell: (E minor) [Cancer]

    32. mOBSCENE: (E minor) [Cancer]

    33. King Kill 33: (Eb minor) [Cancer]

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    He's a lot like me. I think Beta NF. (but also cause we both grew up in the midwest, I believe)

    We're so much alike. He's really faggy and empathetic and nice (the real person), his 'persona' is badass though, sorta like my superhero version of myself is this bad-ass roleplaying character.

    I LOVED that interview when he basically told Letterman to fuck off lol. And I love his social activism for the outcasts in society.

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    IEI-Ni of the extremely obvious kind, if you catch an interview with him.
    But, for a certainty, back then,
    We loved so many, yet hated so much,
    We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...

    Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
    Whilst our laughter echoed,
    Under cerulean skies...

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    It's nice to know that people think he's IEI too, since that's what I think as well. At least, the more I've had time to ponder it. I guess IEI-Ni works, although I've also considered IEI-Fe. He might be Harmonizing or Normalizing or even Creative (although probably not Dominant) in my opinion, although if he were Normalizing (Fe-INFp), I'd consider INFp-INTj. I was going to write something like "The Imaginative/Independent Thinking (or Systematic/Structural) Poet", yet since Ni-INFp might be more likely, I think I'll skip that. I still think that using 16 subtypes his subtype is probably either Alpha or Gamma, and (he) possibly (is an) Alpha (NT) subtype since that might explain him being mistyped as an ENTp.

    Here are some more excerpts from The Long Hard Road Out of Hell that detail some of the more traumatic/dark episodes of his childhood:

    - from The Long Hard Road Out of Hell by Marilyn Manson (with Neil Strauss); pp. 5-10: We could hear our grandmother calling futilely after us: "Chad! Brian! Clean the rest of your plates!" We were lucky all she did was yell that afternoon. Typically, if she caught us stealing food, talking back or goofing off, we were forced to kneel on a broomstick in the kitchen for anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, which resulted in perpetually bruised and scabbed knees.

    - p. 11: . . . Chad and I walked to the top of the stairs and into the breezeway, where we kept our toys. Toys, in this case, being a pair of BB guns. Besides spying on my grandfather, the house had two other attractions: the woods nearby, where we liked shooting at animals, and the girls in the neighborhood . . . Sometimes we'd go to the city park just past the woods and try to pick off little kids playing football. To this day, Chad still has a BB lodged beneath the skin in his chest, because when we couldn't find any other targets we would just shoot at each other. This time, we stuck close to the house and tried to knock birds out of trees. It was malicious, but we were young and didn't give a shit. That afternoon I was out for blood and, unfortunately, a white rabbit crossed our path. The thrill of hitting it was incommensurate, but then I went to examine the damage . . .

    - p. 18: The end of the world didn't come when it was supposed to.
    I was brainwashed to believe, in seminars every Friday at Heritage Christian School, that all the signs were there. "You will know the beast has risen up out of the ground, because there will be heard everywhere a great gnashing of teeth," Ms. Price would warn in her sternest, most ominous voice to rows of cowering sixth-graders. "And everyone, children and parents alike, will suffer. Those that don't receive the mark, the number of his name, will be decapitated before their families and neighbors."

    - pp. 18-19: For other seminars, she had a card with a newspaper clipping detailing John Hinckley, Jr.'s then-recent attempt to assassinate Ronald Wilson Reagan. She would hold it up and read from Revelation 13: "Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666." The fact that there were six letters in Reagan's first, middle and last names was one more sign that this was our final hour, that the Antichrist was here on earth and that we must prepare for the coming of Christ and the rapture. My teachers explained all of this not as if it was an opinion open to interpretation, but as if it were an undeniable fact ordained by the Bible. They didn't need proof; they had faith. And this practically filled them with glee in anticipation of the coming apocalypse, because they were going to be saved -- dead but in heaven and freed from suffering.
    It was then that I began having nightmares -- nightmares that continue to this day. I was thoroughly terrified by the idea of the end of the world and the Antichrist. So I became obsessed with it, watching movies like The Exorcist and The Omen and reading prophetic books like Centuries by Nostradamus, 1984 by George Orwell and the novelized version of the film A Thief in the Night, which described very graphically people getting their heads cut off because they hadn't received 666 tattoos on their forehead. Combined with the weekly harangues at Christian school, it all made the apocalypse seem so real, so tangible, so close that I was constantly haunted by dreams and worried about what would happen if I found out who the Antichrist was. Would I risk my life to save everyone else? What if I already had the mark of the beast somewhere on me--underneath my scalp or on my ass where I couldn't see it? What if the Antichrist was me? I was filled with fear and confusion at a time when, even without the influence of Christian school, I was already in turmoil because I was going through puberty.

    pp. 19-20: I was an Episcopalian, which is basically diet Catholic (same great dogma but now with less rules) and the school was nondenominational. But that didn't stop Ms. Price. Sometimes she'd start her Bible class by asking, "Are there any Catholics in the room?" When no one answered, she'd lay into Catholics and Episcopalians, lecturing us about how they misinterpreted the Bible and were worshipping false idols by praying to the pope and the Virgin Mary. I would sit there mute and rejected, unsure whether to resent her or my parents for raising me as an Episcopalian.
    Further personal humiliation came during Friday assemblies, when guest speakers would talk about how they had lived as prostitutes, drug addicts and practitioners of black magic until they found God, chose His righteous path and were born again. It was like a Satanists Anonymous meeting. When they were done, everyone would bow their heads in prayer. If anyone wasn't born again, the failed pastor leading the seminar would ask them to come on stage and hold hands and be saved. Every time I knew I should have walked up there, but I was too petrified to stand on stage in front of the entire school and too embarrassed to admit that I was morally, spiritually and religiously behind everybody else.

    - p. 22: Disillusion had begun to set in at Christian school as well. One day in fourth grade I brought in a picture that Grandma Wyer had taken on an airplane flight from West Virginia to Ohio, and in the photo there appeared to be an angel in the clouds. It was one of my favorite possessions and I was excited to share it with my teachers, because I still believed everything they taught me about heaven and wanted to show them that my grandmother had seen it. But they said it was a hoax, scolded me and sent me home for being blasphemous. It was my most honest attempt to fit in with their idea of Christianity, to prove my connection with their beliefs, and I was punished for it.
    It confirmed what I had already known from the beginning--that I wouldn't be saved like everybody else. I knew it every day when I left for school trembling with fear that the world would end, I wouldn't go to heaven and I'd never see my parents again. But after a year passed, then another, then another, and the world and Ms. Price and Brian Warner and the prostitutes who were born again were still there, I felt cheated and lied to.
    Gradually, I began to resent Christian school and doubt everything I was told. It became clear that the suffering they were praying to be released from was a suffering they had imposed on themselves--and now us. The beast they lived in fear of was really themselves: It was man, not some mythological demon, that was going to destroy man in the end. And this beast had been created out of their fear.
    The seeds of who I am now had been planted.

    - p. 25: My second project was a magazine. In the spirit of Mad and Cracked, it was called Stupid. The mascot was, not unlike myself, a buck-toothed, big-nosed kid with acne who wore a baseball cap. I sold it for twenty-five cents, which was pure profit because I copied the pages for free at the Carpet Barn, where my dad worked. The machine was cheap and worn down, with an acrid, carbonlike odor, and it never failed to smear all six pages of the magazine. In a school starved for smut and dirty jokes, however, Stupid quickly caught on--until I was busted again.
    The principal, Carolyn Cole--a tall, slouched, prissy woman with glasses and curly brown hair piled on top of her birdlike face--called me into her office, where a roomful of administrators were waiting. She thrust the magazine into my hands and demanded that I explain the cartoons . . . As would happen many times later in life, they kept interrogating me about my work -- not understanding whether it was supposed to be art, entertainment or comedy -- and asking me to explain myself. So I exploded and, in exasperation, threw the papers up in the air. Before the last one had fluttered to the ground, Mrs. Cole, red in the face, ordered me to grab my ankles. From the corner of the room, she picked up a paddle, which had been so sadistically designed by a friend in shop class that it had holes in it to minimize wind resistance. I was given three hard, fast Christian whacks.

    - pp. 46-47: The first time I realized something was wrong with our family was when I was six and my father bought me a book about a giraffe that had been personalized so that I was a character in the story, going on adventures with the animal. The only problem was that my name was spelled Brain all through the book, which made for a disturbing image of a giraffe with a brain clinging to its back. I don't think my father even realized the mistake--and he had supposedly named me.
    It was emblematic of the way he had always treated me, which is that he didn't treat me at all. He didn't care and wasn't around to care. If I wanted his attention, it was usually given to me with a belt doubled-over to make a loud snapping sound when it connected with my back-side. When he came home from work and I was laying around playing Colecovision or drawing pictures, he would always find an excuse, like an unmown lawn or a full dishwasher, to blow up at me. I soon learned to look busy and responsible when he walked in, even if there was nothing to do. My mother always dismissed his violent outbursts as part of the same Vietnam War post-traumatic stress disorder that caused him to wake up in the middle of the night screaming and smashing things . . . Occasionally, my father promised to take me places, but more often than not something more pressing would come up at work. Only on a few memorable occasions did we do anything together. Usually, he took me on his motorcycle to a strip mine near our house, where, using a rifle he had removed from the corpse of a Viet Cong soldier, he taught me how to shoot. I inherited good aim from my father, which served me well whether shooting BB guns at animals or throwing rocks at cops. I also inherited a bad temper with a short fuse, a headstrong ambition that can only be stopped by bullets or bouncers, a blunt sense of humor . . . and an irregular heartbeat, which is only made worse by ingesting lots of drugs.
    Although I had so much in common with my father, I never wanted to admit it. Most of my childhood and adolescence was spent in fear of him. He constantly threatened to kick me out of the house and never failed to remind me that I was worthless and would never amount to anything. So I grew up a mama's boy, spoiled by her and ungrateful for it.






    A minor (Sagittarius):



    Last edited by HERO; 12-29-2011 at 03:54 AM.

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    Marilyn Manson: Ni-ENFj (Harmonizing subtype) [ENFj-INTp]; or Ni-INFp (Creative or Harmonizing) [INFp-ESFp, INFp-ESTp, or INFp-INTp, etc.]














    - from the long hard road out of hell by MARILYN MANSON (with Neil Strauss); pp. 68-69 [25th Parallel, April, 1990—We Always Hurt the Ones We Love (A Trip Into the World of B and D)] by Brian Warner: Although Mistress Barbara has only been practicing bondage and discipline commercially (that’s not commercial as we know it; this practice is very illegal) for three years, she has been doing it privately for 45 of her 57 years. Her introduction to the whip-me-beat-me-jab-safety-pins-through-my-sex-organ world of B and D came at the ripe and uncertain age of 12.
    “I was living in California and there was a man who was 21 that came to my house all the time,” she recalls, lighting a cigarette. “One day he was teasing me with his bullwhip and he made me mad. So, I took the bullwhip from him and made him take off his clothes and drive back to town naked.”
    From that day on, she has been abusing men for their pleasure. However, she never actually lost her virginity until she was 16. Thereafter she continued to practice her trade privately, moving to Florida in 1980. Finally, she realized that if she advertised, she could do the same things to strangers for more money. Now, at $200 a session (which can last anywhere from 12 minutes to 13 hours), she earns roughly $25,000 a year, tax-free.
    Her customers, who are between 19 and 74, locate her through a personal ad that reads: “Sincere, mature, dominant woman has slave quarters available for short- and long-term stays.” Generally, her clientele are businessmen with families, she claims. “I believe the higher the executive, the higher the pressure and the more they do these things,” she decides. “I see faces and I recognize them from campaign posters. I find that it’s not unusual that I’ve had firemen, police officers, attorneys, judges, airline pilots and football players.” Laughing, she adds, “I get most of my calls after the three-day holidays when these men are at home with their wives and they’re not accustomed to spending that much time with their families . . ."

    - p. 79 (6—The Spooky Kids): He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’m not being sarcastic, I’m trying to use a little verbal shock treatment to make you see how crazy you both sound! You are talking about a goddamn pen name coming to life!”—Stephen King, The Dark Half

    Marilyn Manson was the perfect story protagonist for a frustrated writer like myself. He was a character who, because of his contempt for the world around him and, more so, himself, does everything he can to trick people into liking him. And then, once he wins their confidence, he uses it to destroy them.

    - p. 80: At the time I was reading books about philosophy, hypnosis, criminal psychology and mass psychology (along with a few occult and true crime paperbacks). On top of that, I was completely bored, sitting around watching Wonder Years reruns and talk shows and realizing how stupid Americans were. All of this inspired me to create my own science project and see if a white band that wasn’t rap could get away with acts far more offensive and illicit than 2 Live Crew’s dirty rhymes. As a performer, I wanted to be the loudest, most persistent alarm clock I could be, because there didn’t seem like any other way to snap society out of its Christianity- and media-induced coma.

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    Marilyn Manson: America's Death Rattle
    But, for a certainty, back then,
    We loved so many, yet hated so much,
    We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...

    Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
    Whilst our laughter echoed,
    Under cerulean skies...

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    Alpha as hell. Ti-ENTp.

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    Quote Originally Posted by polikujm View Post
    Hey Ashton! *pant*
    Comical to answer such a well thought out post in such a way.
    But, for a certainty, back then,
    We loved so many, yet hated so much,
    We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...

    Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
    Whilst our laughter echoed,
    Under cerulean skies...

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    Please, poli, enlighten us as to what strikes you as being peculiarly Alpha about Mr. Warner.
    But, for a certainty, back then,
    We loved so many, yet hated so much,
    We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...

    Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
    Whilst our laughter echoed,
    Under cerulean skies...

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    Seriously I'm really curious.
    But, for a certainty, back then,
    We loved so many, yet hated so much,
    We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...

    Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
    Whilst our laughter echoed,
    Under cerulean skies...

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    IEI always seemed extremely obvious to me. God I love his brain, he's fascinating.

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    Quote Originally Posted by BubblesAndSpikes View Post
    He's a lot like me. I think Beta NF. (but also cause we both grew up in the midwest, I believe)

    We're so much alike. He's really faggy and empathetic and nice
    Agree with BnS here. He's homosexual.

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    http://www.rollingstone.com/music/ne...clown-20090602

    By Daniel Kreps
    June 2, 2009 9:47 AM ET
    'Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor has spoken out against his former protégé Marilyn Manson, calling the shock rocker "a dopey clown" in a new interview with Mojo. According to Spinner, Reznor had some harsh words for the Antichrist Superstar, saying, "He is a malicious guy and will step on anybody's face to succeed and cross any line of decency. Seeing him now, drugs and alcohol now rule his life and he's become a dopey clown."

    Reznor indicates tension between the pair began during NIN's The Downward Spiral tour in 1994. "During the Spiral tour we propped them up to get our audience turned on to them and at that time a lot of the people in my circle were pretty far down the road as alcoholics. Not Manson," Reznor told Mojo. "His drive for success and self-preservation was so high, he pretended to be fucked up a lot when he wasn't."


    "He used to be the smartest guy in the room. And as a fan of his talents, I hope he gets his shit together," Reznor said.

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