The dimly lit corridor I was wandering down gave off an
eerie charnel-like aura. Green walls just reminded me of
institutions, and these particular ones were especially
terrible. I couldn’t for the life of me discern where the
abysmal lighting was emanating from, and it was forming
oddly shaped shadows on the walls. I soon came to a curve
in the subterranean hallway, which sent more blackish
shadows careening across everywhere. I sighed. All this
for one meeting?

Finally, on my right, I saw a door. The contrasting
white letters on the black nameplate politely informed me
that this was room B-3. I hesitated, almost not wanting to
open the door, for fear of what would lie inside. Realizing
my fear was merely my apprehension going to my
head, I placed my hand on the polished silver doorknob and
turned.

The sight that met my eyes only made the asylum image
worse. The lone table in the middle of the room was just
your ordinary white, four-legged table, and the chairs were
of the uncomfortable metal variety. I felt as if I were
taking part in an inquisition of sorts. I averted my eyes
from the lonely furniture and continued taking in my
surroundings. Suddenly, I spotted him. Curled up (or as
curled up as a person over six feet tall can get) in an
overstuffed blue chair, the man I was to converse with
barely acknowledged my presence. His platform black boots
emerged from the bottom hem of his large navy blue fur
trench coat, and I was immediately envious of his clothes.
He shot me an imperceptible glance, looked away, and then
sat and gazed at me. The first thing I noticed about his
face was his eyes, and the dint behind them. I noticed
something peculiar about their appearance, but it didn’t
strike me what it truly was until later.

"So...I’m meeting the infamous Brian Warner," I offered.
"You could say that."

Sensing that that may not have been the most appropriate opening
statement, I opted to try again.

"Um, if you’ll come over here, to the, uh, table, we can
get this discussion underway, and then you can leave," I
said, hoping to spark some interest in this recusant man.
That statement appeared to do the trick, and Mr. Brian
Warner removed himself from his easy chair and assembled his
lanky figure into the hard metal structure to which he was
assigned. As he sat down, I realized what had struck me
about his eyes—they were considerably different colors. The
right one was a normal, everyday light brown color that
you could almost have labeled as "puppy-dog eyes" if the
other hadn’t been so dissimilar. Its outer edge was a thin
black ring, inside that was a larger white ring, and inside
that was a small black pupil. He was obviously wearing a
contact lens, but it was still unnerving, nonetheless.

"What do you want me to say?" His first statement
insinuated that I was holding him there against his will,
and I probably was. His lack of avidity bothered me
greatly, and I felt sort of bad for wanting to talk to him.

"Well, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions, if you
don’t mind." "Go ahead. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?"
"Er…Yes," I replied. I was being somewhat less than
eloquent.

Mentally, I was going through all the possible questions I could
ask this man, and none of them seemed to be worthy of his
time. I decided to just ask him something and get it over
with, despite whether it was a good question or not.
"What disgusts you?"
He thought for a bit, and then replied, "Excessive body hair.
And people who live up to stereotypes. People who
perpetuate ignorance disgust me too." Alrighty, then, I
thought. That’s nice. Next question.
"What is something that offends you?"
"One thing that offends me is bad grammar. That makes
me more pissed than anything in the world, as someone who
respects the educational system or someone who just respects
the way things are intended to be in America. We have the
ability. There’s no reason that people can’t simply use
decent grammar."

I was thinking to myself about the off-the-wall answers
I was receiving from this man. Most people would have
said ‘Smoking in public’ or ‘Profanity’ or some other
tangible offence, but not Brian Warner.
"What’s your favorite movie, and why?"
He answered this one immediately: "Willy Wonka And The
Chocolate Factory. I watch it every once in a while. I
still think it holds up as one of the greatest films of all
time – it contains so many interesting messages presented to
children in the guise of an innocent story."

I was beginning to realize that his fiendish and
somewhat intimidating image was really just an image. His
responses were beginning to make him appear almost
profound. He was just one of those people you couldn’t help
but hearken to. Reviewing my list of questions, I asked
another.

"Which do you prefer, Pepsi or Coke?" His answer was not
one I was expecting, but that seemed to be happening a
lot lately.
"I don’t drink Pepsi. I hate the way it represents the
next generation of smiling people. Now, Coke, it even
sounds like a narcotic. Plus, it has fascist coloring. You
really have to bow to Coca-Cola."

I sensed that he was beginning to get into this, so I continued
on with my list. I had to admit, I was enjoying this
immensely. I loved ascertaining small, but character-revealing
things about people; things that one wouldn’t normally
talk about on a day-to-day basis. I was finding that he had
an extremely lucid opinion about a lot of things.

I thought for a bit about the interview I was
conducting. A part of me felt like my persistentness was
quickly becoming obnoxious, but the curious side of me told
me I should continue. I’m not one to ignore my curious
side, but something told me I should stop the interview here
and let the man get on with his life. Mr. Warner
apparently allowed me to think without becoming offended,
because he wasn’t commenting about our lack of talking at
that moment. This was probably one of the more nerve
wracking things I had ever done, but I was enthusiastic
about it, and it was what I had chosen to do, so I
figured I would continue.

I decided to ask him his opinion on smoking, because
I hate it, and I realized I was dying to know
what he thought about it.

"What is your opinion on smoking?"
"I don’t believe in cigarettes. In fact, when people smoke, I
can’t hear what they’re saying. I’ve fine-tuned myself to
shut out the words of smokers, so I miss out on a lot of
conversations." Thank God I don’t smoke, I thought to
myself. This interview would have been over before it
started! The interminableness of the abundance of moral
values in this man was evident in his answers. One could
tell that he was very principled and had a strong opinion
about most everything.

When he talked, I listened, but I found my mind wandering. I was
analyzing Mr. Warner’s voice, and I was thinking to
myself, that if I had to compare his voice to a physical
object, I’d pick a big pile of gossamer cloth. Then, all of
a sudden, the realization that I was still one-half of the
conversation hit me. Snapping out of my trance-like state,
I came to the conclusion that Mr. Warner hadn’t realized
that I was being delusional, and I was deeply thankful for
that fact. I sensed that I probably should begin to wrap up
the interview, so I thanked him for his time, and I hoped
that I would be so privileged to talk to him again someday.

The insightful, sensitive person I had been interviewing, got up
from his chair. With the bottom of his large coat nearly
touching the ground, he motioned for me to come
closer. The trinket he pressed into my hand was a minute
figurine of Christ’s crucifixion, and little did he know
that I would treasure that bauble forever. I thanked him
again, and as my stomach quivered spasmodically, Marilyn
Manson, perhaps one of the most controversial rock stars of
this century, made his way to the door.



***All of the quotes in this vocabulary story were actual quotes
by Marilyn Manson (AKA Brian Warner) himself, used with
permission from the website www.angelmanson.com.