That Time I Met Marilyn Manson

Nicole Jardine | originally written 5/2007

In high school I went through the requisite teenager grunge and metal phase, enjoying everything from pre-1995 Metallica, to Opeth, to Marilyn Manson. I wasn't a hardcore fan, so it was a stroke of luck that one day I wandered over to the official website and learned that Manson himself would be travelling to Orange County on May 18 to promote the release of his new album Eat Me, Drink Me.

I eagerly obtained two wristbands and spent the next two weeks hugely excited for the fateful Saturday, 6-9pm. Then, on the Friday night before the big event, at 8:15pm I had a split-second of stunning clarity. May 18th was tonight. I was twenty minutes away from home, from which the venue was another half hour away. Crap! My original guest had plans with friends. Another friend and fellow Manson fan declined, guessing that we would likely drive thirty five minutes simply to find him gone.

So I turned to my brother, Chris, who is not exactly a huge fan and has been known to flee small spiders, but can generally be counted on for adventure. “Um… wanna meet Marilyn Manson?”

He shrugged. “Um… sure?”

I sped home and picked up the wristbands. No time to find a t-shirt of a metal band. And then we drove! And drove faster! And encountered what felt like every single red light in Irvine! The minutes sped by. 8:54. 9:05. Eek. We got off the freeway at 9:15. Parked. Damn, I thought – probably too late. We speedwalked anyway.

Then we saw security guards. And something that looked like it held a huge line…. He was still here! My stomach leapt off the floor and did a few cartwheels before finally settling back to where it belonged, humming happily.

The guards cut off our wristbands and we entered the store, and gave us the CD insert booklets of the new album. We could hear music from the new album. There was some other merchandise out, including a shirt for $10 and a single being sold for $2. I briefly considered it. I was feeling distinctly not hardcore in my nerdy shirt. The atmosphere was actually more relaxed than I would have expected; there were a number of beefy security guards, but everyone was just talking and laughing. There were perhaps 20 people in front of us, and the line was moving slowly. Manson was, apparently, taking his time. I couldn’t see him from my spot in line, but I could see the large “Eat Me, Drink Me” banner suspended over an area that looked like it housed a table.

We got closer. Ten people to go. I’m short so I can’t see over or around people; but Chris could, and he swallowed nervously every time he caught sight of the famed rockstar. He was a little frightened, I think, but he stuck it out. What a trooper. He did, however, end up asking me to go with him when the big moment came, rather than splitting up. Sissy.

And suddenly we were at the front of the line. Manson was sitting alone at the table with guards on either side. I felt slight sadness because I'd been hoping to meet the guitarist/bassist…. Then I remembered that this was Marilyn Manson, and he was ten feet away, and he was currently holding a baby whose mom had handed over to him for a photo. (It was, truly, adorable.)

Then mom and baby moved on. We were next!

Manson turned towards us. He was sitting comfortably, at ease. Round opaque sunglasses obscured his eyes. I was secretly disappointed – I’d so wanted to see those famous contact lenses. Dyed jet-black hair fell straight to his shoulders, shaggy but not long, caressing his pallid cheekbones. He was wearing relatively little make-up: just white geisha-like powder on his face, neck, and hands, and a dark reddish lipstick that, as per his usual style, exaggerated the curve of his lips. The getup was tame for Manson, who in the past has also sported dazzling blue eyeshadow and… er… breasts.

A security guard told us to go ahead. I’m surprised I heard him above the buzzing in my ears, and even more surprised that I somehow willed my feet to propel myself in the right direction.

Chris was in front of me. “Hi,” Manson said, accepting the proffered booklet. He is soft-spoken, his voice gravelly with bass undertones. “What’s your name?” Chris. “Chris, it’s nice to meet you. Spelled with a C?” Chris answered affirmatively. (He’s shy.) Manson wrote “Chris” and then signed his own initials: MM.

And then, then, he turned to me. And that's when something terrible happened.

I am not a shy person. I am well-spoken, I have confidently joked with and won the affection of other random rock musicians, and I have stood in front of crowds of people to speak. But here, now, I felt an unfamiliar prickling of my skin. My tongue was thick in my mouth and my brain was mush. And Manson was ready to speak to me. Oh god oh god… “Hi, your name?”

“Nicole,” I said. I managed to not squeak, which I’m quite proud of.

“Nicole… no h, right?”

I laughed – it was a common mistake, and I was inanely thrilled that he asked for the right spelling, and spells it theproper way, thank you very much. “Yep!” My wit was really shining tonight.

He smiled. “Good, can’t misspell that one then… where would you like me to…?” He indicated the booklet.

I considered. “Hmm… well, what’s your favorite song on the album?”

He cocked his head and his lips quirked thoughtfully. He turned through the pages, fingertips dancing lightly across each one.

“I’m not sure yet, but so far…” He was taking his time. His pale fingers – he had a large ring on each hand, I now noticed – had landed on a page. The song he’d chosen was “If I Was Your Vampire,” one of the two songs that’s been put up on the website. The page has a photo of Manson holding up a knife. He wrote “To Nicole” on the blade, and then signed “MM” on the opposite page.

I am, quite frankly, ashamed of what happened next. Did I give any sign that I, too, enjoy the song? Nope. Did I ask why he chose it, or give some indication that I am actually a fan and not just some ninny who wandered in to a signing? Nope. I grinned like a dork and kind of bobbed my head, hoping to somehow signify how I’ve enjoyed all of his music. Maybe he got the message.

I finally realized I should say something. Now, I’m usually good at impromptu speeches. If this were up to me, I would have said something like: “I’d just really like to thank you. Your music has given me a lot over the last few years; you’ve been a great inspiration to me, through both good and bad.”

Unfortunately, what I actually said was, “Thanks for the music!” God, I hope I didn’t giggle. But he was kind – he thanked me back.

At some point during this pathetic exchange, Chris had sidled away, which had the unfortunate consequence, I think, of the guards sort of leaning in, as if to say, Next. I prepared to move along.

Manson smiled at me – a real smile this time, with teeth. “I like your shirt – ‘talk nerdy to me.’ That’s good.” He chuckled a little, and I grinned, knowing I certainly didn’t fit in among the goth crowd in the store. “Well, thanks! I –”

The guards stepped in, and it was definitely time to go. I think they were trying to hurry it up – after all, it was only supposed to last until 9, it was already at least 9:45, and more people had come in behind us. I opened my mouth to give a final thanks.

Manson abruptly held out his pale hands, arms spread and palms up. I blinked stupidly. I was pretty sure Marilyn freaking Manson wasn’t asking for a double high five. “Um… sorry, what?” I leaned down, as if he’d said something and I simply hadn’t heard.

He chuckled softly. His hands remained outstretched, peaceful, waiting like some bizarre alternative yoga guru, and said, “I’d like to thank you for coming out here.”

“Oh! Heh… Sorry!… I mean, it’s me, thanking you, it should be…” Yep. Good ol’ trusty brain, hard at work. I reached my right hand forward. To my surprise, he clasped my hand in both of his. They were surprisingly warm, and soft, and pleasantly dry. (I may have melted at this point, I’m not sure.) He did that smiling thing again. “Thank you, Nicole. It was nice meeting you.”

“Thanks…” I stuttered out. Then, as I went away… “Ehm, have a good tour this summer!”

We exited the store. My hands were a little shaky as I recovered from my mental ineptitude. To this day I wish I'd had a better final comment. Maybe something like, “WAIT! What brands of eyeshadow and hand lotion do you recommend? You should try organic!”

And that's the story of how I became totally mute for the first time in my life, learned to always know what day it is, and discovered that Marilyn Manson has really soft hands.