This is approximately what I wore on October 31, 2003 when I dressed up as Shirley Manson. I had seen her in an interview weeks before in which she described the nervous feeling that overwhelmed her in the moments before every performance. Her hand gestures and potty-mouthed description of how her "sphincter" tightened up led me to a feeling of accord with the petite redhead, and I vowed to nail her accent by Halloween. I didn't.
The band Garbage had been present in my training-days of angst-y eyeliner and faux depression, so it's not like this chance viewing of a VH1 Behind the Music bio on Manson first put her on my radar. But my relationship with Manson has since followed a similarly accidental course. I remember seeing a PETA ad in which the singer held the skinned carcass of a small mammal. My accord with her subdued a bit after that. An obscure Manson appearance on a Queens of the Stoneage track a couple of years later reminded me she existed.
And then this. I had heard about the Fox show Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, but had never seen it. I perceived it to be typical sci-fi de trop, an indulgent and redundant expansion of a cult classic that has already been expanded practically beyond the breaking point, Star Wars-style, but in a way that showcases female empowerment almost to the point of exploitation. Having now watched an episode, I realize that I was right.
But low and behold. Who should appear on the screen but none other than my simpatico Scotswoman. She plays a robot. A terminator to be precise. A T-1001 to be more precise. Here's a clip of her morphing from urinal-form to human-form and then terminating a guy, who was about to pee on her, with her finger.
