Archive for the Fame & Celebrity Category

DWTS Exploited My Weakness for Cho

Posted in Fame & Celebrity, Goof & Glamour, Got My TV Eye On You, I Heart Funny Femmes, I Heart Robots, I like big butts & I can not lie, Strange Science, Style & Fashion, Technicolor Pop, Top 2% of Coolest Mofos, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 21, 2010 by alphabetfiend

When I first heard that Margaret Cho was on the new cast for DWTS, I was in the Austin audience at Margaret Cho’s performance at The Paramount. She was kvetching about being sore from all the dance practice.

My initial response was “Crap, now I have to watch that shit n’ shinola. Dancing with the stars? Ugg.”

Yet another reminder to never say never.

“Why must you?” you ask. Well, because I love Cho more than I hate DWTS. DUH! Don’t you?

C’mon! We gotta take Cho when and where we can get her. Whether it’s on Lifetime’s schlocky yet charming series Drop Dead Diva, doing the tango on DWTS, or live at The Paramount.

Plus we’ll get to see her mom, which features prominently and hilariously in Cho’s stand-up.

Now that I’ve resigned myself to my pitiful fate, I hafta say I’m really looking forward to seeing Cho in sparkles, sequins and spandex. While performing her stand-up, she was already sporting a street-wear version of DWTS style. She wore a loose silky tunic — one-shoulder, sequined — that showed off her gorgeous shoulder tats. She paired the sparkly tunic with American Apparel’s metallic spandex leggings in spaceship silver; grounding the get-up with a great pair of ass-kicker boots. Mmm. Rugged and mmm soft buttery leather and mmm.

Sorry. My clothes-lust kinda took over for a second there. Lemme wipe the drool from my chin and we’ll move on.

I’m gonna enjoy seeing her twice a week for as long as this lasts. Once she’s booted, I’ll be free but I’ll be bummed.

I just hope she does the Robot. Cause that would totally rock.

No go show Cho some love! Give her some sugars! Form a rallying crowd for her to surf through. Join Team Van-Cho. GO!

Gaga Must Be in Awe of Mark Ryden. (Hell, Who Isn’t?)

Posted in Art & Culture, Fame & Celebrity, Feminism (Shades of Gray), Goof & Glamour, I Heart Shaman*Art, I Heart Tricksters, In Celebration of the Absurd, Lipstick Shamaness, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Sexuality, Sideshow Siren & Bearded Lady, Star F*#ker, Style & Fashion, Technicolor Pop, Top 2% of Coolest Mofos with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2010 by alphabetfiend

   I didn’t watch the VMAs but, periodically glancing down at my iphone screen, I saw that twitter was all a-twitter over Lady Gaga’s meat dress.     

(Yes, IPhone, yes Twitter. Groan. “Long Story,” sighs The Lusty Luddite.)    

    

But no one was saying the obvious which was “OMG! Gaga’s gone real life Ryden!”    

Check out that white flaxen hair!

  

Being the selfish little writer-chick that I am I decided to save my “OMG!” for y’all. Except then I couldn’t get online for the umpteenth time (boy, the free wifi from my next door coffee shop sho’ ain’t whut it used ta be.) By the next morning, several people were pointing it out, including Ryden himself. (On Twitter. Hence Twitter.)    

    

Look, no one’s calling Gaga a Ryden rip-off or at least I’m not. It’s still super cool & mad genius. Once again, Lady Gaga used costume as an artistic and spiritual medium; stirring our own frockful fantasies; probing own throbbing architectures of mythos & meaning. So yea, it was pretty much awesome. After all, the girl in “Incarnation” isn’t a real-life girl with stepped-one toes. She was a fantasy, up for the taking.    

Gaga plucked that sucker from the tree of meaning and took a big juicy bite. Oh, wait, let’s try that again. >>I’m a bit rusty due to my recent sabBRATtical. << Gaga fillet’d that fucker from the flank of id and toothesomely tore off a hunk of bloody flesh.    

    

It was brilliant, really, I loved it, except… well, it would’ve been much cooler if she had given Ryden a big old “Yea, baby!” shout-out rather than mumbling some vague, tired shit about feeling like a piece of meat or being seen as a commodity or bla bla bla. Shaaaad up, Lady Bla Bla.    

    

Look, the whole feminism “feeling like a piece of meat” thing, I get it. I just don’t buy it. Not from Gaga.    

Lady Gaga is an absolute expert at letting her meat hang out. If she were really troubled — feeling like a piece of ass — she’d probably cover that ass.     

     

Nah, I think it’s much more likely that Lady Gaga, just like the rest of us, has spent hours agog and drooling over Ryden’s paintings, searching for ourselves from among his feminine archetypes.    

    

I’ve often blamed Ryden’s meat paintings on pop culture’s current carnivorous phase. At the store, as customers went nuts over steak bath-mats and bacon band-aids, I’d just chuckle at Ryden’s far-reaching influence. People may not know that Ryden’s the reason they’re craving meaty gewgaws but he is.    

Mark Ryden put meat on the muther-fuckin’ map. Mark Ryden made meat cool.    

I dunno but I’ve heard that if you wanna get more followers on Twitter, you need only name-drop bacon.    

And vagina.    

And penis.    

And there, folks, is all you really need to know about WHY we are so obsessed with meat.    

    

We are meat. Sometimes we forget that we’re meat. And sometimes we long to remember.    

    

Mark Ryden probes that soft, bloody, fleshy place inside of us. And we…respond.    

    

Lady Gaga wasn’t saying “How dare you treat me like a piece of meat!” Puh-leeze. She was shouting, “Hey, everybody, look at me! I’m meaty!”    

"Broken Label" with Mark Ryden

  

Gaga was acting on an impulse that wasn’t as wholly original as many non-Ryden fans might think. In 2009, freaky fashion blogger Tatianista gave voice to that Grade A urge.    

How utterly fabulous would it be for an underground fashionista like myself to have wearable meat a la Ryden to add to my ever-growing, glamorously eccentric wardrobe? So fab, in fact, that someone far more clever thought of it long before I did.    

Tatianista waxed poetic about the Nagi Noda / Mark Ryden collaboration, which launched Noda’s “Broken Label.”    

The first and only collaborative fashion collection the two artists produced…will likely be as highly collectible as just about anything else Ryden has produced…even more-so now that Noda, whose broad body of work included everything from popular music videos and commercials to sculpture, conceptual art and “hair hats” died tragically young last year. She left this world wearing her favorite Chanel boots, Victor and Rolf black lace eyelashes and one of her own Mark Ryden dresses.    

In February of this year (2010) the prescient Schadenfreude Pony declared of the meat dress in Ryden’s “Incarnation”    

GaGa will be wearing it next week.    

Unlike Tatianista and Gaga, I’ve never felt an enormous need to wear a meat dress. I’ve always been more into Ryden’s more mythic maidens, all filled-up from the inside with story & secrets.    

    

 I was obsessed for a time with creating a t-bone steak clutch, perfect accessory for the LBD, but was too lazy and never got around to making it.    

    

The ground chuck bag was a Ryden collab with Paul Frank. I’m not sure who did the pork slab but isn’t it the ideal briefcase for bringin’ home the bacon?    

    

My someday steak purse would not be a real t-bone, of course, cause I can barely stomach raw meat when preparing it for the grill (and my stomach.) My meaty fashion forays would be more figurative than real life soon-to-be rotting flesh.    

    

Such as these folks did for a Mark Ryden opening. (She’s in stilts, I think, which is all kinds of circusy spectacular)    

Man in a meat at Mark Ryden show

  

Though I give Gaga big props for keeping it real. I mean, look at these shoes.    

    

They look like they’re ready for the oven not the VMAs.    

    

One sultry June night in Toledo, I met my friend Dan McGuire — my Precocious Dandy — at a gritty east-side club. Dan was joining a local band, The Porn Flakes, on-stage. As a steak. All 6 feet and 5 inches of Dan had disappeared into a giant foam-rubber t-bone. Back stage, in the tiny yard behind the club, Dan stripped outta the steak and changed into a giant cow.  I dropped down onto the discarded steak, lounging like it was a carne-chaise. In a tiny pinkey-orange sundress & pink boa, with a nice marmaladey tan, I was feeling pretty luxurious, pretty damn cheeky. Things were going great, until one of the Porn Flakes began to eye me hungrily.    

“What?” I playfully glowered. “What am I? Just a piece of meat?”    

“I dunno, nah,” he drooled, “But you sure do look like a golden, buttery mushroom to me mmm.”    

“Hey, hey! ” Dan hollered. “That’ll be enough of that. Have a little fuckin’ respect, why don’tya?   

While Dan railed and ranted — protectively, possevively — I lounged extra lasciviously on my meat chaise. I batted my lashes as Dan hurried to pack his things. I smirked as he reached for my hand, yanking me up, pulling me away from those perverted Porn Flakes. I giggled as I caught up with his long aggravated strides, glancing back at my starving admirer. Then I leaned lovingly into Dan’s sturdy ribs as we ran excitedly down the dirty street, a trail of pink feathers behind us.    

*All paintings/art by the crazy gorgeous genius Mark Ryden. Check out his dot.com  

*For another meaty anecdote, read “Ham, I Am”

Grieving Harvey Pekar

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Books & Writing, Cinema & Filmmaking, Fame & Celebrity, I Heart Funny Fellas, Movies & Movie Stars, Technicolor Pop with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 16, 2010 by alphabetfiend

That brilliant pecker, Harvey Pekar, died this week. Bummer.

Pekar was the author of the auto-bio comic “American Splendor” (which was made into a great film of the same name.)

He was also a frequent R. Crumb collaborator.

Harvey Pekar was 70 and yet it feels too soon.

I always feel profound sadness when extraordinary talent departs the planet Earth.

I hate to see Harvey go but maybe now he’ll get to experience a whole new expanse of splendor.

Roam in peace, Pekar. You’ll be missed.

Check out this radio interview with Pekar.

“Cinderella” Dies at 81

Posted in Cinema & Filmmaking, Fame & Celebrity, Movies & Movie Stars, Mythos, Romance, Style & Fashion, Technicolor Pop, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 7, 2010 by alphabetfiend

OK, don’t freak out — Cinderella didn’t die because Cinderella shall live forever in Technicolor.

Ilene Woods died at 81. Ilene Woods was the voice — speaking & singing — of Cinderella in the Disney classic.

Woods was just 18 when Walt cast her as Cinderella, beating out 400 hopefuls for the coveted part. The fellas who wrote the lyrics for the feature film were friends of Ilene Woods — songwriters Mack David and Jerry Livingston — and so Woods sang in the demos that were submitted to Disney. Walt liked what he heard and gave Woods the part. How exciting that must’ve been!

I wanna be a cartoon!

I wanna end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard.

When I got my boobs & hips overnight, taking on a pronounced hour-glass shape of near fetishistic proportions, I was immediately hailed as “Betty Boop” by all the boys (much to my dad’s dismay.) The Boop thing continues to this day but before that, I was called “Cinderelli” by my father. If I felt the least bit put upon or taken for granted (as the oldest of six, I often had cause to feel grumbly) Dad would mercilessly tease me in sing-song, “Wash the dishes, Cinderelli! Fold the linens, Cinderelli! Sweep the hearth, Cinderelli! Serve us stew, Cinderelli!”

Only I had no mice or birds to make me gowns of cast away gewgaws. O woe! I want mice and birds! I want a perfectly drawn up-do. I want a pumpkin carriage.

I want GLASS SLIPPERS, the most dreamy and absurd accessory of all. As silly as the diamond-soled shoes that Paul Simon sang of, “People say she’s crazy, she got diamonds on the soles of her shoes, well that’s one way to lose these walking blues. Diamonds on the soles of her shoes!”

Yes, I wanna be the itty-bitty specimen of footly perfection that slips, effortlessly, into that magical high-heel.

It looks like Woods had a real-life pair of glass slippers! (She’s posing with the heels in the above photo.) Lucky lucky cartoon lady.

Ilene Woods said that the best part about playing Cinderella in the timeless classic was that her children (and her children’s children and so on) would be able to connect with her long after she parted.

I wonder if they’ve watched the film since her death on July 1st.

Maybe their hearts are still too raw for that.

Like Janet Jackson was, after Michael Jackson died, when the film “This Is It” was in theatres. Janet refused to see the film, citing her grief and a lack of readyness. Someday, she said, Not yet. Not now.

After my Dad died we continued to pay his cell bill, for months, because we couldn’t give up the comfort of that phone number. We’d call the number just to hear his voice on the message. It was kind of like pushing a big purple bruise, flinching, ouch, and then you push it again. When I finally decided to disconnect the phone, I checked his voicemail one last time and was astounded to find that calls had been pouring in, at all hours of the day and night, from family, friends, kids, cousins, nephews, even his dry-cleaner/tailor who had once turned the flag my dad stole from the post-office into a subversively patriotic shirt. It took me forever to listen to all the messages, as people spoke to him with desperate yearning.

How could you do this to me, Paul? asked one friend, You sonofabitch asshole cocksucker. Why’d you leave me here alone?

Losing a loved one is never easy. I can only imagine how hard it would be if your mother was CINDERELLA. Maybe it is too soon for Ilene’s family to cuddle on the couch and watch as Cinderella enchants Prince Charming. But someday they will and Woods is right, that film will be a gift that keeps on giving.

Bon Voyage, Cinder-Ilene! I hope you are traveling by coach. I hope the journey is magical and Technicolor and glorious. I hope you are wearing your glass slippers.

 

**For more info, see Animation Magazine.  **“I wanna end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard”  is from “You Can Call me Al,” yet another song by Paul Simon.

Silverman Gives the Word “Diva” a XXX Smackdown (adult content)

Posted in Fame & Celebrity, Fur Reals, I Heart Funny Femmes with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend

 

Fine. Wave off yer ignorance with a flick of your plastic talons.

Cause you gotta have yer way cause yer a diva. 

Well, bitch, then you had better be able to belt out an aria.

 

Luckily, I’m no longer alone in my aggravation cause once again Sarah Silverman says what we’re all thinking. This time, in song. 

If you call yourself a diva, you better be a singer, and not somebody cutting me in line. 

If you call yourself a diva, you better sing a solo, and not be someone treating me unkind.

I kinda wanna purchase that patch — “Crossword Diva League” — cause it’s cool enough with the curvy lady and the old skool look. I kinda wanna stitch it on my engineers cap cause I love crossword puzzles and I want the world to know it. However, I don’t want the world to think I’m a stupid bitch. And so you see my dilemma. No self-respecting crossword freakette could call herself a diva, not when she’s faced twice daily with the word’s true meaning. When the clue involves the word “diva” then the answer always has to do with opera and never with self-entitled bitchery.
Look up “diva” in the dictionary. The word applies to female operatic stars or (more recently) it extends to distinguished female singers who are long time legendary power houses like Aretha Franklin or Diana Ross. Sure there’s the prima donna addendum but who wants that? Who wants to be a mere pain-in-the-ass post-script?
Down with those bitches who call themselves Divas — excusing a lack of manners with a word that is supposed to denote a presence of talent.

Wearing leopard print does not make you a diva.

Neither does your rhinestone-crusted blackberry.

And that glitter graphic on your myspace page? Gulp. Please no! Not another one!

What does make you a diva?

Well, do you have an absolutely legendary ability to sing your fucking ass off? Have you taken a bow as the curtain closed at the Met? Does the crowd roar and send thorny roses hurling to the stage like arrows shot from Eros’ bow?

No? Then you’re no diva. 

 

Now this fabulous bitch, she’s a damn diva. (Yes, that’s right. Divas can be bitches but bitches aren’t divas.)

People are always shining me on with the word “Diva” (as a compliment or as an explanation for my tiara) but I don’t take a shine to it. I sing in the car, with the top down and the volume up, and I sing loud. But I’m not the fat lady y’all are waiting on.

Sing it, Sarah!

If you call yourself a diva, it better be for reals, and not just some sad pathetic kind of front.

You’re selfish and your thoughtless and you’re broken and you’re heartless.

You’re probably not a diva, you’re a cunt.

Wish I Had One-na Dem Willy Braids

Posted in country music, Dork Alert, Fame & Celebrity, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Star F*#ker, Style & Fashion, The wisdom of the universe, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend

D’you hear the news about Willie and the missing piggies? Yep. He snipped ’em. Willie without braids? What is the world coming to?

 I had a dream around the turn of the millenium, amid all the doomsday mumbo jumbo, that the world was coming to and end… except that it was more of a Michio-Kaku-style metamorphoses or Fred-Allan-Wolf-type transformation. Like Wolf’s idea that the universe has been expanding ever since the Big Bang but will start shrinking eventually and… yea, anyway, back to Willie. In the dream, my friend Rita (a talented psychic) had a pub, where she’d called a special meeting for people who were supposed to help “save the world” (more like guide the world through its rebirth.) Rita was a fine hostess/bar-maid, taking drink orders & zipping around the pub in a pedal surrey with a fringe awning. (Real life Rita, in true shamaness style, was a childhood victim of polio. So my un-consc’ gave her a more fittingly glamorous wheel chair.) The pub had a frenetic bustling energy as people summoned their muster and opened their third eyes. Willie called the meeting to order. I wasn’t surprised to see him with the conch.

Whether savior or city-icon, this is BIG news here in Austin. In our neck of the woods we consider Willie’s smooth nape to be our business.

There was some initial speculation that Willie took to the say-lon so that he might save the gulf with a crimped contribution to the hair boom project. Thank Goof that wasn’t true! Don’t get me wrong, I used the hair booms as an excuse to take my baby wookie to the groomer and I felt righteous doin’ it. Hey, wookie’s  are fur-bombs.

I even have an appointment to see my own stylist next week cause well, we all gotta do our part.

I wanna believe in the whole hair boom thing and I kinda do. But it hasn’t been implemented on the gulf although I hear they’ve had luck in the past. I didn’t want Willie to have cut his braids for some bullshit thing we’re doing just to make ourselves feel better and justify wookie grooming.

The best reason for Willie to cut his trademark tresses is because that’s what Willie wants. Which was the case. I suspected as much. Long hair is a pain in the arse. I saw that infomercial guy on 60 minutes a couple Sundays back and he said he’d love to cut his stupid ponytail but can’t ’cause,  like sex, ponytails sell.

No matter. Willie’s the Big Kahuna whether he’s got braids or not. I’m supportive. Chopping off one’s locks can be an act of freedom.

I only wish that I could have just one of the famous plaits. I’d attach it to the end of a whittled birch limb, joined by a cluster of cardinal feathers and ribbons like kite-tails. I’d bathe the whole gris gris in silver glitter & Eshu spit. It’d be one hell of a talisman — capable of big and small majicks.

Willy! Gimmee gimmee!

If not to further my power as high priestess of tom-foolery, if not in sacrifice to the Saint of Red-Headed Step-Children, then it should go to The Country Music Hall of Fame. Or even the Smithsonian. Can I hear an AMEN?

Willie looks like he joined the cast of Gilligan’s Island but he’ll be much more comfortable in the heat of the Texas summer.

I wonder if Willie’s piggies tried to cry wee wee wee all the way home….

Aniston Gives Letterman her GQ Nudie-Spread Necktie

Posted in Fame & Celebrity, Star F*#ker with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“Well you know what they say about guys with short ties.” — David Letterman

Jennifer Aniston was on David Letterman last night. They discussed her recent birthday suit photo shoot for GQ magazine, at which point Jen presented Dave with a tie box — inside was the tie that barely covered Jen on GQ’s sexy cover.

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The tie is damn sexy as ties go — whether it was on a naked Aniston or not. Kinda patriotic meets Brit punk. Unfortunately, the tie was too short for Letterman… either that or he had it tied that way for extra laughs. I felt bad for Jen cause she was so giddy over the gift and then he was rather ungracious. And really guys, let’s be honest, it’s plenty long (and plenty silky) enough to wrap it around your nuts & wiener for a little tug and moan.

It was hot how Dave started stripping and put the tie on right then and there. Too bad he had to be dickish when it didn’t fit. Though the Robot Boy does not think he was dickish so I maybe I’m just over-sensitive.

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