Archive for the Fur Reals Category

My Mask Reveals (Transmuting Miss Van)

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Shaman*Art, Lipstick Shamaness, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Sexuality, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Personally, I like masks year ’round and have been known to don a mask & a tight-as-fuck punk tee for a regular (tho rockin’) night out. However, most humans deem Halloween (& Carnivale) to be the only “appropriate” times to don a mask. For freaks like me, October (& February) are nice times to stock up. 

I never expected to be the tattooed lady — even made it through my 20’s with just one bottle-cap crown — but then I fell in love with the Spanish/French graffiti artist Miss Van. By a stroke of kismet, I met Tina Forever, a gifted tattoo artist capable of transmuting the Miss Van magic. Now I say that my body is an inky Parisian alleyway. I regret that I don’t have more flesh to commit to inky renderings of Miss Van’s masked darlings. Every time I turn around, I’m falling in love with another one and wondering where on my body, she might feel at home.

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Hedwig’s “Origin of Love” (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Movies & Movie Stars, Music & Life & Sundays, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Romance, Romance & Relationships, Spirituality & Religion, Style & Fashion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Technicolor Pop, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Last time I saw you, we had just split in two.
You were looking at me. I was looking at you
.

We are always finding something once lost or newly discovered: some elusive idea, fragment of self, new friend, old friend, tribe member, ally, totem, trickster, co-inventor, muse, fellow hero, soul mate.

This search may be the very point of being born to this planet, of being given this skin.

Life is a lost & found.

We have our third eyes pealed, on the sacred look-out for our fellow mutants. We piece our lives together like legos. We sew the tattered bits of our selves into a kaleidoscopic crazy quilt. We wait to meet the pieces we lost. Our owies are eased as things fall in place. Everyone is engaged in this secret vision quest, everyone one is on alert. We’re hoping to heal the mysterious hurt. 

On the look out, always.

Origin of Love

When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.

The origin of love

And there were three sexes then,
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back,
Called the children of the sun.
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth.
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one.
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son.

The origin of love

Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said,
“I’m gonna kill them all
With my hammer,
Like I killed the giants.”
And Zeus said, “No,
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors,
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards.”
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh,
Said, “I’ll split them right down the middle.
Gonna cut them right up in half.”
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire

And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife.
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth.
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole,
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay.
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane,
To scatter us away,
In a flood of wind and rain,
And a sea of tidal waves,
To wash us all away,
And if we don’t behave
They’ll cut us down again
And we’ll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye.

Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That’s the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It’s the story of
The origin of love.
That’s the origin of love.

I first saw Hedwig & The Angry Inch on stage — at The Shim Sham Club in New Orleans — and it was absolutely, indisputably magical.

Even the Robot loved it and he mostly loathes musicals.

We were so impressed by that Hedwig-Live experience that we were skeptical of the film. At first. But fear not, the movie managed to keep the magic intact.

“Sometimes grace and hope come in surprising packages. The title character of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, a would-be glam-rock star from East Germany, undergoes a botched gender-change operation in order to escape from the Soviet bloc, only to watch the Berlin Wall come down on TV after being abandoned in a trailer park in middle America.  Writer-director-star John Cameron Mitchell packs an astonishing mix of sadness, yearning, humor, and kick-ass songs with a little Platonic philosophy tucked inside for good measure. A visually dazzling gem of a movie.” (Bret Fetzer)

If you get the chance to see a stage version, jump at it. Even if it’s put on by 6 year olds. Especially if it’s performed by 6 year olds!

If you haven’t seen the film, well, you really should schedule some inspirational “me” time.

Mix up some cocktails. Rat your best wig. It’s high time for Hedwig. 

Have fun!

The film Hedwig & The Angry Inch, with John Cameron Mitchell (writer, director & star) is  available on amazon. So is the soundtrack.

Authors note: This is not the real punk rock gospel for this week. It’s a repost meant to reward you for your support. It’s merely meant to tide you over until I can post today’s intended PRG, which mysteriously disappeared from the screen at 4:28 am. I was writing the PRG (more of a love letter really) when we went off line. While waiting to get back online, I tweaked the sucker for 2 hours and ended up with a fabu finished product. Which I was liable to lose if I couldn’t get back onto wordpress. (I know! I know! I need no lecture. I get it. I waz the stupidz. They don’t call me the Lusty Luddite for nothin’!) Craving wi-fi, I crept out into the dark sreets — a vamp-cyber gently carrying an open computer to the parking lot of a shuttered coffee shop. Hooray! Houston, we have contact. I uploaded an image — something I’ve done countless times — and every bit of text just escaped into the ether. WTF?? Is it due to wordpress’ brand spankin’ new image/gallery widgetty whatucallits? What the hell happened??? No sign of it in revisions either, only an early draft. It’s just gone. Oh, I’m bummed. And stunned. Anyway, I’m gonna go back to the key board! But it will now have to wait until Monday. In the meantime, let Hedwig heal your irk (and mine) with her spiritual, romantic fairytale. *Originally posted on October 12, 2008*

Last time I saw you, we had just split in two.
You were looking at me. I was looking at you.”

*Painting By Genevieve Crotz.*

via Cream Scene Carnival

What’cha Gonna Do About It?

Posted in Fur Reals, punk rock, Rock & Roll with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Small faces, secret mohawks…

The song “What’cha Gonna Do About It” by The Small Faces is so punk rock! Especially considering that it dates back to the incense & peppermints of 1965. (The original BBC recording rocks much harder than the more radio-friendly American version.)

The song is the size of a fist and packs a big emotional punch.

I want you to know that I love you, baby
want you to know that I care
I’m so happy when you’re ’round me
but I’m sad when you’re not there

what’cha gonna do about it?

I want you to give me your sweet sweet kisses
want you to hold me tight
I want you to come whenever I call you
and let me walk you home at night

what’cha gonna do about it?

Such a sweet little co-dependent love song…

You hafta wonder if maybe the singer oughtta just get a dog. Canines come when called and they’re always up for walks!

I love those old-school rock & roll challenges. McCartney howling on the Beatles’ White Album, “Why don’t we do it in the road?” Or Union Carbide’s Ebbot Lundberg daring us to ring his bell.  

If you want me all you hafta do is try ta ring my bell! Ring my bell ring my bell ring my bell ring my bell! Ding dong ding ding dong ding dong ding ding dong.

Makes me wanna get naked in the dark and go down on my lover beneath a glowing street lamp. Makes me wanna ring that fucker’s bell like I’m banging Marc Bolan’s gong. Hell yea! Get it on! Bang a gong! Get it on!

Speaking of my loverly Ebbot, I dug up this awesome footage of Union Carbide performing  “Ring My Bell” in 1988.

Ebbot’s just a kid in the video: all shirtless, thuggish, writhing and sexy as shit. Damn!  TSOOL fans will be surprised to see Lundberg looking so very different from his current Soundtrack of Our Lives incarnation: tunic clad, Buddha belly, guru delivery. Hey, I’m not dismayed, no way. A few extra pounds is just more to love when it comes to geniuses like Jim, Elvis, or Ebbot. My rockstars are welcome to get as fat and as furry as they fucking like.

I love Ebbott as is but it’s still pretty cool seeing him — in motion — as a young punk. Those pounds, those years, they’ve been kind. He still dances with that same snaky gleam.

Heaven Makes Some People Horny (adult content)

Posted in Buxom Goo Goo, Fur Reals, In Celebration of the Absurd, Sex & XXX, Sexuality, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 5, 2010 by alphabetfiend

I once knew a kinky slut who wanted to be fucked by Jesus.

To a certain extent, I can dig it. I did have a HUGE thing for the Lizard King, even with his grizzly madman christ-poet beard. I wrote a poem about going down on Gustav Klimt and I dry-humped Amelia Earhart in one very lovely dream. I was building some kind of steampunk orgasmatron in an old barn when Amelia was forced to crash land her silver airplane in the field out yonder. Humps & hi-jinks ensued.  But that chick, with her particular kind of “jesus trip,” she wasn’t being all sassy and symbolic and referential. It wasn’t even about irreverence. She wanted to be Mrs. Jesus Christ or, fail that, then she’d have been happy just to feel his warm jizz on her face. 

As weird as that chick was, she wasn’t really all that weird. There’s plenty of freaks who wanna get their freak on with Jesus H. Or Krishna. Or the Buddha. Personally, I’d rather get syphilis from Baudelaire. My crushes are more deviant than divine. But for some, it doesn’t get much better than up high. How’s the saying go? Once you go holy, you never go lonely?  Religion and sex have knocked boots plenty. They go way back. Think Zeus with his penchant for mortals. Picture Pan — watching from the shore as maidens romp merrily in the crick, a vision that has caused an uproar in his fetid nether-region. Trance out to the swan-song of St. Teresa as she ecstatically rejoices. Damn, she loves those flaming arrows.

We’ve been boinking the gods and the gods have been booty-callin’ us ever since creation. Ever since there was an us to dream gods up. Ever since there were gods to form us from the dirt like golems. We each depend on the other for existence — we each create the other — and where there’s creation, there’s sex.

Where there’s pollen, there’s bees.

Now we can be both deviant & divine

So why am I surprised to find that a company like Divine Interventions is creating products like these? Holy holes!

Finally, a crucifix that you can safely stick up in ya! For those in need of an exorcist, this day could not come soon enough.

Me, I’d rather bless myself with the Virgin Mary… which I’d order in a spiritual hue, such as violet or prayer-robe blue. But you, you might prefer to bury “The Diving Nun” like you were smuggling Gulliver. Or maybe you’re dying to punish Judas for his sins. Bad bad bad boy. If your sacrilege has eastern leanings, then you’ll wanna use Buddha’s belly to wiggle your jiggle like a bowl full o’ spermicide jelly. 

That’s right, sinners, there’s something here for everyone! Every heathen under the red hot sun. Yes, that means you, you jew. You too can have Moses deliver you to promised land.  

For that special brand of anal-retentive weirdo (or for collectors of absurd ephemera, such as myself) there’s “The baby Jesus butt plug.”

Oh, yes, we’re all going straight to hell.

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.

“Be yer own fur, yer own gold” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog)

Posted in Art & Culture, Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Mermaids, Music & Life & Sundays, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“And swans, they wrestled with lifetime’s grasp
In hopefullness they nestled the past
Teachers and travellers made their mark
They dined and feasted on whale and shark’
— Seal Jubilee (Bats for Lashes; Fur and Gold)

Natasha Khan is a Priestess of Play

Natasha Khan is a Priestess of Play

Bats for Lashes… no, it’s not a magic spell scrolled inside a vial of fox blood, nor the tipsy title of a haiku scrawled on a cocktail napkin, nor the “magic words” should you encounter the Wizard of Odd in a dusky maze of roses.  Well, best to keep it in mind.  Natasha Khan is more than songstress, she’s shamaness.  At first sight of Khan in feathers & rainbow glitter, my forehead prickled and my chakras tickled. I ogled her with my third eye.  I’d drink her purple kool-aid!  In big thirsty gulps. We need more DIY spirituality these days. Like Leary’s idea about creating you own religion & then re-creating it before the spark becomes dogma. Glamour has its place in that. Front and center! Chiffon & feathers, jeweled top hat, gold lame slippers with up-turned gypsy toes. I know! I’ll get ordained by an oily seal and then I’ll do weddings.  Anyone getting hitched?  We can all bury our noses in bone china teacups overflowing with sugar — to remind us of life’s delicous absurdity. Then we’ll do the Robot while I read aloud the lyrics from “Seal Jubillee.”

Seal Jubilee :
The seals, they cried in jubilee
The sharks, they howled along with me
And birds, they flew into the wind
The whale, he roamed the lonely sea

And I dived into you
I dived into you
On this ocean hue
‘Cause I dived into you

The lighthouse dog lifted his brow
The crippled trees bent low to growl
And swans, they wrestled with lifetime’s grasp
In hopefullness they nestled the past
Teachers and travellers made their mark
They dined and feasted on whale and shark
And so the ocean lost its depths
And boredom rained as the ocean wept

Birds they raised their young for dead
And ladies used feathery pillows for bed
And black snow came and black snow stayed
And froze the ocean out of love
Out of love

I lay quiet, next to you
Transformed a whole
Transformed anew
No longer diving into
But lying quiet next
To you

As if Natasha Khan’s haunting voice and priestly sleight of hand weren’t enough on this September Sunday,  the song’s set to scenes from the VISION QUEST of a film “The Secret of Roan Inish” which just slays me with its mythic beauty. The story of the selkie, a slick Ink of a mer-lass. Watch as she slithers from her seal skin! Now make like selkie and explore the boundries of your skin (skins.)  Push past, walk with wiggly legs unaccustomed to earth; then dive back in like a Selkie who missed her whiskers & sheen. 

Get outta yer skins, then get back in.  Mind your rind.  Be your own fur, your own gold.  Goof bless. 

“I lay quiet, next to you
Transformed a whole
Transformed anew”


Join me next week for another Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog…

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — a writer & wanna-be circus freak living in Austin, Texas.

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