Archive for the I Heart Friends Category

A Slow-Mo Wednesday on WordPress

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Books & Writing, Friendship, I Heart Friends, I Heart Funny Fellas, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 1, 2010 by alphabetfiend

It was a slow, rainy day in Mississippi, which I craved after the chaotic heat of the last few weeks. The Robot asked if I wanted to drink beer on Magazine Street and I said no no no. No Nola today, not for me.

I was too exhausted from blowing the blooms offa roses like they waz fuzzy dandelions. I was too zapped from biting my tongue while my best friend talked crazy talk, just nodding my head when she said he waz her soulmate. I was over-wrought from bawling my eyes out on the porch steps cause crazy makes no fuckin’ sense but there’s no way to say it so there’s nothing to do but cry. I figgered she’d get there herself and she did.

She sez “Oh, the blooms off, it’s flat-out gone. Someone came along and blew it off, sent petals flying everywhere, and it was YOU!” And little trickster me, why I’ve never been prouder, even though her realization had her packing up a whole week early. After she pulled out, I crawled into bed and CRASHED. I slept for 12 hours, woke up, ate breakfast and then went back to sleep for another 4 hours. Now I’m curled up with the canine trinity and happy as hell to be here and not on Magazine Street.

On the plus side, I won’t be getting in trouble for my big mouth (again) because she does not read this. She reads everything I’ve ever written but not this. The very mention of wordpress or Cream Scene Carnival or bliggety-blog-blabla is enough to have her rolling her eyes as she stubs out her cig with ragged impatience. I said I was in an introspective writerly place and her face lit up, “Fiction?”  When I said no, her face fell like an avalanche. I’m so lucky, I know, to have someone champion my work. For 18 years, she’s been my biggest fan, but she hates this and hasn’t hesitated to say so. Why? Hmmm. She thinks it’s below me, that it’s a waste of my precious time, that it will lead nowhere (or rather, it won’t lead to her being able to see me on the shelves of your local Barnes & Noble and therefore, it’s going nowhere.) She thinks some asshole will stumble on my writing, either here or elsewhere on wordpress where I’ve posted the first 20 chapters of a novel in first draft (Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense) and that they will steal my stuff and use it to get where I should be going. I’d write it off as total paranoia but she’s been right about assholes before. She’s got a nose for assholes (this week not withstanding.)

I should be ecstatic that someone cares enough to obsessively worry like my friend does… and I am. Sorta. It’s odd being griped at for not writing when writing is all I’m doing these days. She feels I’ve got a gift for fiction and that fiction is where I belong. Fiction is my first love, my true love, but even at 10 yrs old I knew I wanted to master other forms of writing. I always expected to write everything from poetry to free-lance magazine columns/articles, from love letters to graffiti…. Cream Scene Carnival is representative of that creative mish-mash. Maybe if she took a real look at CSS she’d see “ME” in it and chill, but probably not. Like her, the word “blog” makes me bristle. Something about it seems not quite right… not quite “write.” I don’t really consider CSS a blog so much as a digital zine. If I “made it” as a blogger but not as a writer, I’d be devastated and then dead from all the I told you so’s. Which is not to say that I don’t think real quality writing is happening within the blog-o-sphere. Maybe it’s just about linguistics and literary pretension.

Still, I’m proud to be a Cream Scene carnie these days and grateful for all the support I’ve gotten from the people I’ve met through wordpress. I’m energized by the back and forth, the intimacy, and the immediacy of being able to knock something out and put it up to be read right that minute. I love how I never know what’s gonna make an impact and so I’m always surprised. I totally dig my dash — all the searches, the pathways people took to get to me, and sometimes to get back to me which is even better. It’s starting to happen where everyday someone is searching for “Cream Scene Carnival” in particular or else “Dia VanGunten writer/circus freak” or “TV sex carnival Dia Van” or some other variation on either my name, the site name or a specific post title. That never used to happen and now that it has, I’m paying close attention. 

I once got 900 hits in just one day for a post about Amy Poehler and Will Arnett’s first born. I’m a fan of both and so I was watching SNL and then on the late-late news, they said that Poehler had gone straight to the hospital from her final night on SNL, which had just aired. I giddily typed it up, never expecting the onslaught of views. It was timely, because it was late on a Saturday night/early on a Sunday morn and I was up anyway trying to get the punk rock gospel up for my “congregation” of misfit mystics. I ended up being one of the first to report it, even before Hollywood gossip sites, so I was top o’ google and still get hits for that post 2 years later. I’ve slaved over other posts — masterpieces in comparison, well thought-out, finely-crafted writing wise and typo-free — but they’ve been viewed by one very reliable reader and I always know it’s him cause he hops over from his own wordpress dash. I don’t mind either way. Really, to be honest, I write for myself first and then for that RELIABLE ONE… it’s all gravy after that. Lately, it’s looking like I have a reliable few and that’s cool too. Very.

In regard to my expectations for myself or the expectations that others have for me (see more of the above) — it’s those specific searches that most thrill me. It’s one thing to get lottsa hits as one person after another stumbles upon you because you’ve done a good job of staying current and guessing on that next big thing or even inventing that next big thing (in the case of one of my notorious top posts.) But it’s another thing entirely to be searched out, either because they’ve read you before and they dug it, or because they’ve heard from someone whose taste they trust that there’s something kinda freaky-deeky goin’ on over at “Cream Scene Carnival” and so they take the time to google and then to read. You end up with readers both ways but with the latter, you can see it happening and that’s a blast.

     
Lusty Luddite Looking to Seduce Lonely S 21 More stats
Home page 9 More stats
True Blood Theme Song: “Bad Things” by J 7 More stats
Peggy Hill in Flint’s Palin Porn: hot XX 4 More stats
Hot Mummy Love is Some Sexy Ass Gentle 2 More stats
Showtime’s Californication Makes My Brai 2 More stats
Tina Fey as Palin: “Not Afraid to get Ma 2 More stats
Baby Jesus Butt Plug (A real thing!) *Ad 2 More stats
About the Ringleader 2 More stats
Tryin’ To Make It Real Compared To What? 2 More stats
Swimming Pool Mermaid 2 More stats
Elvin Bishop’s “Fishin'” (Sunday AM Punk 1 More stats
My Sexual Custody 1 More stats
Peggy Hill to Star in Palin Porn? 1

A slow day in Mississippi, a slow day on wordpress, 58 views in all. I  love the goofy google poems that randomly rearrange everyday…. it’s like a window into meaning and culture. Here at wordpress we have these magical spaceship dashboards that give us a glimpse into the minds of human beings. What are people loving, laughing at, lusting after? What are they wondering about or wishing for?

I did a post a while back about the word “Diva” and how it’s been co-opted by obnoxious women with sparkly fingernails and I posted a clip of Sarah Silverman singing, “If you call yourself a diva, it better be for reals, and not just some sad pathetic kind of front…You’re probably not a diva, you’re a cunt.” She’d performed it in NYC for a storytelling thang which I’d listened to on pod-cast but no one had heard it outside of this small audience and no one cared a whip about my post. Until last Wednesday, when she must’ve played it on some late night talk show or something cause suddenly the cunt-diva searches came rolling in.

I have a couple posts about the amazing mofo comic Mike O’Connell of Million Dollar Strong and the hits are paltry but I fully expect to open my laptop someday and see it lit up & blinking like a white tinsel christmas tree.

I find it’s fun to anticipate the future obsessions of others and to be privy to their proclivities at present.

steampunk 22
tina fey 2
creme scene carnival 4
i wanna do bad things to you true blood 2
xxx carnival 2
janeane garofalo sexy 1
king of the porn peggy 1
bride frankenstein tattoo 1
hank hill porn 1
larry flint palin 1
tina fey’s wedgie 1
hot sexy mummies 1
peggy hill porn 1
true blood do bad things to you 1
camille rose garcia 1
true blood theme song 1
i dont know what you’ve done to me but i 1
californication 1
elvin bishop fishin 1
but i know this much is true; i wanna do 1
tumescent cock

I must say that I’m feelin’ pretty damn cheeky over the hilariously absurd collection of searches that show up on my dash. I’ve never written about Tina Fey’s wedgie and yet there it is, no nonsense white cotton panties all up in Fey’s yummy bizness. Mmmm. And “Janeane Garofalo sexy”??? Oh hell yea! Lately steampunks can’t get enough of the Lusty Luddite while the rumor I started about Peggy Hill starring in Flint’s Palin porn is finally beginning to slow down. The very talented artist Camille Rose Garcia is another sexy bitch that I’m proud to see on my dash. I’ve never written about a Bride of Frankenstein tattoo although I’m all inked up and was once the bride for Halloween. Funny story:

The following day was a Saturday and I was certain that people would still be celebrating so the Robot and I kept our wigs on as “Frank & Bride on their Honeymoon.” I wore a sheer ghosty nightie with black lace & garters showing through with marabou feather boudoir slippers. I also carried a little pink suitcase. But the Bot was the best with a green tee and green tights under his boxers and a BIG GREEN DILDO sticking outta his boxers like a franken’ woody. AWESOME! I was wrong, no one else was dressed up, but we did get in to see the band for free.

Perhaps, hearing about the giant green monster hard-on, it’s no surprise to you that I am especially proud of the “Tumescent Cock” search as well as “XXX Carnival.” I am certain that those Brits looking for “Hot Sexy Mummies” (that’s MILFs to you Yanks) are beyond disappointed to find actual bandage-bound mummies who’ve been lucky enough to find Everlasting Love. One of the coolest things that has happened lately is that people have started reading the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel which is my little 10 minute church for other godless heathens like myself who might still want to touch base with something beautiful on a Sunday. If church were more like the punk rock gospel, I’d probably go. No one ever read the punk rock gospel before, at least not on purpose, but I loved it and the RELIABLE ONE loved it so I kept doing it and now I see that folks are looking for it which pleases me to no end cause I’m that much closer to starting my own cult and getting fire-bombed by the government. We gots to have goals in life, right?

I love you, my sweet faceless kinksters, thanks for reading. Sorry for my hinky mood tonight — I’m zonked and I’m crabby, it’s rainy and the Bot’s drunk on Magazine Street, my best friend sneers at Cream Scene Carnival and that frustrates the shit outta me cause she hasn’t met all of you and so she doesn’t see what’s in it for me. I adore y’all, I do. Keep comin’ around. I’m here, I’m not goin’ no where, I swear!

Good night, my freaks, may you have sweet or wet dreams, whichever you prefer.

**P.S.** In ode to the deep south, there are two chickens in this rainy post — do you see the second one?

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Moved by Dolly Rocker Movement! Curious About Burning Man.

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Steampunk, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2010 by alphabetfiend

The Robot Boy has a very old dear friend who has completely dedicated his life to an ever-evolving discovery of cool music. This is not a quest that Bruce takes lightly. He’s a punk-monk who eschews anything that might distract him from his destiny as rock & roll omen seeker. He has exquisite eclectic taste and I would follow him anywhere. When Bruce tells you to check out a new band or replay an old band you rush to do it. Something dreamy awaits. 

 

So when Bruce borrowed our car and returned it with a CD in the player, we hit play and hiked the volume. 

 

The CD was a Bruce-made mix of songs by The Dolly Rocker Movement. A new band that feels old. 

 

Now, for my fellow night owls,  as a little friday night into saturday morn’ 3:00 a.m. treat,  I offer you “Coffin Love” by The Dolly Rocker Movement. The song is set to the most amazing shots of a Burning Man fest. This clip is worth it for the visuals alone. I’d assumed that Burning Man had become just another hippy raver scene, having lost all vestige of its former mystery. I’m blown away by the sort of mythic Mad Max steampunk aesthetic and all these odd chitty chitty bang bang machines. It looks like a strange dream with cosmic-circus-steampunk-gypsy elements combining in a sort of A-bomb fairytale. 

This video was artfully done by www.tribalturk.com , a Turkish fan-zine site that’s worth poking around on even though the text isn’t in English. It’s a really cool site, I’m impressed with their aesthetic. 

A steampunk tree house

 

 Have any of you been to Burning Man? Was it really this beautiful, eerie and elaborate? Did it really have that PK-Dickian sci-fi steampunkery? Recently? How recently? Did you have any transformative dream-like experiences while there? After seeing this video, I’m crazy curious. I was so sure that Burning Man had devolved into yet another mushroomy melee, y’know, just naked hippies in the desert and if anyone read my last post (born on a commune, lived in a cave) then you’ll understand that I’ve had my fill of that. But now I see these beasty-machines and steampunk tree houses, winged motorcycles and tattered circus tents … have I made a major miscalculation here? I must have!   

So comment! You architects of steampunk treehouses! You dirt-bike PKD! You saint of steel & dust! I wanna hear from you! Is Burning Man the place for a cosmic clown, side-show siren, bearded lady, steampunk seductress, Lipstick Shamaness such as myself? 

 

Speak, my sweets, my freaks, my night owls…. C’mon baby ring my bell. All ya hafta do is ring my bell!

The Gift of Time (or I Shoulda Been the Queen of Sheba)

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Books & Writing, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Steampunk, Mythos, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Spirituality & Religion, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2010 by alphabetfiend

 I’ve never been one to contain my birthday celebrations to just my one official day (Yes, that’s right, I’m her.  As if you didn’t know that already. Stop feigning horror and surprise.)  

I’m shameless so I’ll go whole hog and admit that I usually try to get myself a birthday gift (yes, I try to be this self adoring and it’s harder than you’d think! I challenge you to it. Stay posted for details.)  

These gifts aren’t about momentary id. They’re about honoring the passage of time… like a little salute to the universe or a thank-you note to the big bang. This life thing is alright. Thumbs up on that one. Havin’ fun. Wish you were here.   

  

I try to pick something for myself that honors where I’ve been and heralds where I’m going, hokey as that sounds. I try to keep the trickster in mind and transform when transformation is called for… this is how I cheat death. My stint as trickster’s apprentice has taught me that much.   

This attitude is not effortless on my part, though many see it that way. Others are 100% on to me. My senior year in college, my honors advisor called me into his office to tell me that my perfectionism would surely be the death of me — and it was unneccessary to boot. My jaw dropped. What perfectionism?  He chuckled at my incredulous reflection all agog in the shiny surface of his desk. He motioned at that shiny, stunned me as if to say, There. See. So I challenged with what I saw as irrefutable logic: “I’m no perfectionist! Why I’m forever falling short and fucking up.” And then he was howling, at first with laughter and then with fury, because he was right and he knew it. He hadn’t used the word “death” lightly.  

I later ranted to my friend Thom, stamping my foot like a child as if to punctuate my imperfection. Dr. Hoch’s a dick, y’know, cause he don’t know, y’know, cause like I’m no perfectionist. I’mnotI’mnotI’mnotnotnot.   

Thom smiled knowingly, “Oh, please. Your ‘fuck-ups’ are other peoples’ ‘crowning glories’.” Then he hedged,  

Honey, c’mon, really? Letting up a little? Not the worst idea ever. Is there any thing left to prove at this point? To who? Profs love you. When class lets out they go and sit in your seat, grinding their asses into the warm wood, moaning oh yes I’m touching her ass through magical osmosis.”  

Thom never passes up a chance to use the word “ass” or to ease my worries either so I put the issue away, for that day. But damn if it hasn’t reared its ugly head again. And again. And again. I still don’t think of myself as a perfectionist so much as a chronic self-saboteur. Even then I wonder if its all some secret fate the trickster has in store. Maybe I fuck-up to save myself from the tyranny of perfection or maybe I’m the tyrant.    

These two sides of my personality are forever waging war within me. Typical Gemini!   

One side sees my birthday as a defeat and a deadline: Oh! Woe! I was supposed to have been The Queen of Sheba by now!   

That bitch is no fucking fun at all.  

The other side sez “And just for that shit, yer ass ain’t never gonna be the Queen of Sheba. I’ll make damn shit sure of it.”  

And that cunt is the reason I’m not the Queen of Sheba.  

She’s also the one you wanna party with. Unless of course you’d rather not be man-handled by a bouncer when your date — saucy mouth, double d’s clad in a punk rock tee, rhinestone tiara — refuses to respect the fucker’s a-THOR-i-tye. But hey she’s good in bed so you go with it.  

  

Birthdays are ALL ABOUT THE PARTY so the perfectionist is a rock, a rock wrapped — like a gift! — in the paper of the fox trickster fuck-up. Rockpaperscissors. Paper beats rock. I win! I scream! You scream! We all scream for ice cream. The 9-year-old in me that expected the 36-year old to be a famous writer by now — jeesh, what have you been doing with your life you loser — must wear a conical party hat. She must bow her head to the fuck-up as the fuck-up schools her on the pleasures and sorrows of adulthood. Sex, weed, HBO, Austin, punk rock,  falling in love, this sci-fi invention called the inter-net, disgracing yourself regularly, getting lost and then found. Oh, such sweet distractions from perfectionist abstractions. Yes, that’s right youngin’, the inter in internet does stand for inter-galactic. Doesn’t it? Or not. Don’t get me lyin’!  Best grown up fuck up pleasure of all? Not having to know motherfucking everything.  

The fuck-up snaps the elastic under the perfectionist’s chin which causes her party hat to go askew. She lets it stay that way. For that alone she deserves a gift. I try to pick out something nice but clever. A talisman of sorts. Something that sez to Time, “Bring it on, bitch. I’m not askerd of you!”  

"Siamese Dream" by Studio Thirty Four

I put a lot of thought into the gifts I give myself but this year I’m at a loss. Sure I’d love that steampunk motorcycle (It’s a beaut! You’ll see it when I post the “Happy Birthday, Steampunk Seductress” page. Soon, my sweets.) But I’m not $70,000 dollars worth of worth it!  There’s more affordable options — Ringleader’s mustache necklace or clownie vest??? I’m getting a new tattoo (my sweet clownie Miss Van) and I just started back on Cream Scene Carnival so…. I dunno. I’m in no hurry to choose. I’m happy to be writing again and that’s enough for me. For now. I’ll still choose something concrete cause I’m a hedonist alive in a physical world and I fuckin’ love cool shit.  

I don’t think the universe objects to the affection I lavish on myself. If anything, the gods appreciate my gusto. How else do you explain the fact that aside from the gifts I give myself I also get birthday gifts from the universe. I do! It’s true! Every year, through some strange turn of events, a gift arrives from no where sent by no one. I was halfway through this post today when the Robot came in with a box from Amazon and began to dig through it furtively, setting mysterious treats aside for his masculine half-assed wrapping treatment. I watch as he peers at the receipt with a perplexed expression, “Did you use D’s gift certificate to get Visions from the Mechanism: The Industrial Surrealism of Jeffery Scott ??” I shake my head and his brow furrows, “No?” I shake my head again. He holds the book up, as if the sight of it will jog my memory. “You didn’t order this? No? Cause I sure as fuck didn’t.”  

I begin to clap my hands with giddy anticipation, squealing “Oh! It must be my gift from the universe! Gimmee!” and he tosses it with a shrug cause he didn’t know the universe gave gifts but turns out it does. He’s seen it enough times now to know it’s true. Thank you to The Thrones! I love it! It’s the perfect gift considering my steampunky desires of late.

Stem Sell part II by Jeffery Scott (30 pages into my new book!)

I pour over the book, licking my lips as I turn the slick pages, page after dark page of mad maxxian sexbot steampunkery. I’m so enchanted by Scott’s mechanistic vision that I don’t notice my Robot as he unwraps a just-arrived CD (The Flaming Lips doing Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety.) He pops it in and presses play, hiking the volume. I’m so absorbed in my book that I think nothing of it until Stardeath and White Dwarfs come on strong and “Time” fills the room with it ticking, graying melancholy:  

 Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.  

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.  

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.  

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.   

With the smug swish of a fox tail, the trickster’s sly smile crosses my face . I hafta laugh at my own gemini duplicity — one side, snide, saying “Not enough, more more” and the other side saying, “Oh, thank you! So much! Much much.” One twin pushes, the other twin pinches.  

Titled "I Love you Anyway" or "The Girl Makes Peace With Herself"

We are slutty siamese twins with totally different taste in men. One sister went black and swore she’d never go back but, alas, she shares a vagina with her twin (and she’s got a yen for geeky white men.) Hey, homegirl, at least she’s not a lesbian!  

To my perfectionist side, I give this — the Flaming Lips version of Floyd’s “Time” with Stardeath and White Dwarfs ringing in 2010 at a New Years eve show in the FL’s hometown of Oklahoma City. I wish I had seen this show live!!! This video is shot beautifully by professionals who had total access. Less tha 5000 people have viewed it.  

“Sweet, ” sez Sister Fuck-up, “Let’s watch this sucker like its (black) boy on (black) boy porn. Oh, hell ya! Now pass the hash pipe.”  

The Siamese Twin art above is available on Etsy. “Siamese Dream” is by Studio Thirty Four  and “I Love You Anyway or The Girl Makes Piece with Herself” is by rowenamurillo

The Axe-Throwing Phase of Our Friendship

Posted in Friendship, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, punk rock, Spirituality & Religion with tags , , , , , , , on June 6, 2010 by alphabetfiend

A GammaGamma Post-script: So..my dearling, did you see that Gogol Bordello cover album art?

It initially evokes two intersecting arrows but then the eye decides on crossed axe handles.

  

A thought like a gurgle and pop: We’ve moved past the whizzing arrows phase of our friendship.

Now we’ll enter into the hurling & hacking of  shaman tomahawks, of elven axes. Axes with the disreputable heft of carnie roust-a-bouts. Axes with the honed glimmer of gypsy seers… suave & swarthy… with impressive mustaches, upon which, fairy acrobats do aerial tricks.

They are weighty these axes but when wielded there’s a familiar folkloric flex. Flux.

One question? Will we develop an axe-trading act, taking rambunctious turns at nearly missing the others head?

(If so, if I lose an ear, I’m going to gift it to Van Gogh. Dramatically laid out in an oyster shell casket. Like a tiny fetus.)

Or will we just set off and hack — at the black — like psychopaths?

I’m in, either way.

I Want Candy!

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Books & Writing, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Mythos, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 5, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Oh yay hooray!  I opened my door today to find a package on my stoop. A gift from my beloved G*Word!!! I ripped it open like Little Chrissy trying to get at a chocolate bar.  (Remember Little Chrissy, from the John Waters film Pecker? Little Chrissy was cukoo for cocoa puffs!)

Unlike little Chrissy, I can’t stomach a sugar overload without a pancreatic surge of insulin that leaves me jangly and ready for a nappy-nap. Still, I’m nuts for nougat. I like to get to the gooey — not just in bon bons but always, in everything. I tore at those packages like I was gnawing my way to the nougat. Damn if I didn’t feel like a spoiled rotten sweetheart (xoxo, g*w!) Inside the ripped-up wrappings, I found not one but TWO books with the word “CANDY” in the title.

Which is fitting considering that I met G*Word after we took bites of one another’s gingerbread houses. Which is different than “brick house” as in “She’s got a brick house.” (Settle down, my kinksters.)

A gingerbread house is a dark-side construct built to tempt fate. It lures that which can’t resist. The telling architecture speaks to yearning, greed, giddy giving-in. It’s not about sex — or it wasn’t in our case — but it’s definitely about desire, voyeurism, exposure, and vulnerability. It’s about showing yourself to someone and they… grin like teens on tigermilk? Light up like lightbulbs? Lull like late-night radio? Ah. Ah-ha. A click and then a hum. They like what they see and they say so. They say, “I like what I see,” and then they commence to eating a hunk of your graham cracker door. They peer at you through a broken-off pane of butterscotch glass and then wink at you when you curtsy. 

MMMMmmm. Little Chrissy likes. Rumrumrumrumrum. (My baby wookie makes that rumrumrum sound when he’s eatin’ something really good.)

There’s nothing in the world like new books!!! And my new books are both candy-dubbed contemporary art books so they are absolutely drenched in the syrup of yum. I can’t wait to gorge myself.

Rock Candy is a treat in the hands, oh boy. Lovely to the touch. Rock Candy celebrates the evocative work of dutch artist Femke Hiemstra. A valentine of a volume, it’s described by reviewer Julia Rothman – Book By Its Cover – asGorgeous.”

The cloth hardbound book has a nice die-cut cover and the inside is jam-packed with Femke’s works including tons of paintings and drawings alongside loose sketches…. The way the sketches are juxtaposed with the finished work in the book makes me feel like I’m getting an insider’s view. If you’re a fan of ‘pop surrealism,’ this is a book for you.

 Just the cover alone with that window cut-out — love it! Very gingerbread house.

In the Garden of Eye Candy is a delicious look at dolls and the fantasy world they hail from… as seen by artists such as Koralee and Lisa Petrucci. A reviewer from Juxtapoz Magazine asked a duh(!) question

Like dolls? Cartoon characters? I do. As a little girl I loved playing with dolls. As an adult I like Adult Swim. And painted dolls. But not art toys. (One’s taste does refine with age, of course). I digress. If you like dolls and alter egos and Id-driven characters and cartoons, buy this book. Cause it’s all about that. And it comes in a pretty box. The End.

I do love dolls, alter-egos & id-driven characters. It’s true. But a preliminary peek has me a bit perplexed — how can you have a book about dolls in art and ignore Miss Van? Miss Van even refers to her own creations as dolls, characters, her little “poupettes.”

 “Between the boundaries of fine and popular art and high and low culture, reside id-driven impulses and alter egos as toys, cartoon characters, and iconic images. From the whimsical to adorable, erotic to innocent, to the dark and gothic, they lure us into their lush worlds of fairy tales, dreams and inspiration.” (The Garden of Eye Candy.)

 

Lush worlds? Fairy tales? Hell yea! I’m in. See you there or wish you were here or whatever.

Thank you, G*Word! You’re the best. Now quit blowing bubbles with what used to be my brickwork.

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Posted in Dork Alert, I Heart Friends, I Heart Holidays, I Heart My Love-Tribe with tags , , , , , , , on December 11, 2008 by alphabetfiend
Ever since it started snowing on wordpress my heart has been aching for some real white stuff.  Being that I now live in Austin, Texas my wish for some Christmasy powder was rather improbable. But then again who woulda thought that it could snow in cyber space? Talk about improbable! And last night it snowed in A-TX too! Yay!

snow

The fun part about dating a teacher is that snow days have the same magic as they did when we were kids and snow days here in Austin don’t even have to be that snowy for the powers that be to shut the city down. So we were giddy last night and bummed this morning. Oh well. It was still nice. We’d spent the evening eating the nutmeggy custard pie that Cha Cha brought back from Houston (cause they’re my favorite, like eggnog as pie) and watching a Disney Christmas movie about Santa losing his weather robot which a couple kids then get a hold of — antics and an LA blizzard ensue. Yes, I must confess a wicked fetish for dorky Christmas movies. The Robot Boy tapes every schlocky one he can find on Lifetime or Hallmark and he’ll say “Here, I taped some porn for you” and my frown turns upside down when I find out that it’s about Santa’s daughter falling in love beneath a magic sprig of mistletoe. Oh oh oh yes yes yes ooooooooooo yes. Sigh of delight. At about 11pm Cha yawned and bundled up in her cutie pie coat. I kissed her sweet cheeks and made her promise to drive careful but she was back in a flash…

“It’s snowing!”

“It’s snowing?”

“It’s snowing!”

We stood on my porch in awe of the flurries and feeling sentimental. Shortly after we first met, years ago, I threw a valentine-making party that was made gorgously memorable by unplanned party games like snow ball fights and snow angels. Cha Cha wrapped her arms around me and we hugged in the falling snow. Awwww. I sure do love my Cha.

There wasn’t enough snow to build a fat Frosty but had we been warmer and less lazy we could’ve constructed a Samurai Robot like this one. How great is that? Whoever built a Samurai Robot is one cool mo-fo! One cold snow-fo! Fo sho!

snow-samurai

Austin’s mercurial weather never ceases to amaze me! Just last week my backyard was  a fall fantasy like a Carolina Hardagree painting  and today it was snow. This weekend? In the 70’s. Nutty. Chestnutty. Well Santa, thanks for the snow. As improbable as it seems, I must be on the nice list.  I may be naughty but I have loads of Christmas spirit!

 

Egg custard -- a christmasy concoction!

Egg custard -- a christmasy concoction!

Cha got my pie from Houston’s “House of Pies” but we’re gonna try our hands at making our own someday. Here’s a promising recipe if you wanna try your hand at eggnog you can bite into. Yum yum.

Egg Custard Pie

Ingredients:

  • 4 large eggs, lightly beaten
  • 1/2 cup granulated sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 2 1/2 cups milk
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla
  • grated nutmeg
  • pastry for 1 crust

Preparation:

Add sugar and salt to lightly beaten eggs; add milk and vanilla; mix to combine thoroughly. Pour into unbaked pie shell; sprinkle generously with nutmeg. Bake at 425° for 25 to 35 minutes, or until knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Carolina Hardigree — “Detail of A Spirit Animal”

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Mythos, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2008 by alphabetfiend

 

Welcome to SPOOKY KABUKI, sweet Carolina, I see you are dressed perfectly. In your suede 40’s heels, with electric-eel brooch and Japanese fan. Come in, come in.

If you haven’t heard of Carolina Hardigree yet, well, hold out your pillowcase cum candy sac ’cause I’m about to toss you a moon-touched treat.

Hardigree’s exploration of psyche and spirit often collides with animal totems, which only makes sense since Hardigree herself is a mythical creature. She’s a white owl who has sly secret fox ears and red fur that she hides beneath a regal ruffling of white feathers. And then there’s her girl self, with sweet solid legs and a fretful brow. Her human intelligence and her animal simpatico are present in all her paintings. She’s a phenomenal talent and an old soul.

  

The above piece — titled “Detail From a Spirit Animal” — is sure to ring a deep chord, down beneath the rungs of your ribs, for those who have received a detail or a message or an odd whisper of knowing from an unlikely source. That flicker from the corner of your eye which settles everything in a second. That jarring jolt which sends the tea things a clatter. The smoky shape afloat in the open doorway. I swear I have been in this moment, in this place, a million times and yet I’m seeing it now for brand new. I love her black turtleneck and how the spot beneath her clasped hands is alight with a ghosty white. I totally get that. How can one artist paint both clothing and elusive spirit so well? It is no wonder that I love Hardigree. She shows me what I wish to see.

Keep your third eye on Carolina Hardigree — she’s going strange places. If you are watchful, she just may take you with her.

 

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