Archive for the Psyche & Sexuality 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.

Junko Mizuno Makes Me Jizz

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Holidays, I Heart Shaman*Art, Psyche & Sexuality, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 4, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Well, freaks, it’s October. You know what that means, right?

It means my evil alter Spooky Kabuki is in a witchy crouch over Cream Scene Carnival so expect some cauldron-stirring.

Things are crazy for me now but I WILL get it together and deliver the crazy cool stuff that Spook-Kabuk has been saving up.

 

Such as what? Well, how bout a Mark Ryden inspired interior? Or the coolest ouiji boards ever? Plus while we got ouiji on the brain we must discuss Weegee’s crime scene photography. There’s steampunk rayguns that go up yer butt & movies that’ll scare the shit outta ya.

Ghost stories, voodoo chants, a gypsy curse or tw0 or three.

Plus, an amazing array of creepy art by a hoodoo slew of artists such as the wicked Junko Mizuno. You’ll be hearing more about that talented hag so stay tuned.

*All art by Junko Mizuno

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”

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

“Joy” by Citizen Bird aka Silverbullit (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Robots, Music & Life & Sundays, Psyche & Sexuality, Rock & Roll, Romance & Relationships, Sexuality, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 1, 2010 by alphabetfiend

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy. It’s leaking out from every pore. I feel joy now I feel joy!

Thanks for tuning in (“and turning on?” she asks, eyebrow arching.) This is a very special hip hip hooray Happy Birthday — to the RobotBoy! — edition of the Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel.

Today we’ll be musing on the magic of love, on the mystery of dreams, on the JOY of music, on the brink of ecstacy.

Be patient while I goo-goo mew, for who am I but a love struck girl? 

This is just what I been lookin’ for! This is just what I been lookin’ for!

Before I met the real-life RobotBoy, he starred in several very vivid dreams.

It’s been a theme through-out my life, this “sensing” of an important someone before they’ve arrived.

My parents say it’s cause I was born with a veil (the amniotic sack, known as “the caul”, usually breaks away but when a baby comes out still hooded or “veiled” they’re said to be extra-sensory.) I say it’s cause I pay attention, plus I have the patience and the pesky urge to record my dreams rather than let them be lost to the ether. But perhaps it can be chalked up to a childhood spent on hyper-alert, always anticipating, neck craned and waiting.

This is just what I been lookin’ for! This is just what I been lookin’ for!

Maybe the universe just wanted to make damn sure I noticed that southern gentleman in the Hyde Park laundromat who would probably have been too shy to strike up a conversation, never mind ask for my number.

Eleven years later and the conversation I started continues. Sure, he’s shy but give him a beer and he’ll start talking; give him another and he’ll revert to the dense Mississippi drawl that slays me with sexy.

The RobotBoy and I have loads to talk about.

Being from the same mystical tribe makes for good conversation.

It’s especially important for weirdos (mofo freaks, genius odd-balls, jukebox poets, mutant mavericks) to find fellow tribe members with whom they can share their lives. This isn’t easy. Nothing great ever is.

But how could someone like the RobotBoy be with a woman who, I dunno, thinks like a mind-numbing Normal? Who sez “a man’s place is the workplace? Who voted for Bush? Who doesn’t give head? Who forbids fun in any form? Who freaks out over pot, porn, punk rock? Whose idea of music is Miley Cyrus? Who can’t rock and roll? 

Hell no. I know this man and he wouldn’t waste a moment with that woman.

If I hadn’t come along he’d have lived his life as a punk monk.

This is just what I been lookin’ for! This is just what I been lookin’ for!

Back in those days, before I met my Bot, I was still hyper-disciplined about recording my dreams (in an ever expanding series of tiny notebooks) and so those loverbot dreams can be returned to for re-examination whenever curiosity strikes.

We constantly marvel at all the little things those dreams foreshadowed.

In one of these dreams, he was known as an “R2D2” or “someone capable of inter-dimensional travel.” R2D2. Hahaha. It took years before I got the joke but I eventually laughed my ass off. In another prescient dream, he rose up from a smoky stage, surrounded by musical instruments, like a “Bradbarian Amadeus.” (No shit, that’s a direct dream journal quote.)

So it’s no surprise that music (real music, not Miley) has been such an enormous part of our love affair. 

Music — and the times we’ve shared within its clutches — has made “us” into a whole new thing, having given us a curious kind of form & function. It has also brought us a most immense, intense JOY.

This week’s featured song is “Joy” by Citizen Bird. They’re actually a Swedish band known as Silverbullit who had to change their name here in the states so as not to be confused with Bob Seger, er, I dunno, some other Silvery Bullety bunkos. I like the band by either name.

We first fell for Citizen Bird aka Silverbullit after seeing them live at CBGBs. They opened for The Soundtrack of Our Lives, more Swedes and one of our all-time favorite bands. (I Heart Ebbot Forever!) We saw both bands again the very next night at The Mercury Lounge. Despite impatience and preoccupation with our beloved Soundtrack, Citizen Bird blew us away.

Since then our love for them has only deepened.

The song “Joy’ is about just exactly that kind of love. 

I love to listen to “Joy” cranked up loud. Louder than yer mama can stand! Louder than yer doctor recommends!  Loud ass loud, my friends. I love it loud at the dusty gray, the very start of day, before the sun has risen, as the blackness fades. This sound, that gray, with the day & the highway curving up ahead.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy. 

What is it? Well, you call it joy.

But maybe it’s more, maybe it’s an ecstatic rumbling from deep inside the cerebellum. Maybe it’s a giddy vibratory jumble of goodness in all it’s guises. Maybe it’s a wondering, a tumbling, an awe-gasp plundering and then a sudden eye-pop hiccup of hell yes. Maybe it’s a coming clean yanking free making way kinda thang? Maybe it’s a beat happening! In the left foot of Venus. Hard to say really.

It’s simple but it’s sacred, it’s easy but it’s pure.

A melody and a couple of chords.

Maybe people fall in love with music because Music will never leave –there will always be someone somewhere ready to rock out with their cocks out. Count on that. Sure, Music can and will break yer heart (happens all the time) but it’s the rumble-chest rib-wrenching feel good kind. Music can kick the living shit outta you, sure, but it’s always there later to kiss the boo-boo. 

For your pleasure, I have provided two very different videos. The first was directed by The Designers Republic for some bullcrap coke thing (ugh) but the video fulla throbbing hearts & cartoon pine trees is psychedelic, pulsing and kinda perfect.

Despite the sweet perfection of  The Designers Repub vid, I still feel compelled to share another. “Joy” set to a 1968 short film by German experimental film director, Lutz Mommartz. (“Weg zum Nachbarn”) Pardon my excesses. Really, I couldn’t resist. It’s super cool and crazy sexy. Right up a Robot’s alley! Plus, the artsy dark-haired hottie with the soft expressive (cum)face is just exactly the Robot’s type. 

Mmmm. I’m in the mood for a mind-bomb orgasm. You?

Now that’s a hell of a way to spend a Sunday! Calling out to God overandoverandoverandover.

Later, lovers.

JOY

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Melody and a couple of chords.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

It doesn’t hafta be any more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more

*

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s leaking out from every pore.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

I feel joy now I feel joy!

*

This is just what I been lookin’ for!

This is just what I been lookin’ for!

A melody and a couple of chords

This is just what I been lookin’ for.

This is just what I been lookin’ for.

This is just what I been lookin’ for.

I feel joy I feel joy I feel joy now I feel joy!

The mermaid-robot is from the crazily amazingly entertaining comic site Nataliedee.com

“Robot Love — Take Two” by Munster; “Robot Love is Forever” by graphic designer extroidinaire Scott McLean ; “I love you, Robot” is available as a t-shirt on shirtoid; Sad Robot is available as a tee at threadless.

View “Weg zum Nachbarn” in full at http://www.archive.org/details/Mommar…

For more on Cit-bird/Silverbullit see the Silverbullit website or the silverbullit myspace page.

The Citizen Bird album is available on amazon.

Nightmares, Roadside Tragedy and Other Vampiric Ick

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Books & Writing, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Psyche & Sexuality with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 11, 2010 by alphabetfiend

As a day, this one has taken an odd toll.

I awoke from a nightmare in which my little brother (a sweet affable fellow who is nothing but adoring, loving, forgiving and kind… to everyone, but to big sister certainly) was horribly vicious to me. I was writing a play in the dream and it was going well, very. I had that feverish creative energy-influx that happens when I’m working, and happens with giddy intensity when the work is going well. The play was about a young pre-pube boy and — this being a dream, a good dream at first — the play was pure lovely genius.

(I’ve had a YA novel about a young boy stewing in the far back of my mind, in real life, although it is developing so far back that it feels almost dream-like. The book has a steampunk theme which adds to the dreamy quality. I write literary fiction, not YA or sci-fi genre fiction so this project, if published, would be published under a pen-name.)

As I was dreaming, I assumed that the play must be referencing this project’s viability. Writing in dreams and buzzing/thrilling over the work is, for me, akin to sex dreams, only better because I prefer that writerly jangle to any other feeling in the world. So this was a damn good dream until suddenly the goodness and the writing were shattered by this familial attack which took me not just away from the writing but away from all semblance of security and comfort, leaving me homeless. The love my brother has for me in real life was completely non-existent and he terrorized me with relentless cruelty. I was especially stunned by this because things were going so well with the writing and how could he do this to me when I was peaking creatively??

(Of course those in the know will recognize that this has nothing at all to do with my brother and everything to do with the events of the past year; my best friend would snort at that “last year” part and point out that these issues go much farther back.) My brother has been a loyal ally in this mess and definitely didn’t deserve to be portrayed this way by my subconscious.

In fact when I called him, crying, he teased “You crazy dreamer!”

“I dreamt you didn’t love me, ” I sniffed.

“Not true, “ he said. “I do love you. I love you dearly.”

Normally, after a nightmare, I like to go back to sleep and re-work it in my favor like a good little lucid dreamer, but Mr. and Mrs. Robot had surprised me with a shiny new fridge for the Mississippi love shack and it was due to be delivered this morning. Yes, poor me, nobody loves me, everybody hates me, mize I go eat worms. Here I am, lavished with love, spoiled rotten like a summer peach, and yet sobbing into my pillow over imaginary unkind acts. Yet, I couldn’t shake my woe as I emptied out the old fridge in preparation for the new fridge’s arrival. Nothing helped to alleve my ill-temper, not the Bot’s sweet buss or the nuzzling of the baby wookie; not the loving assurances of my brother or the new “icebox” as Mrs. Robot says in her southern way. Not even my baby niece screaming “DIA! DIA!” as she runs to me for hugs & sugars. (She has just started to include the “i” rather than calling me “Da.”)

Then my big niecey shows up (little niecy’s too-young mama, I call them Thing 1 and Thing 2.) We’re gushing over the baby’s cuteness and plotting an art project for tomorrow, when Thing 1’s boyfriend comes in and says, “It’s good y’all got held up yesterday or you’da been on the road when that semi crossed the median.”  Why? Were there fatalities? Robot Boy hands me the paper and there on the front page is the familiar sad image from the day before. Up until that moment I’d held out hope — foolish hope — that everything had been okay.

Yesterday, we were just about to walk out the door for a much anticipated errand into town, the 9th of July being the expiration of our rip-off cell phone contract. Our family was now free to move to ATT and join the iphone madness. Thing 1 had been waiting for this day for weeks, warning the lazier members of the family (Robo and myself) that she wanted to be there at 9 am on the dot and would not tolerate our usual night-owl excuses or late-starts. I was so worried I’d over-sleep, I ended up with insomnia but hey I was there with bells on, no delays. But then Uncle Robot suggests to Thing 1 that she call around and make sure the iphones are in stock, offering to drive to the coast if needed. A short while later, having learned that there wasn’t an iphone to be had in all of MS or LA, we’re off to cancel our old service and place an order for future iphones. We looked like a clown car, packed in like sardines. Thing 1 and I shared the tiny backseat with Thing 2’s carseat. Slowing to a crawl on a normally breezy stretch of highway, we knew it couldn’t be good. The debris on the side of the road — including a wheelchair, lonely and eerie on the sunlit asphalt — made us squirm.

Well, the state troopers are filming it, says the Robot gravely. So there were fatalities.”

I desperately hoped that he was mistaken.

That was just after 9 am. We went on to have a great day of family togetherness:  jumping on the iphone bandwagon, sharing a nice lunch at Olive Garden of all places. Thing 1 was thrilled. Thing 2 was adorable. Mrs. Robot was proud to be out and about with her children. The Robot and I were just digging on the cozy vibes —  glad to be in town, making our loved ones happy. It was after 2pm as we headed home, so we were shocked to see the accident still there on the other side of the highway. Only now, that side of the road was closed off, as they laboriously lured a canary yellow rig with trailer still attached out of the brushy woods.

The road had been closed for so long that people were out of their cars and milling about on the hot tar. SUVs with impatient drivers spun their wheels in the swampy muck of the median; stuck like sitting ducks, now in need of their own tow trucks, awaiting police citations.

A hush fell over our happy car.

Thing 1 tucked her chin into her chest and resisted the urge to suck her thumb (a hard habit to break.)

My heart broke at the sight of that wheelchair, knowing with certainty that this was indeed the same accident and not just some new nothing.

It wasn’t nothing, it was SOMETHING and, for that family that lost 4 members in the blink of an eye, it was an ENORMOUS SOMETHING.

They were from our same po-dunk town (a town that can barely afford to lose four citizens.) They were a family heading into “town.” There were too many of them crammed into too small a vehicle. We were 5 (4 and 1/2?) and they were 4. We were in Thing 1’s itty-bitty KIA, they were in a pick-up (wheelchair loaded into the bed of the truck?) Myself and Thing 1, we weren’t wearing seatbelts. Same thing with three of them. One was Mrs. Robot’s age, another was my age. They were on the same stretch of road that we would’ve been on if not for Uncle Robot wanting to give his niece immediate ipod satisfaction. It could easily have been us — mowed down on a Friday morning, after the front tire blew out on an 18-wheeler, causing the driver to lose control and shoot across the median into oncoming traffic. Or we could have been the woman behind the pick-up who wasn’t hurt, except that she had to watch the whole thing happen which surely shaved a good ten years off her life.

Damn if that doesn’t put it all into perspective.

My heart breaks for that family, for that woman who witnessed the accident and even for the truck driver who escaped with minor injuries. I’m from a trucking family; my Dad ran a trucking company and his Daddy before him and his Daddy before him. I know that a driver never gets over this kind of thing. I know he faces his own rueful suffering.

Up until this morning, ignorance was bliss. I could still believe that they survived the accident. I’m fully aware of how quickly everything changed for them, and for the surviving members of their family. It’s not meaningful because it could’ve been us, but it’s that proximity — having seen the real-life version of that grainy newspaper photo — that makes it all the more real.

It sits sticky and heavy in my gut, like black tar and roadside gravel.

This dreary afternoon, done with chores and family socializing, having sat crying over the newspaper, I retreated to bed. I pulled my laptop onto my belly for more research on my recent obsession with William Blake’s painting “The Ghost of a Flea.” How icky could that be right? Yea. I ended up reading this spooky, creepy stuff about vampiric entities and mind parasites. Sonofabitch. I’m done with this damn day. Except it’s a Saturday and I have to write the Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel. The song I’d planned on is far too cheery. (Devo? No.) So don’t be surprised if this Sunday is more of a silent be grateful for what you have cause it could gone in a flash kinda Sunday.

*************************************

Author’s Addendum: having thought of the perfect song — “Death Don’t Have No Mercy” — I managed to do the Punk Rock Gospel. I featured the versions by Reverend Gary Davis (who did it originally) and the ever-brilliant Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. For a fine musical post-script to this shitty Saturday see Sunday’s Death don’t have No Mercy (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel.)

**************************************

Out of respect for the family, I have decided not to mention the names of the deceased. This writing was about the witnessing. This is not my loss, these aren’t my loved ones, and those aren’t my names to drop. They were our towns folk however. I didn’t know them but Mrs. Robot did; she says the family ran (runs?) a dance school for kids. Our hearts go out to their family. We ache for the monumental loss that no one family should have to bear. I hate that this has happened and I’m so very sorry for everyone involved. These photos are not mine, they were taken by Channel 4 wwltv, where more details are available.

Porous Walker’s Modern Cave Paintings

Posted in Art & Culture, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Sex & XXX, Sexuality, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2010 by alphabetfiend

I was born in 1974 on an evil hippy commune in La Madera, New Mexico. Then, because of the their hippy ideals and to escape the aforementioned evil, my parents moved into a cave. I’m not even kidding about that. In first grade I shared that detail with my friend Kim Koontz and her family. Afterwards Kim’s mom had a talk with my mom about my “lying problem.”

I don’t really remember those days in the cave but if I did I bet I’d get along famously with Porous Walker. I’m on a campaign to get a cave for Porous Walker. Porous Walker needs cave walls to paint on so that future societies may stumble upon it and have a deeper understanding of our culture.

"You're still a dick."

Do you have a cave for Porous Walker to paint? 

"You're weiner is so cool."...."I wish I was."

As you can tell, the man really needs a cave that he can just go to town on… do you think they have arts grants for modern cavemen in need of caves?

Walker has a modest rudimentary style. At first look his work has a sort of humorous doodle quality but then you notice those organic, geometric patterns, like honeycomb or tortoiseshell. You feel the reverberation between humanity and environment. Like an echo in the mountains. That’s the only thing I remember from those cave days… I remember standing on a precipice with my Dad as he demonstrated the concept of an echo. My age was measured in months at the time… I know, because my first official memory was on my second birthday (I remember that waxy candle in the shape of the number 2.)

Hello? Hello! Hello? Hello! 

I call out and you call back… hello? Hello!

Porous Walker is that voice in the canyon… the world talking back… an assurance that we’re not alone..

"Now demolish the skyscraper, Godzilla."

Put the word out, people, cause there is a man in need of a cave. Until then we will have to settle for seeing his art in a balloon-filled gallery. Porous Walker had an opening on June 4, 2010 at San Francisco’s Fifty24SF. The show was heralded as “Haricots Magiques: The Final Attempt by Porous Walker.”

 

In a open letter cum press-release, a far-too-modest Walker discussed his caveman urge to make art: 

I’m honestly a bigger fan of art than I am an actual artist. I’ve tried to stop drawing, sculpting, arting but I can’t seem to stop. I’m addicted to that feeling of seeing amazing artwork, ideas and feeling the energy and spirit that created them and than allowing myself to let go and just make what I want.

I really try to work hard on my drawings, and I hope to live long enough to get to a point where I make something visually pleasing as well as purely concept driven.

 I live in Napa. I’m 35 years old. I want you and me both to laugh more than we don’t and above all I want to inspire people to share what’s in their minds.

The (cave)man himself

Walker also says he’s looking for a job and gave his phone number so if you have a job or a cave for Porous Walker then get in touch with the man. His website is currently located at www.porouswalker.com but he is up to some kind of mischief with a coming soon site called “the other google” at www.theothergoogle.com

Jesus Christ is in my Sprite"

Porous Walker will be showing at fifty24sf through July 26. They’re website is www.fifty24sf.com

HELLO? HELLO!

Real Dolls: Kinkster Deluxe for the Loaded & Lonesome (XXX)

Posted in I like big butts & I can not lie, Psyche & Sexuality, Sex & XXX, SPOOKY KABUKI, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“I am doll eyes
Doll mouth, doll legs
I am doll arms, big veins, dog bait.”
— Hole

Wendsday night’s episode of CSI New York — “Sex, Lies & Silicone” — involved a plot line about the Real Doll phenomenon. I don’t normally watch CSI but when I saw this trailer, I had my Ro-beau punch a few buttons on the tevo. 

If you’re out of the lurid loop, Real Dolls are eerily “realistic” life-size love dolls. Has Kelly Lebrock been in your spank bank since you were a pimply kid in the 80’s? Ever since you rented Wierd Science? Get you a slotted-piggy and start saving up. Well-to-do deviants can skip the piggy and go straight to  RealDoll.com  They can create their ideal woman as though they were Gary and Wyatt.  (I LOVED Wierd Science and can still quote Gary and Wyatt. Which may explain my obscene interest in this mad scientist insanity.)

This is not your horn-dog Uncle’s blow up doll. Real Dolls are high end silicone sex dolls with three fancy orifices. A Real Doll is the “Ferrari of love dolls, ” says Matt Krivicke, Creative Director of Abyss Creations.”It’s the most expensive highest quality love doll on the market.” If yer gonna pony up 7 grand for a poseable pin-up, you gotta do more than press your lips around the rubber valve and blow. You’ll need to make some tough choices.

At the Real Doll Web site you can choose among nine body types, 14 faces, five skin tones, six eye colors, a palette of makeup colors, 10 wigs, and three different pubic hair styles. Save your pennies, and for $6,499 plus shipping, you can have your very own synthetic woman sent directly to your home. (Salon.com)

Talk about some Bride of Frankenstein freaky-deek DELUX!

Um, lady, yer not planning on using that on me are you?

Serious afficonados of this luxury item– ” idollators” — often have a whole harem of faux femmes. Which is surely less complicated than having even one real girl.  

What kind of wierdo creepazoid would shell out dollars for a doll with a dick hole? The answer to that is all over the board. Even veering dangerously close to home.

Flinch at the notion of a man having sex with an imitation woman and classify him: lonely loser. Pathological creep. Misogynist. Potential rapist. Sicko. True enough, some men who have sex with Real Dolls are creepy, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want to be alone with. But not all. Many are simply lonely — some tragically so. Others are disfigured or infirm. Some are oddly sweet, like Davecat, for whom a Real Doll is a “teddy bear with benefits.” And others proclaim their normalcy and defend their Real Dolls as no different than a 3-D version of a Playboy centerfold. (Salon)

Hey, I know, let’s ask one of them c-zoids. This guy makes the case for Real Dolls, while also making your stomach lurch.

The Robot says Real Dolls are too bizarre to not want one. “If I was rich, I’d buy you one for your birfday, baby,” he once promised, which riled until he revealed his ace: they are available in magically delicious skin colors like alien green or sci-fi lavender. Oh hell yea! I’d sully that cartoon wench like nobody’s biz-ness. Which I suspect is the REAL reason why the Robot is keen on the idea of bringing a Real Doll home. (To the extent that he actually is. Which isn’t much, not 7 G’s much.)

I’m about to give details above and beyond TMI so if your easily offended, skip ahead. 

OK, here goes… 

Years ago I had this yummy dream where I was wearing a cartoonish strap-on dildo on the outside of my jeans, as like an accessory, to go with my thug-rolled dungarees & wife-beater tank. Until that dream I thought Freud’s penis envy was total bullshit. But goof knows I love to accessorize! I’ve wanted a strap-on ever since. I began to hint around and swore that I only wanted it as like a lewd jewel, to wear underneath a flouncy girl-bomb dress. A naughty secret stolen in a petticoat, tucked into frothy layers of tulle. I wanna frock out with my cock out!  He began to hint around that maybe he’d let me do more with my new toy. Yea, I know you, and you’ll end up wanting to ass rape me, which might be OK.  RB found a harness in pale pink leather — it’ll match yer Plush D afro! — and picked out a springy fleshy dong in translucent pink. When it arrived in the mail, it wasn’t as petite as he’d hoped. As I began to cock-strut around the house, lines of worry furrowed into his forehead. Yay! I wanna stick it in things!  Which is where a blue-skinned babe like trickster Krishna would come in damn handy. And no, don’t bother emailing saying you know just the gal-pal for me, cause I can’t cheat, not even with girls. I just don’t have the temperament for it.

In all honesty, I’d never spend 7000 bucks on a squishy hole when there’s other things to spring for: fingerless Chanel gloves, flouncy Miu Miu dresses, Anna Sui Kimonos, Phillip Treacy hats, Marc Jacobs platform pumps. Aaaaaahhhhh, mmmmmm. An ice cream trunk, a lazy hazy trip to Amsterdam, a steampunk laptop!  Oh oh oh YES! Besides, lube is cheap and men can be manipulated. I mean, men have open minds. Especially when it comes to all things bedroom.

With only 9 body types, I doubt they’d have the fleshy bouncy bottom of my lezbo dreams. If I’m gonna go gay, I want a big ‘ole booty that I can go to town on like I’m Tinto Brass on acid. A tiny Barbie bum is a serious deal-breaker.  And I’m not the only one for whom junk in the trunk is a concern. Check out this informational video about the Real Doll factory. Watch as Big C sez “I like big butts and I cannot not lie.” Or something to that affect.

Awww, what a happy ending, so sweet. Big C sweeps big-booty Judy off her feet. But was her booty really that big? Size 6 big just ain’t BIG enough for me!

“I am doll parts
Bad skin, doll heart
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do
He only loves those things because he loves to see them break
I fake it so real, I am beyond fake”
— Hole

So, how creepy was this post? Man oh man, are you gonna have some weird (wet) dreams tonight! SPOOKY KABUKI strikes again!

A Ghost (in the machine) Story

Posted in Art & Culture, Books & Writing, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Psyche & Sexuality, Romance, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“Sarah Wolfe is about to fall backwards. The thick walls that seperate the past from the present are crumbling, but she doesn’t know it yet.”– Nick Bantock

While plotting out a properly eerie week of SPOOKY KABUKI, it was always my intention to follow up the steampunk post with a GHOST (in the machine) STORY. But I’m all the hungrier for The Venetian’s Wife  after a recent jolt of Indian myth in the movie “Sita Sings the Blues.”  The Venetian’s Wife is one of many disturbingly beautiful books by Nick Bantock. Bantock specializes in mythic image-laden visions, crossed connections and mysterious correspondence. Bantock is the bastard child of the trickster god Eshu who has haunted the machines of man for as long as we’ve been trying to communicate through wires.

The Venetian’s Wife is about communication, connection, art and Hindu spirituality. It’s about the past & the present. It’s about a spiritual and sexual awakening. It’s a lush soulful story that makes your cells hum. It’s a romance, a travelogue, a voyeuristic peek into the communications between the living and the dead. But mostly it’s a ghost story.

Ghost is a very broad term and although I have met no others of my ilk, I am assuming that is what I am.

This is no joke. I am deadly serious. After I was struck down by lightning back in 1469, I found myself drifting aimlessly without a real comprehension of time. I was neither in nor out of the physical world; I had no memory, only a vague consciousness that took succor from any source of electricity I came across. One day I encountered a new conductor and became hypnotized by the vibrating electrical pulses. I tried to get closer to the charge — I pressed myself toward the heart of the glow, and, without warning, I became saturated with light. My memory returned.

This beauty is a feast for that third eye and an oddly perfect October read. Published in 1996, The Venetian’s Wife is worth a (re)visitation. Pull it down from the shelf and blow the dust off the spine. Borrow it from the library. Hunt it down at Amazon. Enjoy!

Bantock is a beasty of mystery.
Bantock is a beasty of mystery.

Check back all week for more SPOOKY KABUKI. There’s more tricks and more treats to come.

Showtime’s Californication Makes My Brain & Girl-bits Tumescent

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Books & Writing, Psyche & Sexuality, Sex & XXX, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 15, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I’m madly in love with Showtime’s “Californication, ” especially this new season. It’s one of the only shows where the writer character actually ACTS and TALKS like a writer. I feel so comfy when I’m watching it. Like I’m hanging out with my Precocious Dandy and we’re chain smoking and talking a mile a minute; flexing our verbiage muscles and screaming bits of poetry into one another’s besotted faces. I feel like my truest self getting all giggety when the word “tumescent” makes an appearance in tawdry dirty talk. Which is to say that I feel like a word nerd, an asshole, an arrogant bastard, a brainy ego-maniac, a cerebral kinkster — A WRITER.

Californication-Season-1

I buy Duchovny as the the disillusioned writer Hank Moody. He makes it work. He slings his words and he slings his cock with writerly strangeness. I could eat it up with a coke spoon! Yum. Hell, I’d snort this sucker up. It’s that damn delicious. I was a fan of Duchovny’s Fox Mulder: porn watching, sunflower seed munching insomniac FBI agent with a wide open mind. He was a FOX and very foxy, very trickster: one foot in this world, one foot in another; brilliant, inappropriate, creating through chaos. He brings all that to this role which I wasn’t sure about at first but it works. He’s Hank Moody now, not Fox Mulder. But the fox is still in there somewhere. Still full of sly tricks. I’ve been working on a longer review/ode to Warren Zevon. Someone working on Californication is a Warren Zevon fan… I wonder who it is? Again, very writerly. Zevon was a writer’s rocker. But I had to post this today because I’m just giddy over this new season. This is a show for smarties — crossword puzzle fans & other word nerds, writers, fuckers, freaks with tumescent cerebrums.

tu·mes·cent 

adj.

1. Somewhat tumid.
2. Becoming swollen; swelling
Trixie: It’s hardly cheating.
Hank: I’m pretty sure it is.
Trixie: Maybe you’re right. Sometimes my whore logic gets all fucked up. But I can tell you that there’s a lot of husbands and boyfriends out there who would not file that under cheating.
Hank: Well, call me an old fuddy-duddy but I think anytime the tumescent head makes an appearance, it’s cheating
Trixie: Is that good dirty talk, like if I said to a client “You’re so fucking tumescent right now” would that be hot?
Hank: Mmmm. Makes my wiener feel a little weird, but that’s just me — I like WORDS.

The scene I love, the scene above, is about one minute and 50 seconds in. Mmmm. Makes my girly parts a bit engorged. Which reminds me: if you don’t like words and I mean ALL words, good and bad, then this show (and this blog) are not for you. You must appreciate the value of an f-bomb if you watch Californication. (Oh how I miss Deadwood… sigh. Talk about a work of wordy genius. All you brainy cocksuckers who’ve never seen Deadwood run out and rent it ASAP.)

**Tried to find a clean clip without this murder-worthy ad banner but no luck. Sorry about that.**

%d bloggers like this: