Archive for the Romance & Relationships Category

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.

Hot Mummy Love is Some Sexy Ass Gentle

Posted in Romance & Relationships, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , on October 28, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Some would consider this post a trick.

I forwarded a link (to its original post on my myspace blog) to a dear friend and he emailed this reply: “I’ve been rickrolled!” I had to ask him what that meant. He said “When someone, a normally trustworthy someone, sends you a link that you think is gonna be something really cool but instead you’re subjected to a Rick Astley song.” For my friend it was definitely a TRICK and the perfect excuse (finally) to use the term “Rickrolled.” Glad I could be of service. Even I admit it definitely fits the “Rickroll” bill.

Others may consider it a treat.

Either way, it’s SPOOKY KABUKI!

I have a soft spot for Howard Jones. I don’t love him like I do Soundtrack or Turbo or Gluecifer, it’s not like that. It’s quieter than that, girlier, coming from someplace young and sentimental and brave. I used to love this video in junior high. I’d stay up late on the phone while my skater boyfriend whispered sweet nothings and this would play on MTV. I loved those mummies!

Those mummies ARE love to me. We all have these deep sad owies, injured souls swaddled in bandages. At night those mummies crawl into that bed with the notch-less bedposts and softly unwrap one another. Tell me where it hurts? Here, here, here. kiss kiss kiss.

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

Anyone whose ever met my man knows that I found someone with an “interior smile”. Now fer some tasty freeze in NYC… and yes, I know they’re in London but I’m more of a butterscotch dip cone on Bowry kind of girl.

Did this video inspire you to mummidom for Halloween? Make your own mummy costume and then make hot mummy love like some sexy ass gentle.

Amy Pops! Poehler’s Lil’ Punkin Head

Posted in Romance & Relationships, TV with tags , , , , , , on October 26, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Instead of bringing it to the news desk for SNL’s Weekend Update, Amy Poehler was bringing life into the world. A funny lil’ punkin head just in time for Halloween.

Amy Poehler and Will Arnett had a boy. They named him Archie. They’re such dorks. I love it. Archie! Who names their baby Archie? A nice comic book name for a comic duo.

Sita Sings the Blues: 1920’s Cartoon Bollywood Love Story

Posted in Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, I like big butts & I can not lie, Movies & Movie Stars, Mythos, Romance & Relationships, Spirituality & Religion with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 22, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I was enchanted by the film “Sita Sings the Blues” from the moment I laid eyes on a movie-still in the film fest catalog, which I spotted while peering over the shoulder of a strange man. We were in line to see an pre-screening of W and I hadn’t brought my own reading materials. I was trying to be covert but the image of Sita threw me off. I began to coo and tug at the man’s jacket. He tried to turn the page and I protested. Sita didn’t sing to him like she did me.

The imagery is definitely girly in a wondrous, playful way. It set off the glam clang that tolls in my soul. The colors, the costumery, the romantic gossip of three shadow puppets, the monkey warrior, the blue-skinned bad boy whose only bad cause he’s so good, the 1920’s jazz music (throaty vocals of old Annette Hanshaw recordings.) Imagine the saturation of Bollywood in a sacred cartoon.

There’s masculinity at work too, which is very true to Indian myth. The feminine and masculine swirl together visually as the love story unlooses. Nina Paley made an odd choice when she decided to tell the story using 3+ styles of illustration/animation. I wasn’t sure at first because I fancied one in particular — the one used in the scenes where Sita belts out Hanshaw’s obsessive blues songs. The Robo-boy said, “It looks like psychedelic punk rock! Like Shag goes to Bollywood.” Of course! If Shag departed from his usual tiki triptychs or beatnik depictions of mods living the good life. If Shag shifted from all things hipster to all things trickster. The animation’s delightfully familiar yet deliciously fresh. Mythic & modern. Which is why the different styles idea grew on me. It spoke to the multi-faceted aspect of reality. We all paint our own stories, from our own unique perspectives. Archetypes and myth have been with us through cultural changes, beauty ideals, value shifts. There is always a mutation of myth as the story is lobbed. The morphic field fattens as the myth grows. It was quite insightful really, on Paley’s part, to present the same two characters with staid antiquity in one moment and whimsical agony the next.

This eternal essence of human energy was also evoked through the use of 1920’s jazz recordings. The gods are always with us, wherever and whenever  we are. They create and re-create as we move through our unique versions of the world. Through us, they live a mirrored infinity of lives. The heartbreak of the goddess is carried like a torch — her heartbreak is our heartbreak. Why, our heart break is so profound an ache, so original a shiver, that it must be the drama of an ancient deity. Thus the modern, apparently autobiographical, story of “Nina” and the enormity of her hurt. Which brings me to my one critique — why did the goddess of 2008 have to be so dull? So dumpy? It was out of place in such a stunning, glamorous film and it didn’t have to be that way. In fact, the beauty who sat beside me is a heartbroken goddess and damn if she doesn’t look like one. With a head of hair not unlike Sita’s fabulous mane.  Next to sensual Sita, “Nina” was just a lumpling with female pattern baldness and a proboscis like Wimpy from Popeye. Sunday Comics’ Cathy is sexier than “Nina.” And more likeable. Maybe it’s just me but I like my mortals to have a little oomph. Especially next to luscious Sita who sounds like a jazz diva, has a belly dancer’s wiggle and possesses the crackling aura of a silent screen star.

I love cartoons especially when they’re for grown-ups. I prefer my XXX animated. There’s none of that here, but with Sita’s sexy moves it wasn’t hard for my mind to go there. I wouldn’t be surprised if a Sita+Rama sex tape surfaces. I can’t wait! I love nothing more than a mythic beasty-man so a tantric hunk with skin the shade of laffy taffy? Hell yea!

It wasn’t just Sita’s man that had me lusty. That chick had some fine loot! Exotic saris, bling galore, a flying bed, a peacock gramophone.

When she held a banana up to her ear, my heart panged for my 7th grade banana phone. If only I still had that phone I could take all my calls like a curvaceous Indian love goddess. Speaking of cool stuff — when this baby comes out on DVD one of y’all beloveds better wrap it up in a turquoise bow for me. I must have access to this film at any hour of the day or night. When I’m hurting, I can play “count the crowns” while wearing a rhinestone tiara. That’ll make my skull tingle and my heart soar. At 3 am, when I need some mental glitter, I can pop it in and SPARKLE.

“Sita Sings the Blues” is a a magical telling of the Indian epic myth Ramayana. (“The Greatest Break-up Story Ever Told.”) Sita’s too good for Rama but don’t bother tellin’ her that! The mythic masterpiece was written, directed, produced, designed and edited by one extreme talent — Nina Paley. If you want to learn more about this amazing film, check out the website  or peek in on Nina Paley’s blog here on wordpress.

This is my Candy Condo; I’m a witch who might eat you.

Posted in Art & Culture, Friendship, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Psyche & Sexuality, Romance, Romance & Relationships, Spirituality & Religion with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 14, 2008 by alphabetfiend
“I was born to love magic, all its wonder to know…” – Nick Drake
Got lost on someone else’s blog today, so lost that I fully expected to see a house with graham cracker shutters and chocolate bar shingles, a “stone” garden out front piled high with gum drops.
Eat-it-up wonderful by artist Sun Wahyu.

Eat-it-up wonderful by artist Sun Wahyu.

 I’m thinking about blogs and all the different forms they take… how in a way, in the right circumstances, they can become gingerbread houses in the fairytale woods. If you examine the architecture you can see the secrets inside. So many blogs are the fort in the bushes or the crawl space in the basement. The place where you go to connect with who you really are. In a way, I was wishing that mine was like that — desperately emotional, startlingly intimate. But then I’m startlingly intimate all the time, no one’s really startled anymore. Least of all, me. Do I fit into this community? Or do I stick out? When I go out poking around, should I leave a bread crumb trail?

We are here, on this planet, with one another and wow that’s magical! But if you are like me and always pointing out the magic, well, that’s not always a welcome intrusion into the day-to-day importance of cell phones, ipods, computers and the making of money to buy these machines. I’m machine-friendly. Kinda. I love a boy who is part robot. It’s not a bad thing. I think we are co-evolving with machines in ways we don’t even realize. We are co-evolving with everything and everyone. Our loved ones, our allys, even our enemies. Everyone. I never knew that day, 8 years ago, the day I met my doggie, my Prince Nakula, the power his gaze would have over me. I’m not the same person that I was. His beasty royalty has changed me. So machines… machines aren’t the devil. Look at Diego Rivera’s paintings! The spiritual and the mechanical can coincide within the crossed wings of a dragonfly. With the right mindset. Which is, at the very least, not to lose sight of the magical aspect of the machine.

Rockefeller's an ass for depriving NYC of this pure genius.

Cellphones, ipods, laptops…. these are communication machines. Are we communicating with them or are we hiding inside of them?

Is the ibook replacing the “I”?

Are myspace friends replacing real friends?

What is happening with blogging? Are we connecting with strangers in lieu of our loved ones? Or are we just connecting and that’s enough? Does the net (blogs, myspace, facebook) just give us a better chance to find our tribe members? To narrow down the search? Or is it just making it easier for advertisers to find us? As we sit in wait in our quirky niches. I gave in to myspace last spring after the RobotBoy round about double-dared. He thought I’d enjoy the photos and the blogging and the little notes passed like valentines. He was right, which riles. I show off piks of my ink and am inundated with tattoo ads. I confess to a glamour fetish and espouse the psychic importance of pageantry; extolling the virtues of crowns, feather head-pieces, gold lame, glitter, wigs. So they hawk toupees. I love the circus with a suspicious fervor, as though I spent a former life as the bearded lady who fucked the mer-man in the wee hours in our carnie wagon. I could care less about a cheap hotel stay in Vegas.

A-ha! I caught you! What are you doing here, in the wee hours, in my sticky web?

Did I just see you take a bite of my licorice-woven welcome mat?

Did you just devour my butterscotch doorknob?

Alphabetfiend is a trickster fox in the fairy tale woods.
 
** After an exhausting search of gingerbread images, I finally found the above image that had the sort of dizzying eerie exciting mood I was after, artwork by another “blogger” (of course! it would be.) Sun Wahyu of “Secret Society for the Sleepless Sleepwalker” … wow… what a name! I’ve definitely got my third eye on that secret society and you should too. And of course it would be called a secret society. All the better to make my point with, my dearie, said the wolfish grandmother to Little Red.

Punk Rock Gospel Blog: Hedwig’s “Origin of Love”

Posted in Art & Culture, Cinema & Filmmaking, Feminism (Shades of Gray), Friendship, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Funny Femmes, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Movies & Movie Stars, Music & Life & Sundays, Mythos, Psyche & Sexuality, Rock & Roll, Romance & Relationships, Spirituality & Religion with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 12, 2008 by alphabetfiend

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.

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.

Brad’s “Angelina” Portrait has Gentle Bedroom Intimacy

Posted in Art & Culture, Cinema & Filmmaking, Fame & Celebrity, Feminism (Shades of Gray), Movies & Movie Stars, Photography, Psyche & Sexuality, Romance & Relationships, Style & Fashion with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 11, 2008 by alphabetfiend
older than me now, more constant more real,
and the fur and the mouth and the innocence
turned to hair and contentment,
that hangs in abasement, a woman now standing where once there was only a girl.
–The Cure
****************************************
Angelina Jolie’s expression is sweetly victorious; her gaze, joyous. Three tiny digits reach for the starlet’s nipple. She smiles softly at the man behind the camera — father of her newborn twins and stolen soul mate, Brad Pitt. The actress who once wore a vial of genuine redneck blood around her neck is now the picture of maternal triumph. Blood’s washed away by milk. Milk reigns now; the new symbol of life-essence and vitality in this next page of Jolie’s open book.

angelina jolie

 The photo is hailed as “an astonishingly intimate portrait” and a  “stunningly candid moment” by The Daily Mail  (Donna McConnell and Natalie Trombetta.)

 “The Hollywood star sits with brunette locks tumbling over her shoulders, with the top of her blouse pulled down to expose her breast – which is somewhat covered by the tiny fingers which just reveal the presence of one of her suckling twins.” (Daily Mail)

Jolie seems to be developing a new ease of being that once eluded the frenetic actress. Insulated by the family she’s built with Pitt, Jolie knows a new comfort and sense of safety. She’s more at home in her own bones. Her skin has become a record of family and future: tattoos mark the latitude and longitude of her children’s birth places; scars & stretchmarks speak of pregnancy and birth. For such a renowned beauty, it’s a welcome escape from the vanity of Hollywood.

‘I’m with a man who’s evolved enough to look at my body and see it as more beautiful, because of the journey it has taken and what it has created. He genuinely sees it that way.’

It’s this evolved eye that found her fulsome face in the viewfinder. With a decisive click, Pitt captured a butterfly in the net that so many transitory moments escape. Photography has long been a passion of Pitts, along with architecture. Pitt is clearly interested in shape, form, structure — this comes through in the spectacular photo which graces the cover of the forthcoming issue of W. Jolie’s pillow lips look comfy, at home in this scene of domestic bliss.  Angelina looks to be wearing a classic cotton nightgown, a “Laura Ingall’s nightie” in cotton as soft as grannie bed linens. The black and white portrait has a dreamy quality and a purity that is due, no doubt, to the privacy of the moment. 

The Camera Man

For his birthday, Jolie presented Pitt with a Littman 45. Lucky man. He’s also fortunate to have such a stunning face as a subject. It is Pitt’s first time shooting a cover. In W‘s July 2005 issue, Pitt collaborated with Steven Klein to create a series of photos that cast him and Jolie as a married couple in the cozy turbulence of the 1960’s .

In Filmmaker magazine’s filmmaker blog, Scott Macaulay described the evocative cinematic experience of the Klein-Pitt project:

In a world where so many movies just don’t deliver, sometimes you have to find cinematic pleasures elsewhere — in music, in a videogame, or in a fashion magazine. And while I wouldn’t have thought to compare the pages to “a small independent film” (“It wasn’t a photography shoot. It wasn’t a celebrity shoot,” Klein said. “We looked at it like a small, independent film, an investigation into the breakdown of a family.”), I did find in this spread the artful compositions, sneaking subtext, and yes, celebrity star power of good cinema. If you haven’t seen it, the portfolio, which Pitt co-edited with Klein, features the stars as an all-American couple with family circa 1963 living alienated lives in a cold-war neo-paradise. Having recently watched Antonioni’s L’Eclisse, I thought back on that film’s fractured couplings in an H-bomb-fearing age as I turned the pages of this strange new form of celebrity portraiture. No disrespect to Doug Liman, but, in fact, Klein’s Wspread is more arrestingly cinematic than anything in Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

Not everyone loved the 58-page spread. Newly dumped Jennifer Aniston found it hurtful and in poor taste. Of Pitt’s horrendous timing, Aniston told Vanity Fair,  

“There’s a sensitivity chip that’s missing.”

I bought that issue of W but, unlike Macaulay, I was never able to savor the spread. It was just too sad. I’m not a big Jen-fan but damn that had to hurt. If strangers were thinking of Aniston’s feelings, it must’ve crossed Pitt’s mind. Or should have. For Pitt, Angelina and art came before Aniston’s heartbreak. But the hurt is old and time has told. This issue of W should be less guilt-inducing and thus more enjoyable.

Back Together! Sarah Silverman & Jimmy Kimmel Hug/Hump It Out

Posted in Feminism (Shades of Gray), Friendship, I Heart Funny Femmes, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Romance & Relationships, Sex & XXX, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 9, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“Super freak, super freak. That girl’s a super freak. Ohhhhh. She’s a very kinky girl. The kind you don’t take home to mother. She will never let your spirits down. Once you get her off the street, ow girl.”  — Rick James, bitch!

Looks like Sarah Silverman & Jimmy Kimmel are back on. Thank Goof! I don’t normally give a shite about the trials and tribulations of celebrity couples but I loved this pair. They were my Brad & Angelina. Except, y’know, totally gross.

head over heels in love?

head over heels in love?

Ah, when two freaks find each other… makes my heart go pitter pat. When wierdos wed, I break out my silk hankie and weep at the cosmic wonder of the world. So I was (dare I say it?) devastated when I heard that Jimmy Kimmel & Sarah Silverman had separated. I kicked them out of the freak museum and cast them as fools. The break was reportedly mutual but a sad Silverman on TMZ begged differently. Was Kimmel was the only fool in this snafu? Fool! Fool! Fucker! Fatso! I hate you Jimmy Kimmel! Then I read in US that while dining with a friend, Sarah

“grew somber and became enthralled in a heart-to-heart conversation with her pal. She was talking and it looked like he was listening and then advising her. Mutual friend Jonah Hill – who has appeared in comedy skits on Kimmel’s ABC show – was dining in the restaurant and also stopped by to say hello. Jonah’s appearance definitely had an effect on her. They spoke for just a minute. And after he left, Sarah looked momentarily pensive.”

I wanted to spit a loogy in Kimmel’s squinty eyes. My hate surged when Silverman won an Emmy for the “I’m Fucking Matt Damon”video which, ironically, was a 5 year anniversary gift for Kimmel. While accepting the  award, Silverman said

“Thanks to the person for whom this whole video was made: Jimmy Kimmel, who broke my heart – ohh, who’ll always have a place in my heart.” 

Big fat juicy tears welled up in my eyes. Maybe I wasn’t the only one? The Enquirer claimed that Jimmy was making beg-some blotto phonecalls and now, a month later, the pair’s been spotted pawing each other. No one’s officially copped to it (although Kimmel copped a feel in front of photogs.) Barbara Walters tried to worm it out of Silverman on “The View” but Silverman sweetly deflected,

“In total respect to you and your legendness, I do not feel beholden or compelled to define my personal relationship to you. It’s not like a big drama thing. We’re just not, like, defining it. We’re just being right now. Is that Okaaay?”

Yes! It’s OK. It’s more than OK. It’s a beauteous thing. But if there’s gonna be any more heart break, it better be Kimmel’s. Next time Silverman better fuck Matt Damon for reals! Except she doesn’t want Matt Damon, she wants Jimmy. Silverman (who describes herself as “a 13 year old boy”) once said of their romance,

“We really, really, really like each other.”

Silverman hasn’t always felt that way. On the occasion of their 2001 meeting at a Comedy Central roast of Playboy’s patriarch Hugh Hefner, Silverman said of Roastmaster Kimmel,

“Jimmy Kimmel, everyone. He’s fat and has no charisma. Watch your back, Danny Aiello .”

And Kimmel hasn’t always been such an ingrate, saying of his bawdy belle,

“Sarah is funny and smart and good to look at. Plus, she likes fat guys. What more could I ask?”

I was gonna hate Jimmy Kimmel forever if he didn’t wise up and win back his lunatic ladylove. Hopefully he realized that he’ll never find a cutie more suitable a soul mate than Sarah Silverman. I wasn’t a Kimmel-fan before he dated Silverman (who I adore like a best friend who asks you at 3am if you could please go digging around in her cooch cause she’s sure she lost a tampon up there somewhere.) Although, like Sarah, I love a man with with a big belly laugh and the belly to go with. It was Kimmel’s ability to attract Silverman and the things she said of him that made me a fan. So shoot me already for even giving a damn. I usually shrug at celebrity fray so how did I get into such a huff over Hollywood fluff?  They’re too freaky-deeky to be fluff. After five funny years, I was hooked on the dynamic duo. Maybe I’m star-farked and dumb but I’m not the only one.  

The Evil Beet blogged, “After breaking all our hearts by splitting up, it looks like Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel are back in each other’s hearts and pants. As much as I hate Jimmy Kimmel, this is kind of heart warming. You just hate to see true love broken apart.”

To which someone commented,”Disclaimer: I kind of hate them both. That said, YIPPEE! I am so relieved! I don’t know why their breakup totally bugged me, but it did.”

The Superficial rejoiced, “Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel have reunited after getting chased out of their respective villages with torches.”

See! It’s not just me! I’m not the only auntie who wants those two love birds to build a nice nest. (Silverman has stated publicly that she won’t marry until gay marriage is legalized. Yay!) More aptly, I’m one half – the pretty half – of my own perverted partnership and I can’t help but crave a double date with those two. We could get kicked out of yacht clubs together! Pose for inebriated photos! Sarah and I could share lipstick in the ladies room and then maybe a few french kisses which we’d later blame on our drunkenness. We could go bowling or get stoned. Pig out and then lay around on Turkish floor pillows, listen to a few records and fart.

Funny thing: the pair we usually pal around with — Peaches Peltz and the Prof –have often been subjected to my sage advice:

“You two freaks need to stick together! ‘Til Freakdom Cum! Ain’t nobody gonna get either of youse. No one else’d get the joke.”

 

These two freaks need to stick together!

Hold on tight, freaks!

So it brings me pervy peace to hear that Silverman & Kimmel are back in one another’s hairy arms. Wallowing in one another’s hilarious hearts. They’re a kooky, brave, insanely irreverent pair. And adorable. And sexy! So sexy. I once watched as some A-list blonde used her guest spot on “The Jimmy Kimmel Show” to recount a Sundance Film Fest story about staying in an adjoining hotel room to the raunchy couple. Who, in true form, spent the trip engaged in all manner of loud naughtiness. Nice. 

An interviewer once asked Silverman if she had a pet name for Kimmel’s Penis. Sarah cooed, “I just call it HOME.”

Awwwww.

Welcome home, Sarah. Surely you’ve been sorely missed.

“That girl is pretty wild now. The girl’s a super freak. The kind of girl you read about in new-wave magazine. That girl is pretty kinky, she’s a super freak, super freak, she’s super-freaky, yow. Super freak, super freak. She’s a very special girl. The kind of girl you want to know. From her head down to her toenails” 

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

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — A-TX writer girl who loves a super freak. Take’s one to love one. Right, Daddy? You’ve been gone too long. I miss you like hell. It’s thanks to you that I recognize the beauty in a beasty freak. You were so right. If you meet a member of your tribe, hold on. Don’t lose sight. Us freaks need to stick together. Maybe you can send that wisdom via some ghosty means to these two kids or else I fear they’ll be lonely forever. Oh, lonely. I’m so lonely for you. October 9. The worst day ever. But today’s OK, I guess. I wrote this for you. Did ya see the part about getting tossed out of the yacht club? Wink wink. I love you, you handsome devil!

“Dub & Dumber” — a hip hop attack on W politics

Posted in I heart hip hop, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I like big butts & I can not lie, politics, Rock & Roll, Romance & Relationships, Sex & XXX with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 9, 2008 by alphabetfiend

After yesterday’s post about the similarities between McCain & Bush — “McCain in Bush’s Pocket, Playing Pool” — I got to thinking about how bad another Bush would really be. It would either kill is or burn us to the ground so we could start anew (an Alexander Cockburn perspective.) Quality of life since Bush took office has steady declined which is not about economics but about a collective broken heart. I decided to dig up this rap a la my hip hop alter ego Plush D.  Can’t take no more of Dub & Dumber!

Bush's White House is a perfect fit for wanna-be Dictator McCain

Bush's White House is a perfect fit for wanna-be Dictator McCain.

Dub & Dumber  (A Rhyme attack by Plush D. Pow!)

The White House casts a shadow on our home.

In this, I know I’m not alone.

Our rooms reverberate with riot.

Outrage, fear, fret.

No PEACE, no quiet.

Alla dis has got my baby on a bummer,

can’t take no more of Dub & Dumber.

 

Eight too-long years of crime & con,

the Ugly Duckling ate its swan.

They lit the wick,

they dropped the bomb,

blew countless homes asunder.

Can’t abide by Dub & Dumber.

 

TV, radio, dot.com

anxious obsession, defeated depression,

safe to say I miss him.

Tho beautiful, these beloved breasts are no distraction

from feuds & warring factions,

trumped up “weapons of mass destruction,”

ignorant assumption.

Today a fighter, once a lover.

Had my fill of Dub & Dumber.

 

Why is our Mr. President

massaging the shoulders of the German Chancellor?

Tho she cringes with discomfort,

he’s self-imposing as a cancer.

If Cheney shoots his friends,

how’d you like to be his enemy?

We need free

We need free

Fuck their careless tyranny!

It’s sick how they inflict such trauma.

We need free of Dub & Dumber.

 

Took a sunset cruise in the car,

got more sad news on NPR,

an old-fashioned luxury anyhow,

gas prices climbing like they are.

Cause killing is commerce,

gross insatiable blood thirst.

Their agenda always comes first.

How I long for the old days,

basking in his green-eyed gaze,

a softness where I used to laze,

felt so pretty, so safe, so warm,

but now his brow is war-torn.

The White House, a blackness in our home,

evicted, eviscerated, all alone,

windows rattle with foreboding thunder.

They’re murderers, them Dub & Dumber.

 

Babes in arms,

I used to be one, sigh.

Give a teenager a gun.

Good idea.

Fitful sleep, dream of sirens,

sweaty sheets, bloody palms.

We go along to get along.

I never agreed to this.

I never wanted this.

I said no to this.

I’m ashamed of this.

Raise yer hand if yer pissed.

Say  “MISSISSIPPI GODDAMN!”

But this shit aint never been about us.

When the rain pours down,

they let us drown.

Too busy killing to protect us.

They left that city to sink under.

Just can’t trust that Dub & Dumber.

 

I hate it,  all of it,

the sick & twisted gross of it,

suspicious recounts,

voters locked out,

nepotism like a virus.

Stole the god-forsaken office,

then forced a war upon us,

wielded fear like a weapon against us.

Terrorism!  A grenade of a word!

How could we have allowed this?

Tirades at TV!

Curses at computers!

Riled at Radios!

Stuck inside our own homes.

Suddenly everyone’s a loner,

isolation courtesy of Dub & Dumber.

 

He got a white house havoc in his heart,

after I fixed that shit up so nice, made it homey.

Used to lounge around in it,

genie in her bottle,

now it’s chaos something alful.

It’s cause he cares but still.

He naps, astral travels to Iraq,

that’s not exactly restful,

and less & less of him comes back.

Some kind of creepy death pact.

Got somethin’ to say,

maybe a goofy antidote about yer day?

Well, take a fucking number.

So goddamned sick of Dub & Dumber.

 

Eight too-long years,

titties sag, hopes lag,

and someone sez “if you don’t like it, leave.”

Please!

Stand up & call it bullshit!

Don’t be afraid to name it.

That’s what makes a patriot.

One more thing, I probably shouldn’t mention it —

but is mine the only  man whose lost his taste for bush?

 

C’mon lover, turn off the TV.

Now whaddaya see?

Baby, it’s me, Plush D.

Howzabout a little bed-in for peace?

All I am saying is give me a chance.

A lennon-esque healing,

a laying-on of the hands.

I’m yours, you yoko-ono me.

 

Gonna cast my vote for Obam,

maybe then I’ll get a little som-som,

ease the heartbreak in my home.

High time the White House had some hue,

a leader with audacious hope & high IQ.

Dub is done.

Impeach!

Impeach!

Impeach!

Peaches say, “IMPEACH!”

Peltz has cocked her gun.

IMPEACH! IMPEACH! IMPEACH!

I’m Peaches Peltz and I approve this message!

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