Archive for etsy

Mad Men Sexpot Gets Wooly for ETSY

Posted in I like big butts & I can not lie, Style & Fashion, Technicolor Pop with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 21, 2010 by alphabetfiend
If that luminous hottie on ETSY looks like steamy actress Christina Hendricks, that’s because she is Christina Hendricks.
 
 
FYI, to those men-folk among you with a nose for anything “Christina Hendricks”, but not much else, ETSY is the web phenom known to crafters as the place to sell one’s handmade wares. For fashionistas with a taste for the unique, ETSY is the # 1 go-to for a find that wasn’t cranked out in a factory.
 
 
 
Blackbird Design House hawked handmade scarves via ETSY, using Hendricks as model. You may be asking, “How can I get Hendrick’s to model my DIY?”
 
Answer: Tamara Mello, the gal behind the knitting needles, is a Hendrick’s pal.
 
The cozies looked sublime on Christina. Her milk-white skin was the perfect backdrop for some chunky, funky stitches.
 
 
 
Wrapped in lambsy fluff, her creamy throat looked lush.
And mm-mmm her smokin’ curves looked plush.
 
 
It warms the cockles of my heart that the emmy-nominated Hendricks, who plays Mad Men’s voluptuous working girl Joan Holloway, posed in the wooly wears for a friend. What a stand up gal!
 
 
 
It’s just like I always say, “It’s good to have gorgeous and generous gal-pals!”
 
Tamara Mello?
Tamara Mello’s name may sound familiar to hardcore fans of television mastermind Ryan Murphy.
 
Murphy — the man behind Fox’s famous “Glee” and FX’s “Nip Tuck”) may recall a WB show from way back called “Popular.”  Tamara Mello played petite & punky Lily Esposito, the sassy latina.
 
 
 
Also on “Popular”: Tammy Lynn Michaels, who recently refused to be bullied into break-up silence by her ex Melissa Etheridge, with whom she shares children.
 
For Murphy enthusiasts, “Popular” is worth watching on DVD. “Popular” is a “Glee” precursor where-in Murphy worked out some of the kinks in the teen-drama genre, and maybe some of his own teen angst. Fans of Murphy as an artist working in the medium of television will get a glimpse into the writer,creator and director’s creative process. Fans of “Glee” will see the progression of that idea in the days before anyone thought we were ready for weekly song and dance on TV. 
 
 
In addition to her shibori dyed scarves, Mello also makes felted trays and nesting baskets for her company Blackbird Design House. Hendrick’s did Mello a hell of a friendly favor. Hype hype hooray! People are emptying  their pockets while they gawk. Those rosy cheeks, that pouty pucker. It’s no wonder Mello’s knits have been selling out quick.
 
 
But my favorite, the one that falls like a bodice of snow drift, is still available. Mmmmm. Hmmm. Can I really justify a 130$ scarf when I live in sunny Austin?  Well, it was once on the delicious nape of a zaftig goddess, which is my very favorite kind of deity.
 
Do you s’pose osmosis works with pretty? Yummy? Supernaturally sexy?
 
If I drop the bucks will I drop dead gorgeous? 
 
*Technicolor Pop (aka Alphabetfiend aka…) is a slave to fashion with a  television vice; based in Austin, Texas.*

“Cracklins” (Sunday P.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in country music, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Music & Life & Sundays, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 26, 2010 by alphabetfiend

I gotta find some weed and some wine! I just got to find some trouble sometime!  

They’re called The Gourds. They say their music is for “the unwashed  & the well-read.” I’ve oft-referred to them as “Austin in a can”…frothy, cold and startin’ to sweat straight outta the icebox. Pop the top and out comes the sound of Austin in a musty, malty swoosh.  

The Gourds are (left to right): Max Johnston, Claude Bernard, Jimmy Smith, Keith Langford and Kevin Russell.

Goof-damn, there’s been so many good gourd-carved memories!  

Hearing ’em live for the first time ever at the tiny Cactus Cafe, a room as big as y’all’s den; dancing with Leah at Antones, on one of her last A-TX visits before she got married and became Sophia’s momma; flirting with Cha by the lake at twilight as The Gourd’s tore it up cuntry-style.  

Then there was that sticky sunset, driving into El Paso on my way to The Unified Science of Consciousness Conference in Tucson (University of Arizona.) After a long blistering day on I-10, I celebrated crossing the Texas border (finally!) by repeatedly cranking “El Paso.” Cigarette on a rumble seat, drive all day got nothing to eat. I’m Drivin’ all day,  got nothing to get me to where I’m going to. El Paso I’m going to, El Paso I’m going tooo….  

Let’s see? What else?  

Ah, the annual New Year’s Eve Masquerade Ball. One in particular, at The Parish. I wore my elaborate indian headdress & daisy yellow tights under a black mini-dress (trusty LBD of the day) and all night long I played the hell outta my tiny toy accordion! We passed a bottle of bubbly (my prize for best-dressed) and we sputtered laughing cause it was just the kinda New Year’s Eve that you expected to have as a kid, while all the Grups were out partying and you stayed home to watch the ball drop with Grandma. The RobotBoy had a robot mask and we danced all night –rung in the new year right.  

Yep, so many of the gourds-soaked memories are romantic: like “Hallelujah Shine” on the radio those days, those nights in a dark dash-lit car, when the Robot and I were first falling in love.  If you want to meet the Jesus, you gotta go down there brother. If you wanna meet Muhammad, you gotta get in the water. If you want yer hallelujah shine, you gotta go under. You gotta go under Jordan’s mighty waters. This hallelujah shine is mighty dark & old!

If we ever get married — the ‘bot and I — we’d love to have an old-fashioned country carnival: snake-charmers, burlesque dancers, fried chicken and gin-soaked watermelon. RobotBoyLoverMan would don a seer-sucker suit and candy-striped socks. My dress would be all sweet & kicky; something shorter, since a long train would collect grass-stains. Instead of flowers —  as my “bouquet” — I’d tug a swaying, bobbing bunch of balloons. My bridesmaids would sparkle beneath paper parasols, six gorgeous faces shadowed from the Mississippi sun. Speaking of that sun! Let the sucker set! As the sun melts like a butterscotch, The Gourds’ll kick off a raucaus set with “Cracklins!” (Maybe later they’d indulge with a cover of Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love.”???) 

(At this point, after 11 loyal years together, it’s worth waiting until gay marriage is legalized or until we have the budget for The Gourds.)
 
  
I’ve only  just arrived back here in Podunk, Mississippi, having come from Austin, Texas (at this point, I call both cities home… each one homey for different reasons) and after a long roadtrip, I’m thinking damn if it isn’t high-as-hell time that we featured “Cracklins” by The Gourds as a perfectly punk-ass Punk Rock Gospel selection. 
 
The song makes me wish I was a wicked cracklins connoisseur but no. I’m no fan of real-life pork skins. They’re stinky and they’re furry. I prefer my snack foods to be hairless. But hey, I got nothin’ but good things to say ’bout some weed and some wine and some trouble some time.
 

 

“Cracklins” is about recovery, reinvention, redemption! 

Reincarnation! Resurrection!! 

“Cracklins” reminds us that “living out loud” (as G*word would say) is a joyous & good thing — a great big noisyness, a holy ruckus, a prayer the gods are sure to hear!!!
 
I just gotta find a little trouble sometime.
 
When Blood of the Ram first came out( in 2004) I played “Cracklins” for my friend Mary Knott and she thought I was nuts! Especially when I started crying at the end — weeping really, like a stone statue of Mary. All overwrought & goof-touched. All giddy & awe-struck.
 
It’s been years and “Cracklins” still gives me chills.
 
Them Mississippi state police chased me, Pascagoula all the way to Metarie. I robbed a federal bank with a rack of ribs. A jar of sauce, some white bread and a bib.
 
“Cracklins” is an anarchist psalm & a trickster yodel. A holy hell holler & a crooked halo.

An ode to the outlaw! 

A sly nod to all that’s mysterious & mischievous & miraculous about the human spirit.

 Hot DAMN! 
 
Come all ye holy hedonists, this shit’s for you!

  

Listen up! 

Don’t read the lyrics until you’ve listened to the song or you will spoil the surprise at the end which is the very best part and the reason why “Cracklins” makes for good gospel.   

   

Cracklins  

31 days my fingers feel like rain. 

This jail was built on cracklins and cocaine. 

Policemen knocked me down and then charged me, 

With smokin and inciting vagrancy,

yes ‘ey did, yes ‘ey did. 

***

Chicken sneezed, eatin’ my cracklins. 

Buttercup, bloomin in the badlands. 

Kaboom kaboom, piss on the curses. 

Hospital, kiss all the nurses. 

I got to find some weed and some wine. 

I just gotta find some trouble sometime. 

***

Them Navasota troopers ran me down, 

Escorted me right out of town, 

For cherry pickin’ squirrels and feedin’ dogs, 

And dreamin of Jamaica in a fog.

Yes I did, yes I did.

***

Chicken sneezed, eatin’ my cracklins. 

Buttercup, bloomin in the badlands. 

Kaboom kaboom, piss on the curses. 

Hospital, kiss all the nurses. 

I got to find some weed and some wine. 

I just gotta find some trouble sometime.

***

Them Mississippi state police chased me, 

Pascagoula all the way to Metarie. 

I robbed a federal bank with a rack of ribs, 

A jar of sauce, some white bread and a bib.

Yes I did, Yes I did.

*** 

Chicken sneezed, eatin’ my cracklins. 

Buttercup, bloomin in the badlands. 

Kaboom kaboom, piss on the curses. 

Hospital, kiss all the nurses. 

I got to find some weed and some wine. 

I just gotta find some trouble sometime.

Time, time. I’m gonna find ya, I’m gonna get it.

*** 

I was eatin cracklins as the Feds were closin’ in. 

They watched the water as my car went rollin’ in. 

They dragged the river and notified my next of kin. 

But brother, pigs do fly and so can a man! 

When he’s full of fried pork skins!!

Yes, sir! 

Whew!

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

Love love love! 

How ’bout a talisman to honor The Gourd’s teachin’? By PaganGypsy, only $5 bucks on etsy.  

 

In the mood for pork cracklins? See Emeril Legasse’s recipe for homemade cracklins!  

 Go thee to the gourds website  

Swimming Pool Mermaid

Posted in Art Lover, I Heart Mermaids, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Sideshow Siren & Bearded Lady with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 22, 2010 by alphabetfiend
 
According to NPR the first official day of summer was yesterday. Tonight’s 6 o’clock news sez today’s the day.      

My body feels it — the summerness — and so I crave chlorine. That wavy blue scent crosses my mind in soaked zig-zags, activating that sparkly spot at the base of my spine… right above my ass crack, where my sequin-esque scales used to be.                

“It isn’t true what they say about mermaids not existing. I know they do for I’ve held one’s hand.” (Robert Fulghum)               

I’m a mermaid.               

Like how transsexual men claim to have a woman inside? Or how fat chicks claim to have a skinny chick whose trying to claw her way out? I have a mermaidy-ness that can’t be fought. She flaps her fins and I dive in.               

It’s always been that way. I’ve always mourned those missing scales, the mythic inside the human.               

I heard the siren song.               

I’d spend hours in the pool, ducking under and holding my breath, ticking away the mississippis until I could go for minutes without air. My cousin Autumn and I would play princess — spoiled mermaid princesses — with a doting Sea-King father and run of the ocean. We’d spin in the deep end, round and round and down like shimmering tornados. As the sun set, we were tired and smiley with skin like plump golden raisins.                

Unlike most kids — picky eaters who subsist on hot dogs and kraft mac n’ cheese — I gobbled raw oysters with abandon, slurping their salty-sweet meat & brine straight from the half-shell. I plucked the pink from the lobster’s red claw. I devoured scallops, mussels, mahi mahi, peachy fleshy salmon steaks. I sucked up the seaweed in my miso.                

My dad was amused by mermaid-me, cracking into my lobster and feeding me the buttery bits like he was tossing sardines to a circus seal.               

My mom, not so much. She grew weary of cleaning up my watery messes — sloshing over the tub with my tail, waves crashing onto the aqua marine tiles. She refused to make tuna fish when sloppy joes were on the stove. She struggled to twist my mop of tangled curls into elaborate french braids (more befitting of my mermaid fantasies.)               

Mom concedes that my inner mermaid came in handy the day I miraculously made it outta the deserted motel swimming pool, even though I was three and didn’t know how to swim. Over time I became a strong swimmer, self-taught and funny-lookin’ yet oddly capable. I could tread water for hours and I even swam across Stony Lake, and then around the perimeter, at Camp Storer. I was also the lone swimmer at the camp’s ass-crack of dawn “Polar Bear Swim”  — they even honored me for it with song & dance. Though I’m sure the lifeguard who met me daily, in the dark, would’ve liked that extra hour in her sleeping bag.                  

I’ve suspected the swish of a tail that wasn’t there and I sway with an unexplainable slosh in my hips.               

In Junior High, I was late for class and splashing down a long empty hallway, except it wasn’t so empty. Behind me, at least 20 feet back, was a loping skulking metal head named Lee. Looking a lot like Tommy of the same name, of Motley Crue fame, Lee was a campus legend. Rumor was, Lee drove a blue Camaro to his 8th grade classes. I was new to 7th grade when Lee called out from the distant shadows:               

If you shake that thing any harder, it’s gonna fall off!               

I was mortified — how dare this horny metal-head burn-out bum think for even one second that my mermaid moves were meant for him. It wasn’t about that for me — sex, seduction, show-offery — and so I tried to re-train myself. I tried to curtail my tail, as it were. Still, the scaly slither stayed with me. I’d pull it out in the safety of black streets or back alleyways. It was my secret mermaid strut. Not so secret after a few drinks, when I’m walking hand-in-hand to the ladies room with Lina or rushing the stage in all my rock & roll fineries. Platform boots, beat-up Stones tee and tiara. What can I say? Sometimes a Mer-Queen’s gotta get out & play.              

Now I’m all grown-up, with no desire to be 10 again, but I still slip into a bath and feel a fairy-tale release as the water rises over my slippery breasts. I’ve slept with 4 men but only 3 of them have seen me naked. Though I’m sure Mr. Three would object to my funny math; he may even have Polaroids to offer up as proof. Except it was a pretend camera the time I posed for all those imaginary click click clicks. (The Minolta in his mind took some really racy piks! Good thing there’s no negatives.) OK, I was nude around him, I confess… but he never held my buoyant body or tasted the salty sea on my collarbone or felt the powerful snap of my tail. So in a strange way, he never really saw me. Did you, fucker, did you ever really sea me? Sea, I told you so.               

Is my mermaid fixation a fetish? An obsession with otherness? A window into my soulful longing for all that lies below the surface?               

Sure, I’ll go for it, whatever rocks your boat. Maybe you think I’m just like those gals who played My Little Pony and grew up wanting to marry Mr. Ed. If so, then you’re wrong wrong wrong so don’t even think it.               

After my sister nearly drowned in Mexico, I taught my little sisters to swim — to overcome their fears and find their fins. Sometimes you just gotta yield to the mermaid. There’s truth in pretend and freedom in fantasy. Connecting with your own mythos is a tune in turn on thing.              

Still don’t believe in real-life mermaids?              

I gotta get me a tail like that! I’ve gotta get rich quick, maybe publish sleazy pulp under a pen name. I’ll crank out a best-selling bodice-ripper under the name Sirena Wave. I want my very own mold-to-my-curves mermaid tail. It’s not just for looks! You can swim in these suckers!  The Mer-Tailor or Merfolktails are just two of the companies making custom tails for freaks like me. They’re pricey, of course, but I’m gonna get one some day. I swear on my scales.               

               

Until that day, I’ll make do with my own jerry-rigged tails which I’ve proudly sported at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade. It’s always this week in June and New York is calling to me like a sea nymph. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be this year. It’s on the 26th, all you squids & sea monsters! Sea-monkeys and mermaids! Even if you’re just a gullible sailor out to gawk at the finned femmes, go go go thee to Coney.               

               

A word about the incredible mermaid art:              

The mermaid with the white hair is a new piece by Carolina Hardigree, whom we adore here at Cream Scene Carnival. Rightly so! She’s been experimenting with a looser brush stroke lately. I wasn’t sure about it at first (Hardigree has a bounty of technical skill and I love her stark mythic style) but it really works in this piece. It expresses the mermaid’s fluid nature. To see more of Hardigree’s magical artwork, hit the Carolina Hardigree tag or check out her studio site .              

The submerged swimming pool siren is a stunning Jaroslaw Kukowski painting. Kukowski, a polish surrealist, often paints mermaids. The Bettie Page mermaid is by the famed Olivia. The geisha is by J. Michael Walker. The folk art “X” mermaid is by Junker Jane. The mer with the tangle of curls is by Rustic Goth The sketchy scales are by Gretchen Kelly Studio. Doesn’t Kelly’s sleepy siren look like a mermaid trying to slither from her sleeping bag in time for the Polar Bear Swim? It was only after I began to fit the already chosen artworks into the text that I realized how well Kelly’s drawing illustrated the Camp Storer story. Hooray for happy accidents! 

Many of these pieces are available for purchase or as prints, so contact the artists if you’ve fallen in love. 

But not the Hardigree! That’s mine! OK, you can have the Hardigree cause I’m po’ but treat her right. Carolina Hardigree (my “Lina”) is more of a forest nymph than a sea siren. She prefers 100 year old pines to the crashing chaos of the ocean. I could see a mermaid coming to her though, after an obsession with snake skin, after she painted herself with bright green reptilian scales, and then there were the mermaid heels. “I tried to get a pair for you too, ” she said, as I fondled the faux fish-scale texture. “But you’re feet are too small! No 5.” I cursed my geisha toes cause there’s something oddly perfect about mermaid highheels — say she wanted to go out and see Soundtrack since they’re her favorite band but damn the no-legs thing and then she meets a briny hag who gives her legs for one night as long as she wears her scales via these magical highheels. When Carolina Hardigree fell for a pair of mermaid highheels, I knew it wasn’t long before a mermaid arrived on her canvas.               

Tails can be had too: http://www.merfolktails.com/ or http://www.themertailor.com/ Also if you balk at the price then renting is an option.               

To learn more about The Annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade, check out the official Coney site. Coney Island needs our love these days, Y’all!

A Sacred Steampunk Computer for A Lipstick Shamaness

Posted in Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Steampunk, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 10, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Cream Scene Carnival would be nowhere without the magical mindful influences of The Lipstick Shamaness. How else to explain the little bits of spirit that end up in posts about celebrity haircuts, rowdy rock music, politics as usual, Ouija boards or butt plugs??  

So pass the peace pipe, peeps, as we honor the Lipstick Shamaness with our day-of-birth offerings.  

  

Surely she’d love to experiment with the pigment-dense shades of lipstick from Poppy King’s latest line Lipstick Queen.  King divides her hues into a Saint & Sinner story line which is right up LS’s alley. But saint or sinner? What the hell, why not put two tubes on my Im-Ex card (Imaginary Express — you gotta love pretend funds!)        

  

While we’re spending pastel dollars that we swiped from the Monopoly box, then we must spring for the most magical computer ever imagined by man. That man is Jake Von Slatt, a merciless tease with far too much talent. Von Slatt is a god among steampunks! One look at this cross between computer and church should explain his standing in the steampunk community.  

Von Slatt’s  machines poke at something mythic that still crouches inside technology, like the reptilian brain within the big brain.    

  

“Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology! Don’t give a fuck about a fuckin’ apology!” (Sing it, Iggy!)  

This poet-prophette steampunk computer is a prime example of Von Slatt’s encompassing vision. Have you ever seen anything so amazing in your life? Surely the Lipstick Shamaness has never seen a machine so sacred in all 109 of her lives! Can you imagine the holy rants she might write on such a talismanic keyboard? What potent spells could come of this?            

    

If you are the tech-savvy DIY type, you may be able to have such a magical contraption for yourself. Jake Von Slatt describes this project in detail over on Datamancer, the personal art site of Richard “Doc” Nagy, Mad Scientist of steampunkery and self-described “Jackass of All Trades.”( datamancer.net)   

The Lipstick Shamaness is not exactly tech-saavy so she won’t be returning computers to their typewriterly roots any time soon. She has, however, been known to fashion some seriously witchy head-dresses. Can a woman ever have too many headdresses? Well, that depends… your average woman with a job at the bank and a boyfriend in real-estate? Yes. A kicky kook with a taste for fox fur & dream states? No, never.  

After all, a modern age shamaness must use her clothing to communicate her “otherness” in this world of McDonalds drive-thrus and reality TV. What is a modern-age shamaness? So so so so NOT a new age anything! She’s not about healing crystals, Native American dream catchers or goddess cultures. She doesn’t dwell in the dogma of the past but propels us forward into a new kind tune-in turn-on. Ontological anarchy! Punk rock spiritualism!           

  

The “Starla” headdress by magentafabulous is just the thing for a Shamaness with sparkly glossy lips.  

These converse tennies, inspired by Blondie’s punk debutante Deborah Harry, will come in handy for feverish trance-dance or for running from the cops after erecting a magpie altar on the steps of a of deep-south anti-gay church. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm, I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb!  

         

Sometimes you just gotta break out in song! And these tennies make me wanna sing some Stooges. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm! Now let’s rock some more as Iggy Pop takes us to our final gift idea.   

I’m a street walking cheetah
with a heart full of napalm
I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world’s forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology!
Ain’t got time to make no apology.
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight
Honey gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby penetrates my mind
                  

The Oracle

  

Wasn’t that the perfect segue into this penetrating piece by J.L. Schnable?    

Schnable aka “babyfangs” says she paints “ladies of magic & doom.” Those ladies have fox faces, pointy crowns and shipwrecks in their hair.  I’ve got my third-eye on this babyfangs cause she’s speaking my language. Know a lady like Cream Scene’s Lipstick Shamaness? Got  someone ESP-ecially lovely in your life? Treat them to a print of “The Oracle.” (available on etsy, along with six other gorgeous prints.)   

And now, for your patience, I have a little reward: back-in-the-day Iggy Pop singing Search & Destroy live at the Phoenix fest in ’94. The footage is intercut with scenes from a surrounding carnival which makes it extra ESPecial perfect for us here at Cream-Scene. Peaches covered Search & Destroy sometime back so if you like this, then check out her version.            

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That bitch is no fucking fun at all.  

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

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

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

  

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

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

"Siamese Dream" by Studio Thirty Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s My Party, I’ll Dream If I Want To…

Posted in Dork Alert, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Style & Fashion, The Ringleader, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 7, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Being as I’m the birthday girl and this is my party, I’ve decided to indulge my goofy fantasies. Myth-making & cool shit galore! I’ve compiled imaginary lists of all the fine gifts I’d lavish on my Cream Scene altar-egos if only money, reality or logistics were no problem. These are fantasy items and it matters not that it was last season or that I could never afford or find it.       

That said, I’ve still made an effort to include some things that others might like/afford/find.       

This should be a good way for y’all to get the know the various characters here at Cream Scene Carnival. Consider it a visual story of my earthly desire. We are living in a material world and I am a material girl.              

Let us begin with your Ringleader:      

   

Always start with a cap, my loveys, such as this itty-bitty carnival mini top hat by Two Back Flats. Then I’d have to pop over to Bust magazine’s boobtique for the dastardly mustache necklace by the fab London design duo Tatty Devine.           

                

Next comes the most magical item of Ringleader garb: the skin-tight trousers with black & white stripes. I have searched for these everywhere and and cannot believe that the search is finally over. I found the absolutely perfect steampunk pirate rocker pair at Steampunk Couture. The best part is that she custom makes them to fit your body. Which means those suckers are gonna fit like a glove. (Steampunk couture )   mmmm. Sexy bitch steam punk yum.                      

With that little satin tophat? Lions, tigers & rump -- o-my!

 Next comes this sexy-sweet little corset top (out of which bosoms will threaten to spill) and this wonderfully wacky vest like origami clown garb. Both pieces from Anthropology. I love these cutenesses, especially that vest, and so I must have them in real life.   

                 

 A circus cool pin from So Charmed (available on Etsy)                 

    

Vintage electric blue granny boots… perfect for the sweet ass strut!   

 

And a whip, of course…one that snaps the sno-cones from the mouths of babes…   

              

Whaddaya think of this Ringleader, lovers? Isn’t she hot? Odd? Fun?     

Stay tuned as we shop for the other Cream Scene Carnival characters.    

Happy Birthday, Ringleader! And now I must dive into bed cause I fell asleep while typing and woke up to find I had typed some strange kind of dream nonsense.

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