Archive for fantasy

Sexy Mermaid Vay-Cay Get-a-Way (for Alice)

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Buxom Goo Goo, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Mermaids, Mythos with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 14, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Alice has been fantasizing about “a luxurious, decadent, and totally out of reach beach rental in Florida, especially for Mermaids, I kid you not.”

“Mermaid Castle” is the oldest beach house in Crescent Beach, Florida. The house, once a small grove of cypress, sleeps 12 and is available for holiday rentals.

“Mermaid Castle” features a tiki hut, a jacuzzi and a swimming pool perfect for re-infusing our scaly tails with much needed moisture. Also — so we don’t get too homesick for Atlantis, which is such a sorrowful “itis,” just ask Alice — there are “breathtaking ocean views.”

It’s no wonder Alice is inspired to play hostess (with the mostess.) 

“What a tea party I would throw. Of course, I would invite the Mad Hatter, Foxy Trickster, and the illusive brown rabbit with the black spots.”

Did you catch that, sailors?

I’ve been given a sought-after invite to Alice’s tea party. That’s me, Foxy Trickster!

I just can’t wait to meet the Hatter. I hear he’s very, how do they say? Eccentric. Those are my people, y’know. The Eccentrics. Jonathan Zap calls us mutants, I call us mermaids. Some people say weirdos to which I say “Woo-hoo!”

Oh what a tea-party that would be!

There on Crescent Beach, sipping maitais outta porcelain teacups, stuck haphazardly with technicolor paper umbrellas. We’d munch on a rainbow array of Parisian macaroons shaped like swirly seashells. We’d play poker with oceanic ante: tiny starfish & coin-sized turtles with orange sherbet bellies. We’d nap in poolside hammocks as the pages (and our fins) flapped in the salty breeze.

Around midnight, we’d don sequin mini-dresses & fishnet stockings. We’d order dark rum ON THE ROCKS  and lure shy seaman, who would crash into us with the velocity of a tsunami.

Of course they’d be long gone come morning (er, some might call it “afternoon.”) We’d awake satisfied, dreamy-eyed and mop-headed. We’d gossip about the evening’s exploits as we lolled beneath paper parasols (like in our teacups, only big.)We’d flop our tails in the sunshine, trading sexy tips & naughty details.

“Like what?” you wonder, with your drawers a-stir.

Well….a mermaid never kisses & tells (outside of a tea party) but let’s just say that we use what our mer-mama’s gave us.

MMMmmm. Mermmmermermermermmm. Mmm.

Get it, knucklehead?

Mermaids are experts at fellatio!

(Or cunnilingus, for those of us who prefer femmes.)

>Wink wink < 

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

The painting “Fishnets” is by the whimsical & wonderful Nancy Farmer. Prints are available. If you have some time, lotsa time, swim on over to the artist’s site. Nancy Farmer must be a mermaid herself because you WILL get hopelessly ensnared. I once spent several hours in her “net” and when I finally came out of her sea-song trance my shirt was soaked with drool and I’d grown a fine set of demon horns. Be forewarned!

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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!

Mr. Blackwell On Hell’s “Worst dressed ” List

Posted in Goof & Glamour, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Ding dong the bitch is dead! The wicked bitch is dead!

The notorious meanie Mr. Blackwell died on October 19 after a long illustrious career as a cruel-eye. I don’t actually think the man is in hell or even deserves to be. He’s not black-hearted or evil. But he was a wicked bitch whose doorway to fame was a the tight sphincter of his own asshole. After failing at acting and fashion design, he made a name for himself with his mean-spirited “Worst Dressed” list.

I wonder what he was wearing when he died. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.

I’m not one to disrespect the dead but SPOOKY KABUKI will do it in a heart beat. Or Lack there-of.

SPOOKY KABUKI has never forgiven Mr. Blackwell for wagging his judgemental finger at Bjork’s bewitchingly bizarre swan dress.

Halloween isn't the only day that Bjork comes out to play.

I blame Mr. Blackwell and his hater ilk for taking all the damn fun out of fashion. It doesn’t bother me a bit cause I don’t give a toad’s shit but not everyone has the thick skin for ridicule that I do or the self-indulgent whimsy. Blackwell didn’t appreciate the playful pageantry of fashion. His restrictive and staid style “rules” created, for many, a fear of fashion. Blackwell was the Jim Jones guru in the Cult of Negativity. He appointed himself the official “fashion watchdog.” Time reported on Mr. Blackwell’s passing.

The designer and mordant fashion critic who dared to call Madonna the “bare-bottomed bore from Babylon” died Oct. 19 in Los Angeles. Richard Blackwell, a.k.a. Mr. Blackwell, of the infamous worst-dressed list, made a name for himself not with his own creations but by skewering those sported by celebs on the red carpet. His favorite targets, however, were celebrities like Zsa Zsa Gabor and Britney Spears, who he felt lacked any innate sense of style or glamour. He said his criticism had nothing to do with talent and once remarked that Meryl Streep looked like a “gypsy abandoned by a caravan.” Born Richard Sylvan Selzer in Brooklyn, N.Y., Blackwell started out as an actor but switched to fashion in 1958 when his career stalled. Fame came with the publication of his first list in 1960. While his original intention was to act as a sort of fashion watchdog, Blackwell and his list became a dreaded Hollywood institution that paved the way for other red-carpet critics.

Blackwell broke the skin with a biting wit. I even chuckled from time to time. Can you match these Blackwell zingers with the “tasteless” stars. (Lindsay Lohan, Patti Davis, Ann Margaret, Barbara Streisand, Bjork, Christina Aguilera, Sharon Stone, Camilla Parker-Bowles.)

  1.  “A Hells Angel escapee who invaded the Ziegfeld Follies on a rainy night.”
  2. “An over-the-hill Cruella DeVille.”
  3. “Packs all the glamour of an old, worn-out sneaker.”
  4. “She looks like a masculine Bride of Frankenstein.”
  5.  “The Duchess of Dowdy.”
  6. “A dazzling singer who puts good taste through the wardrobe wringer.”
  7.  “From adorable to deplorable.”
  8. “She dances in the dark? She dresses in the dark!”

We have Mr. Blackwell’s Legacy of Enforced Taste to thank for the total yawn of today’s Red Carpets — gone are the days of Cher with her bum-exposing gowns! Which may be for the best. But at least Cher was doing her own very CHER thing and partying like a rock-star via her style choices. Sure, Britney’s never brought much to the table fashion-wise but Ann Margaret is a style icon and a seriously sexy bitch. Meow. Patti Davis in her french pirates tee? Is there anything more dreamy? Oh wait, that was Patti Smith. No matter. I’m sure Blackwell thought Smith was a ragamuffin. Best/worst lists make bebes afraid to develop their own looks. They forsake their own fantasies in favor of the homogenized safe look of the “best dressed.” They never develop the confidence to flaunt their fantasy self. What is fashion if not a fantasy? 

I can’t count the times I’ve had women and men swoon over one of my REDONKULOUS ensembles. After a poetry reading a man breathlessly confessed “I find women in turbans to be terminally erotic” and then avoided me for years because I was the source of his dreams & his humiliation. Women will exclaim “Oh I wish I could wear tulle/hats/wigs/capes/tiaras!”

Who says you can’t?

Who says we have to wait until Halloween to dress up in outrageous fineries, circus-punk costumery or disco glam get-ups?

Oh right.

Him and his.   

Now that Mr. Blackwell’s gone, Simon Doonan — famed window designer & author of “Eccentric Glamour” — should rise up and take his rightful place as fashion’s talking head. So break out your pink leopard stockings and your gold lame boleros. Summon the spirit of Isabella Blow or even your inner-Cher.

Is that a chain mail lobster Issie's wearing?

Issie, is that a chain mail lobster? WOW!

 Answers to the zinger-star match-up: Lindsay Lohan*7, Patti Davis*3, Ann Margaret*1, Barbara Streisand*4, Bjork*8, Christina Aguilera*6, Sharon Stone*2, Camilla Parker-Bowles*5.

Black Mansion Fashion

Posted in Goof & Glamour, punk rock, SPOOKY KABUKI, Style & Fashion with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 29, 2008 by alphabetfiend

SPOOKY KABUKI thinks the best thing about these black magic baubles is that they are made of old vinyl records. Conjures up the long abandoned Spector Estate, up on Roky Erickson hill. Enter (if you dare) through a canopy of cobwebs, wind through dusty corridors in pursuit of that old 1920’s sound, until you have found from whence it crackles: an antique grammaphone with the record STILL SPINNING. 

SPOOKY KABUKI!!!! 

I’d toss this witchy on with my black flapper dress and a pair of wood grain platforms w/ black ribbons that lace up the leg. Of course a gory red gloss and a beaded clutch. Voila! Scooby Dooby style!

This rock n’ roll cameo is begging for faded black jeans over supple leather booties the shade of too-ripe blackberries. And my beloved violet-touched mothy gray tee which is falling apart and full of holes. Except I’ll have to dig it up from the graveyard of treasures cause it’s been DEAD for years! SPOOKY KABUKI!

You too can adorn your skeleton in these CHARMING jewels Wreckords by Monkey — the chandelier is $90 and the cameo is $75.

Slowly Becoming a Fang of HBO’s “True Blood”

Posted in Art & Culture, Feminism (Shades of Gray), Psyche & Sexuality, Style & Fashion, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I know this much is true:
I wanna do bad things with you. I wanna do real bad things with you.”
  — Jace Everett’s “Bad Things” is the True Blood theme song.

I wasn’t loving True Blood, as I’ve said. The vampires aren’t sexy. They’re pasty, bald, downright nasty. Their teeth extend in a penile way that’s stomach-churning. There’s this possessive rape-ish energy like in a high school romance. That’s not a good thing. If you think it is then you’re probably still in high school. Poor baby. Turn off that cell phone, spend time with friends, get real.  True Blood’s creator, Alan Ball, is bloody brilliant so I could practically taste the clever insanity. As fresh as a virgin’s plasma. Literary, intellectual, imaginative. If you’ve been around for 400 years, I would think you’d be smarter than the average redneck. I would imagine you’d have a weighty presence and an unsettling charisma. I don’t have a vampire fetish so it’s not enough that they have fangs and drink blood, big deal. I want my vampires to have something more, something extra. Beyond their raging unbearable hard-ons.

I think I just threw up a little.

I think I just threw up a little.

Maybe if the hero (not pictured above) were more like Vincent from TV’s Beauty & The Beast. Now there was a mythical creature that was, well, mythic.  And creaturely. The Beast took up space, his presence was palpable. Beast’s underground NYC home was crowded with books, easels, paints & other talismans. Vincent was sexy as a sulking, skulking Lion-Man. A gentle freak with depth of heart and psyche. I loved the Beast (and always knew that when I was a grown-up beauty the Beast would love me too.)  The show aired on CBS in the 80’s. It starred Linda Hamilton as Beauty & Ron Perlman as Beast. Ron Perlman has recently returned to weekly TV as the sociopath patriarch of a SoCal biker gang  on FX’s “Sons of Anarchy.”*  Once a beast, now a BEAST.  Perlman is great as Hamlet’s despot Step-Pop & mortorcycle madman. Too great. It’s hard; I hurt.  Perlman will always be my wise and loving Beastie. I want to scream at the TV “You Scum-Bag A-Hole, what have you done with Vincent?”

Vincent was a dreamy character who had a profoud effect on me. I haven’t seen the show since I was a little girl but I still make romantic choices based on beasty-ness. People who know me are now ticking back through my history, all the way back to that high school romance, and going yep yep yep. I’ve loved one magical beastie boy after another.

As a kid, I watched B & B; as a woman, I love a Beastie.

As a kid, I watched B & B; as a woman, I love a Beastie.

True Blood could’ve been the new cable version of Beauty & the Beast. Gorgeous, with a wicked taboo tickle and a hero so smart that he can like lick your brain.  Or make you tremble with just his juiced-up brain waves.  (It’s true, I’ve met a man like that. I don’t call him RobotBoyLoverMan for nothin!) I’m talking so smart, it’s torture.  With a dandy’s style and a philosopher’s smile. A cross between Oscar Wilde and Bukowski. Jesse James meets William James. Yum yum. This here nugget offers just a nibble of hope when, two minutes in, there is 60 beautiful seconds that evoke the early moments in a new flirtation and hint at an older intellect.

OK, yea, that was pretty delish. His smile after she says “I’m serious” and he says “As am I,” well, for a second I looked past the bad acting and the pasty pastiche. And Puns! Vampires love puns? Hmmm. I did not know that. Maybe I’m a vampire. I do love velvet (paired with black satin cigarette pants & beaded platforms) and I have been known to take the occasional love bite. Except not so occasional and not so loving. Mortals often admire my moonglow skin and fawn over my pitch black ringlets. They gush over my “old soul” and want to raid my closet. But like the stupid short-lives they are, they poo-poo my puns.

  • Fangtasia?”
  • “You have to remember that most Vampires are very old. Puns used to be the highest form of humor.”

Not only is Fangtasia a fangtastic name for a vampire bar but it was a great change of scenery for characters and viewers both. The visit made for vibrant visuals and the go-go dancing vamps had moves that mere mortals couldn’t bust.

  • “This one, she wanted to die. Everyone who comes here does, in their own way. That’s what we are. Death.”

When they’re running out of the bar to escape the cops and John whisks Sookie into his arms, yea, that was kinda cool. As a feminist, I’m loathe to admit it; but as a dorky romantic who once was held rapt by TV’s Beauty & the Beast, who crushed on brave lion-browed Vincent, ah, my heart skipped a beat. Goof help me. True Blood’s bloodsucker may seduce me yet. 

  • “This feels a little like what a vampire bar would be like if it were a ride at Disney World.”
  • “Well don’t get too comfortable. It tends to get more authentic as the night wears on.”

Maybe True Blood is Fangtasia. Maybe if we hang in there it will get more entertaining. Maybe the hero will read a few (thousand) books and bulk up his vocab. Maybe the actor who plays him (Stephen Moyer) will sharpen his acting chops. In order for “True Blood” to satisfy, I need a hero who makes me heady and flushed. Hell, he arouses Anna Paquin’s Sookie so much that she masturbates on his porch and all I want is some fangscination. Make me wanna suck blood. Fill me with craving.

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — Poetess & vampire punster living in the deep south (west). Working on a review of Ron Perlman’s new FX show “Sons of Anarchy” so be on the look out.

Little LuLu I Love You-you Yes I Do

Posted in Art & Culture, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Spirituality & Religion with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Camille Rose Garcia’s paintings are truly phenomenal — like ESP or a poltergeist loose in the kitchen. Something has happened that is so outside the realm of everyday “reality” that you are forever changed.  Fated to be a fringe-dweller. Now it’s you, the witchy strange in the room, the dollfaced oddball who believes in ghosts. You’re the one. Crooked curved shoulders, pitch black curls, a “believes in the impossible kind of girl. 

You are a premonition and everyone’s looking.

When I first saw this pirate lass by CRG, I thought I’d found my seafaring alter-ego. I wanted so bad to be her, for her to be me.  Those stripey bloomers! Those boots! That hat!  An octopus? A genie bottle?  Me me me, mine, all mine.  But then I looked closer at her hat.  Lulu.  Lulu?  Lulu!  Damn, turns out she wasn’t pirate-me.  She was Lulu. My little sister, being a Lulu herself, clearly had dibs.

 

My sister is the subject of this piece by Camille Rose Garcia. Not really. But kinda. Enough to make my eyes a jealous shade of green.

My sister is the subject of this piece by Camille Rose Garcia. Not really. But kinda. Enough to make my eyes a jealous shade of green.

 

My lucky “Little Lulu” is a year older today.  Liz is the pirate (the hat insists) and I am the genie in that thar’ bottle. I do like to grant little-sisterly wishes when I’m able.  Suchly, Liz is getting a ship on her hip. A tattoo from Tina Forever is my gift to her (plus MAC makeup from the Naughty/Knotty Nauticals line.)  The ship is surely a salute to our father, our lost captain, and to a childhood spent on the great lakes.  Also it speaks to battling fears as Liz almost died/drowned as a tot.  Well, here’s to it, Lulu, I’m glad you stayed around and happy birthday…. oh and matey, where ever did you get yer stripey pirate pants as I absolutely must have a pair for my very own?

 

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

 

“Using Mama’s lipstick for the letters she writes, using Daddy’s neckties for the tails on her kite!”  Little Lulu is a troublemaker toon.

When my Lou was a baby our mom used to put her hair into little piggle-tails which wound into two single ringlets, little corkscrews like real piggy tails, and like a certain naughty comic strip character. 

Lulu needs an atti(toon) adjustment. Cheer up! The world loves you little Lulu, yes it do-do. (happy b-day, beautiful)

Lulu needs an atti(toon) adjustment. Cheer up! The world loves you little Lulu, yes it do-do. (happy b-day, beautiful)

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

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