Archive for halloween

Junko Mizuno Makes Me Jizz

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

*All art by Junko Mizuno

“If You Have Ghosts…” repost (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, SPOOKY KABUKI, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 9, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Well, lovers, the week started out nice enough what with spoiling the RobotBoy for his August 3 birthday and then a new little niece was born which was all kinds of exciting but then I made a fateful decision and let a 2 year old — my niecy, Thing 2 — handfeed me spaghetti. My friend Vince said, “Ah, you’ll do anything for a baby” and he’s too right. Pieces of parmesan cheese or stray bits of noodles fell from her mouth, onto her sauce-stained shirt, and when she gathered up this germy detritus with her chubby grubby fingers and aeroplaned it towards my mouth, I opened up. Yikes! I must be crazy! It’s a biological evolutionary power these babies have over us grown-ups. We’ll set aside our own good sense just to see ’em grin. Anyhoo. No sense crying over spilled spag. Now I am laid up and only barely human with a wicked case of strep throat. I’m missing Cyndi Lauper in a New Orleans club tonight and still unable to wrap my feeble mind around my half-done draft for this week’s punk-rock gospel. The Robot was gonna fill in for me but then he got sick too so I have decided to repost an oldie but goodie from way back when. (originally posted on the 28th of October, 2008.) Newcomers, enjoy! I’ll make it up to those of you who have read this one already. I’d give you big old smooches but I love y’all too much for that, cause I’m “naasty” as my niece would say and who wants my naaaaasty kisses anyway? Be well and beware of germs!

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

“If you have ghosts, then you have everything…. You can say anything that you want and you can do everything that you want… one never does that… In the night, I am real. …I don’t want my fangs too long…. The moon to the left is a part of my thoughts and a part of me is me.”

These strange words, a mad shaman’s chant out of the speakers — volume LOUD — and into my atomic self… “eye” at the essence/energy level.

This was a hymn from the church I’d been waiting for. This was reckoning & rock n’ roll at once.

This was the theme to the soundtrack of my life. NOT one of those songs that I came to love. I loved it on first listen — in my bones, in my molecules, in the depths of my mind. If you have ghosts, you have everything. I had been waiting all of my days and nights to hear that song. I still shudder at every listen. It is my anthem. It is the mantra which saves me, its odd sequence of words spirit me off to my truest place. Where it is all okay. Not just okay but gorgeously fortunate.

Roky, my coyote in the dark piney woods. He howls. Pine cones float in the moonlight as organic odes to Tanuki and Kitsune. The coyote says “This was the life you wanted. How lucky you are to be haunted.”

If you have ghosts, then you have everything.

These spirits that clamour, who are they? Why are they here? What do they expect? They leave omens everywhere, valentines in the path of days. Instructional pamphlets? They are here because they adore you. You are who? The “universe’s darling”???  Who told you that? You have won their gaurded hearts. The telephone rings (Dad called it the “cosmic phone”) and the voice on the line is the voice you were longing for. The scarab in Jung’s window will knock with more frequency should he see that you too have twitching antennae.

Ah, to talk about what this song means to me is almost impossible! When the effect it had was to scatter me like seed while condensing. How can it feel this way?

It reminds me of Alice with the Drink Me bottles and the Eat Me cakes. I am ENORMOUS! Crowding, pressing, filling up. I am tiny. A nanotech hologram of all that I am, a portrait of Dolly Parton etched on a grain of basmati. Practically invisible, wholly infinite.

I am simply being forthright when I say that this song means the WORLD to me. Is there anything more in the world than this?

If you have ghosts, you have everything.

 

I have ghosts. More and more everyday. I feel their presense at the tips of my shoulders. I dream of complex impossible machinery and blame them. They are always watching, wondering. What now brown cow?

Some people point to their scars and say, “See! I have lived! I took the leap!”

Others point to frown furrows. “I have suffered. My heart has broken in a million places.”

Or to smile lines. “I have grinned. I have beamed. I have known joy, I have brought joy.”

I point to ghosts. They are the proof of a life lived on the curled up smoky edges of existence like burnt paper. They are testament to …. willingness? …. courage? … awe? … curiosity? … wonder?

 

If you have ghosts, then you have….

  • an open mind like a a wind-whipped hallway. Where is the wind coming from? It just comes.
  • a hungry heart. Skulking in the dark, turning over every rock, nibbling velvet moss, barky twigs, souls unlike your own, souls akin, a lover’s skin, a friend’s soft spot.
  • made allys amongst the gods, the totems, the sky, the dirt. Unlikely connections bind you to the hearts of others forever. Your allys fight for you with fervor and loyalty. They defend you against haters. When you are injured, they gather you up in cloudy limbs and carry you to a bed of soft thistle.
  • loved, you have loved to love, and that they are loved is no secret to those you love. You have grabbed their cheeks or pounced on their goodness. You have pointed out their attributes and celebrated their quirks and their quarks. Even their molecules feel handsome. You don’t withhold kindness. You take liberties with love. You lay it on thick.
  • been loved, always, and with such enthusiasm! They love you fully and fiercely. Even death cannot change the love they feel for you. It is more than emotion, it is a morphic field. It all gathers there, all the love that you’ve ever been given. All the compliments filed away, all the talismans built from origami & feathers, all the tokens of affection. And so many keys to so many hearts on a ring that clangs in your pocket. Lucky lucky lucky to be so loved.
  • you have found members of your tribe, recognized them, summoned them, exalted them, comforted them. SHOOK THEM.
  • not just people loved and lost but selves, moments, ideas. Pets. So many layers of being like tissue paper glued over glass. Illness, experience, dreams, injury, heartbreak, love, longing, learning. All the things that contribute to the complexity of your being.
  • had an unexplainable unduplicated drug like any other … wine, hallucinogens, tobacco, soda pop, sex… none of it compares to the ephemeral solace of the spirits that carry you, ferry you on a raft of peach skins, banana peels, orange rinds. You float on the current of time, space, electricity, wonderment. You crack the pod and lick the shell. The doorway swells with feathery light. You swallow the bulb and become a bulb. Incandescent.
  • no need for long fangs. No need to take, rape, steal, beg. If it’s not willing, you don’t need it. Hate is not welcome in your heart.
  • a glow-white lightning bolt of SPOOKY KABUKI, theatre of synchronicity, dance of the Mindellian demon. When the audience laughs, just bow. Whether they are laughing at you or with you, it doesn’t really matter. When you stutter or miss your cue,  you are Pee Wee Herman who meant to crash his bike into a rose bush. They will appreciate how you stop to smell the roses. Should you mangle a line just tie your mustache into a bow like your mouth is a gift to the world.
  • your toe in the water while the wave has its toe in you.
  • EVERYTHING.
 
IF YOU HAVE GHOSTS
 
If you have ghosts you have everything
If you have ghosts you have everything
if you can say anything you want
then you can do anything you want
If you have ghosts then you have everything

one never does that
one never does that
if you call it suprise there it is
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part me is me
one never does that  In the night I am real
in the night I am real
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a pert of me is me
forever is the wind is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
in the night I am realI don’t want my fangs too long
I don’t want my fangs too long
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
forever is the wind to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
I don’t want my fangs too long
if you have ghosts, then you have everything.

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

The three paintings (above) are by the mind-boggling Miss Van who has captured my soul as well as my skin. Hopefully her brilliant renderings can help to translate my urgent over-wrought gobbledygook. When you love something the way I love this fucking phantom-tastic Roky Erickson song, your brain turns into a dollop of whipped cream. In the struggle to grab the meaning from its swirling vortex of importance, the writer looks like a hack and a zealot.

So please, please, forgive my words, excuse my raving mythos.

Just look at these masterpieces by Miss Van. 

Just LISTEN to Roky, my coyote guide, our city-shaman, our genius mad man who was spirited home to us at last. 

What God is to Goof, amen is to Aha!

God=Goof.

Amen=Aha!

Goof+Aha= if you have ghosts, you have everything.

Fur reals, y’all, not funny math. 

Thank you for tuning in/turning on to this special SPOOKY KABUKI edition of the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel. 

AHA!
  

A Slow-Mo Wednesday on WordPress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Druggie Mummies

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

Our ancient ancestors liked to party. Fur reals.

Scientists have discovered drugs in the mummified remains of Andean fiends.

Doped up nere-do-wells!

The Mummies -- who are probably high on SOMETHING -- rock out.

Mommy always said those mummies were bad news!  

Discovery News reported on the hard-livin’ debauchery of the olden days.

Andean mummy hair has provided the first direct archaeological evidence of the consumption of hallucinogens in pre-Hispanic Andean populations, according to recent gas chromatography and mass spectrometry analysis. Chemical archaeologist Juan Pablo Ogalde and colleagues at the University of Tarapacá in Arica, Chile, analyzed 32 mummies from the Azapa Valley in northern Chile. Naturally mummified in the Acatama desert, the bodies belonged to the Tiwanaku, the ancestors of the Incas. The little known Tiwanaku established a civilization around 1200 B.C. that prevailed for almost three millennia, becoming one of history’s longest-running empires. At the peak of their power, between 700 and 1100 A.D., they dominated the Andes, controlling large areas of Bolivia and Peru and parts of Argentina and Chile. Their burials often contain elaborately decorated snuffing trays and panpipes.

Drug paraphernalia such as “ceramic snuffing tubes and inhaling bowls” had previously suggested mummy drug use. Those suspicions were verified when the chemical analysis of the mummies “revealed the presence of the hallucinogenic alkaloid harmine.”

“Our  identification of harmine in the hair of these two Azapa Valley mummies is a very important finding. The only plant in South America that contain harmine is the jungle vine Banisteriopsis caapi, also known as ayahuasca. But this plant does not grow in the Azapa valley,” Ogalde said.

The presence of harmine suggests the Tiwanaku travelled in search of exotic hallucinogens, and brought the Banisteriopsisvine from as far as the Amazon rainforest, some 300 miles away.

Who can blame them? I’ve been dying to try ayahuasca. I’d definitely go out of my way for a magic vine and the visions that come with. Hell yea! Take that all you people who are always jabbering on about the ills of modern society and drugs being the downfall of the human race. Sure, Coke-head Jimmy has a problem, I agree. Coke-head Jimmy’s fuckin’ it up for everyone! But humans have been getting high for like EVER.

If you run into a mummy this Halloween, ask him if he wants to smoke a bowl. SPOOKY KABUKI sez “Peace out.”

Ancient man with drug paraphenalia. Yep. I’m fascinated by this tribal-esque psychedelic comic book art.  I can’t seem to figure out who did it. But there’s more of it at nodoctors.com. If you figure out the artist’s name please let me know.

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.

Monsters Worth Saving: Joe Coleman’s Odditorium

Posted in Art & Culture, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2008 by alphabetfiend

If SPOOKY KABUKI were a travel agent, you’d be well on your way to a brownstone in Brooklyn known as The Odditorium. With instructions to pass a wax-sealed envelope to the bearded giant who guards the door.  Part engineer of Zombie Rail, part carnie barker, Joe Coleman is the saint-fondled artist who lives in the Odditorium. He is also the curator of the ever-shifting exhibit of grotesque ephemera.

SPOOKY KABUKI crys blue neon tears at the mere mention of Joe Coleman’s mini museum of strange. Overcome with sentimentality, SPOOKY KABUKI recalls a torrid affair with the pickled punk that involved sixteen switchblades and a tub of fuchsia hair dye. Manic Panic — of course! Those were the days. Making out with the pickled punk in the bathroom at CBGBs. Swallowing a handful of black beauties before a manic menage a trois with Jayne County. Unless it’s about the pickled punk, SPOOKY KABUKI doesn’t have much to say about The Odditorium except to say that it’s the place where dreams go to die. And meet their god — Joe Coleman — demon-genius with ODDitude.

In a beautifully written piece in Thirsty Sarah L. Myers recounts her journey to the Odditorium.

Taxidermy and mummified relics adorn the tops of bureaus. Medical specimens and oddities are displayed in glass casings. A lack of windows, along with the single bulb pointing up from the floor, perfectly showcases the room’s lush density. There’s a presence in the Odditorium. It feels intangibly alive. The figures, large and small, from the mannequins to the pickled punks, are being swaddled by the room. When you walk in, that’s how you feel – swaddled, almost as if the figures are radiating some kind of energy that covers you like a blanket.

SPOOKY KABUKI remembers that blanket. SPOOKY KABUKI used to disappear under that blanket and give the pickled punk fucking fantastic head which he did not deserve. Yes, yes, SK, we’ve heard enough about your sexual exploits with the pickled punk. TMI! TMI!

Obviously SPOOKY KABUKI, while a hell of a travel agent, isn’t gonna be much of a tour guide today. Take a virtual tour of the Odditorium  on Joe Coleman’s website. While you’re there check out Coleman’s meticulous collagistic paintings. They have always reminded me of this artwork that filled my childhood home — made by a certain Indian tribe (I’m blanking) with wound yarn and beeswax. There’s a similar shamanistic arrangement of imagery. As if Joe Coleman were a modern cavemen etching the history of our time in the flickering shadows of his odd cave.

If you are curious to learn more about Joe Coleman, check out the DVD R.I.P. Rest in Pieces: A Portrait of Joe Coleman. You will catch glimpses of the Odditoruim throughout the film.

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.

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