Archive for transformation

“I Saw The Light” (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in country music, I Heart Holidays, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, The wisdom of the universe, Top 2% of Coolest Mofos with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2010 by alphabetfiend

“No more darkness , No more night . Now I’m so happy , no sorrow in sight . Praise the Lord, I saw the Light .”

Happy Birthday, Hank Williams!

It doesn’t matter who you are, whatever you’re into, if you have even a modicum of cool then you hafta give it up for Hank Williams.

Hank Williams is a country legend with punk rock rising.

Hank was/is mournful country heart with gospel soul, rock & roll charisma, and punk as fuck aura. 

Williams was regal and rebellious at once.

He had a dignified air and sexy masculinity, despite his rock-a-billy suits bedecked with glitter or musical notes.

Hank Williams, you magnificent mofo, thank you for all the gifts you’ve bestowed on us.

Happy Birthday.

In honor of Hank’s birthday, I’d chosen “I saw the light” for this weekend’s Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel. Cause Hank is divine and ’cause it’s “I Saw the Light,” C’mon! It’s a perfect punk rock gospel selection. Thing is, Hank’s birthday is today. What’s stopping us from having a Friday P.M. Punk Rock Gospel? Nothing! That’s the best part of a temple with no walls or a religion with no rules. You do like Johnny Cash and make it your own personal Jesus, whatever “it” may be. However it may happen, you are open to illumination.

 

Hey, it’s a bit dim in here, can somebody hit the lights?

(Hank Williams, singing “I Saw the Light” with The Carter Family. Listen… can you hear June’s voice?)

I SAW THE LIGHT
I wandered so aimless , life filled with sin.
I wouldn’t let my dear Saviour in.
Then Jesus came like a stranger in the night .
Praise The Lord , I saw the Light .

CHORUS
I saw the Light , I saw the Light ,
No more darkness , No more night .
Now I’m so happy , no sorrow in sight .
Praise the Lord, I saw the Light .

Just like the blind man, I wandered along ,
Worries and fears , I claimed for my own.
Then like the blind man, that God , gave back his sight .
Praise the Lord, I saw the Light .

CHORUS

I was a fool to wander and stray,
For straight is the gate and narrow the way.
Now I have traded , the wrong for the right .
Praise the Lord , I saw the Light .
CHORUS

Advertisements

Hedwig’s “Origin of Love” (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Movies & Movie Stars, Music & Life & Sundays, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Romance, Romance & Relationships, Spirituality & Religion, Style & Fashion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Technicolor Pop, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Last time I saw you, we had just split in two.
You were looking at me. I was looking at you
.

We are always finding something once lost or newly discovered: some elusive idea, fragment of self, new friend, old friend, tribe member, ally, totem, trickster, co-inventor, muse, fellow hero, soul mate.

This search may be the very point of being born to this planet, of being given this skin.

Life is a lost & found.

We have our third eyes pealed, on the sacred look-out for our fellow mutants. We piece our lives together like legos. We sew the tattered bits of our selves into a kaleidoscopic crazy quilt. We wait to meet the pieces we lost. Our owies are eased as things fall in place. Everyone is engaged in this secret vision quest, everyone one is on alert. We’re hoping to heal the mysterious hurt. 

On the look out, always.

Origin of Love

When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.

The origin of love

And there were three sexes then,
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back,
Called the children of the sun.
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth.
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one.
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son.

The origin of love

Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said,
“I’m gonna kill them all
With my hammer,
Like I killed the giants.”
And Zeus said, “No,
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors,
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards.”
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh,
Said, “I’ll split them right down the middle.
Gonna cut them right up in half.”
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire

And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife.
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth.
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole,
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay.
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane,
To scatter us away,
In a flood of wind and rain,
And a sea of tidal waves,
To wash us all away,
And if we don’t behave
They’ll cut us down again
And we’ll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye.

Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That’s the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It’s the story of
The origin of love.
That’s the origin of love.

I first saw Hedwig & The Angry Inch on stage — at The Shim Sham Club in New Orleans — and it was absolutely, indisputably magical.

Even the Robot loved it and he mostly loathes musicals.

We were so impressed by that Hedwig-Live experience that we were skeptical of the film. At first. But fear not, the movie managed to keep the magic intact.

“Sometimes grace and hope come in surprising packages. The title character of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, a would-be glam-rock star from East Germany, undergoes a botched gender-change operation in order to escape from the Soviet bloc, only to watch the Berlin Wall come down on TV after being abandoned in a trailer park in middle America.  Writer-director-star John Cameron Mitchell packs an astonishing mix of sadness, yearning, humor, and kick-ass songs with a little Platonic philosophy tucked inside for good measure. A visually dazzling gem of a movie.” (Bret Fetzer)

If you get the chance to see a stage version, jump at it. Even if it’s put on by 6 year olds. Especially if it’s performed by 6 year olds!

If you haven’t seen the film, well, you really should schedule some inspirational “me” time.

Mix up some cocktails. Rat your best wig. It’s high time for Hedwig. 

Have fun!

The film Hedwig & The Angry Inch, with John Cameron Mitchell (writer, director & star) is  available on amazon. So is the soundtrack.

Authors note: This is not the real punk rock gospel for this week. It’s a repost meant to reward you for your support. It’s merely meant to tide you over until I can post today’s intended PRG, which mysteriously disappeared from the screen at 4:28 am. I was writing the PRG (more of a love letter really) when we went off line. While waiting to get back online, I tweaked the sucker for 2 hours and ended up with a fabu finished product. Which I was liable to lose if I couldn’t get back onto wordpress. (I know! I know! I need no lecture. I get it. I waz the stupidz. They don’t call me the Lusty Luddite for nothin’!) Craving wi-fi, I crept out into the dark sreets — a vamp-cyber gently carrying an open computer to the parking lot of a shuttered coffee shop. Hooray! Houston, we have contact. I uploaded an image — something I’ve done countless times — and every bit of text just escaped into the ether. WTF?? Is it due to wordpress’ brand spankin’ new image/gallery widgetty whatucallits? What the hell happened??? No sign of it in revisions either, only an early draft. It’s just gone. Oh, I’m bummed. And stunned. Anyway, I’m gonna go back to the key board! But it will now have to wait until Monday. In the meantime, let Hedwig heal your irk (and mine) with her spiritual, romantic fairytale. *Originally posted on October 12, 2008*

Last time I saw you, we had just split in two.
You were looking at me. I was looking at you.”

*Painting By Genevieve Crotz.*

via Cream Scene Carnival

Moved by Dolly Rocker Movement! Curious About Burning Man.

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Steampunk, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2010 by alphabetfiend

The Robot Boy has a very old dear friend who has completely dedicated his life to an ever-evolving discovery of cool music. This is not a quest that Bruce takes lightly. He’s a punk-monk who eschews anything that might distract him from his destiny as rock & roll omen seeker. He has exquisite eclectic taste and I would follow him anywhere. When Bruce tells you to check out a new band or replay an old band you rush to do it. Something dreamy awaits. 

 

So when Bruce borrowed our car and returned it with a CD in the player, we hit play and hiked the volume. 

 

The CD was a Bruce-made mix of songs by The Dolly Rocker Movement. A new band that feels old. 

 

Now, for my fellow night owls,  as a little friday night into saturday morn’ 3:00 a.m. treat,  I offer you “Coffin Love” by The Dolly Rocker Movement. The song is set to the most amazing shots of a Burning Man fest. This clip is worth it for the visuals alone. I’d assumed that Burning Man had become just another hippy raver scene, having lost all vestige of its former mystery. I’m blown away by the sort of mythic Mad Max steampunk aesthetic and all these odd chitty chitty bang bang machines. It looks like a strange dream with cosmic-circus-steampunk-gypsy elements combining in a sort of A-bomb fairytale. 

This video was artfully done by www.tribalturk.com , a Turkish fan-zine site that’s worth poking around on even though the text isn’t in English. It’s a really cool site, I’m impressed with their aesthetic. 

A steampunk tree house

 

 Have any of you been to Burning Man? Was it really this beautiful, eerie and elaborate? Did it really have that PK-Dickian sci-fi steampunkery? Recently? How recently? Did you have any transformative dream-like experiences while there? After seeing this video, I’m crazy curious. I was so sure that Burning Man had devolved into yet another mushroomy melee, y’know, just naked hippies in the desert and if anyone read my last post (born on a commune, lived in a cave) then you’ll understand that I’ve had my fill of that. But now I see these beasty-machines and steampunk tree houses, winged motorcycles and tattered circus tents … have I made a major miscalculation here? I must have!   

So comment! You architects of steampunk treehouses! You dirt-bike PKD! You saint of steel & dust! I wanna hear from you! Is Burning Man the place for a cosmic clown, side-show siren, bearded lady, steampunk seductress, Lipstick Shamaness such as myself? 

 

Speak, my sweets, my freaks, my night owls…. C’mon baby ring my bell. All ya hafta do is ring my bell!

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

The Make Up’s “Save Yourself” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Goof & Glamour, SPOOKY KABUKI, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 2, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“I was frozen baby, cold to the touch, limbs from other bodies, I didn’t look like much, I was nothing baby and my blood was cold til you put your mouth to me and blew right out my nose. I was just a body until you gave me life and now I walk the earth… you’re my Dr. Frankenstein, oh yea.” — The Make Up

 

Creation, transformation, resurrection. Second chances, new life. Being saved. Saving yourself. Betwixt our birth and our death are countless itty-bitty births and do-over deaths. We bloom, we wither, we bloom again. Our existence is filled with entrances and exits. We hover in silky cocoons (regrouping, rethinking, investing, in wait) and then the itch between the shoulder blades — a surprised unfurling! The cocoon cracks open and we emerge with wings like Frida paintings. This REANIMATION is the persistent miracle of human experience. The hurt and the heal… a progression of spirit.

“If I’m alive now then I was dead, though like a stone unbothered by it. Staying put according to habit.”  Sylvia Plath

“I wept because I had lost my tears and I was not yet accustomed to their absence.” Anais Nin

“Hopeful as a lizard pulling clean from an old skin.” Barbara Kingsolver

” ‘Oh my god’, she cried, ‘I never knew what it meant to be real! I never let the sweetness or the horror or the dignity penetrate my brain.’ ” James Douglas Morrison

“There was preserved in her the fresh miracle of surprise.”  JDM (Yes, the Lizard King.)

The above quotes may be slightly off, a word here or there, as I have plucked them from my 4am brain. By now they are practically prayers… I’ve carried them for 20+ years as though they were the secret to the universe. Each letter a bead on my pixie stick rosary, each word a bone in my girl-body spine. They are MINE. Please appreciate what I am sharing. The recipe for my prize-winning ee cummings “eyes big love crumbs” cookies. I am letting you sleep in my luxurious bed — with me in it, taking up voluptuous room. We snooze bum-to-bum and dream of clouds shaped like raucous church organs. I am letting you hold the golden compass; you are stroking the orangey-pink pelt of my fox familiar. I have stocked the freezer with cherry jubilee. I am lulling you to sleep with my krishna chant; your bedtime story is the dream I’m already asleep & dreaming. Listen! The Make Up is ROCKING a dark smoky club; the stage flickers with hypnotic illuminations; Ian writhes and testifies! We dance in the rhythmic hive, the crowd abuzz, and I let you (why I hardly know yee!) grind your soft-pulse-stiffening against my ass of greedy proportions. DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM HOLDING IN MY HAND? I am offering you a sequin mer-scale plucked from my tailbone, the edge jagged from once it laid, crusted with DNA. If you were a hoodoo huckster, you could perpetrate some voodoo violence. But you would never be so profane. Safe from cruel eye curses, the sacrosanct flesh-rind of my fish-femme sacroiliac.

“Why,” you may ask, “is all that worth this goddamn much to you?”

Because!!!!!

We are all unbothered stones who recognize the magnitude of our death once suddenly alive. All cried out and cringing in the new light, with headachey eyes that flooded & keened until all that was left was life. Again. Anew. We have all called out with a great A-HA! as the mystery comes into focus. We have all sworn to never lose the profundity of that moment. But it blurs as it must — midwife to the A-HA! Above all things, I have lived to be that girl of continuous surprise. For that extraordinary seizing BONK! to be preserved in me. A yellow canary named “Eggyolko-ono” in my rib cage — a JOLT! of snapping flapping feathers. As a girl wonder, adrift and alive, all my aspirations fall under that umbrella which — POP! — has just opened with a dandy’s flourish.

This shit is SPOOKY KABUKI, it’s the very essence of Punk Rock Gospel. The Make Up even describes their sound as “Gospel Yea-Yea.”

 

The Make Up– totem band for an Alphabetfiend! A carnie-queen lipstick shamaness circus freak! Hell yea! Let’s undulate! It’s a glam saint rosary rock speaking in tongues writhing snake-handler deep south baptist punk psalms sound…. oh yea-yea ya-ya.

Discord Records testified to the band’s spirited synergy:

Make-Up’s performances have been characterized by the freneticism, catharsis and spirituality of what can only be described as GOSPEL MUSIC. They are a total departure from the boring pantomime of rock ‘n’ roll as we know it, inflicting a sublime theatre on their audience which resembles a baptism, or perhaps an orgy. Their ‘singer’ is typically employed as a lead-chanter, while the others perpetrate a rhythmic drone on the subjects of their “Rhythm Hive”.

a fresh puff of powder, a smear of cherry gloss, a coat of black mascara… a new look, a new start, a new way. Transformation is the order of the day with The Make Up’s Rock & Roll HOLLER. HELLO!

“When I see you again, I hope that you have been the kinda person that you really are now.” Sly Stone

%d bloggers like this: