Godammit, I’m Mad!

My new tattoo was inspired by this product from an online botanica. My Adopted Son (long story) got the same tattoo, and then we ate dinner at a bowling alley. My husband was displeased that he hadn’t been notified about the tattoo, but I can’t remember every little thing, can I?

It’s not really big, I’m just too stupid to size my pix properly, and I took this one with my cell phone. However, I can lead you to The Voodoo Professor, who is fun to listen to. For more serious Voodoo needs, I suggest going here.

Moss is a design store with a great online shop full of stuff to drool over or laugh at or both. I love this necklace by Katja Prins, called Bound by Blood.  It “represents prayer necklaces from differing religions, and is stained in red to represent the blood that has been shed in the name of religion.” Amen.

What I really want from Moss is this set of exquisite dolls, called “les bebes du monde.” In fact, I need them.  Only three months till my birthday!

I don’t know much about that Eckhart Tolle character beyond the facts that he writes best-sellers, Oprah likes him and his name is funny. But I feel a seething hatred brewing for The Power of Now.

I just landed on a blog called Evolving Beings, which purports to ’share wisdom and spiritual enlightenment.’ I patiently read a long post about someone deciding to rid herself of her jewelry collection. She goes on and on about how your “stuff” is really dead weight, just a product of materialism, not essential to Who You Really Are. So I’m reading and reading and then I get to the part where she takes the jewelry to a pawn shop and sells it for a fraction of what it’s worth.

What the fuck?!

Please join me in thinking, What a crock of shit!  Is selling your jewelry a way to rid yourself of the burden of materialism? And to a pawn shop! A business that profits off the misery of the desperate? Why didn’t this Spirituality Seeker just donate her jewelry to a charity? In my own neighborhood, there are thrift-shops that benefit AIDS, cancer research, drug rehabilitation and homeless shelters.

Godammit, I am enraged by this example of hypocrisy and stupidity. I hereby launch my own movement called The Power of Not Now™ . You heard it here first. You can join up today, or you can wait until I devise its 5 Sacred Tenets. The first will be (duh!) “Why do now what you can put off until later?”

The second will be “Hang on to Your Jewelry!”

Last night, the entire Sister Wolf family got off our asses and went to see the Dresden Dolls perform at the Wiltern. The Sons were intent on standing right by the stage, and did so.

The Husband and I chose to take one of the few tables in the back of the theater, the better to have a drink and sit our two asses back down. It’s not like I can’t stand up for hours and scream my head off if I want to, but last night I didn’t want to, and here’s why:  Because god in his infinite wisdom wanted to let me cast my eyes upon Morrissey, who stood just a few feet away from me!

If you don’t revere Morrissey, it may be due to your lack of cultural literacy, i.e. you haven’t heard his masterpiece, “I Know It’s Over.”  I admit that until I heard it, I just thought of Morrissey as an interesting songwriter with an arresting persona.

Then, I heard Jeff Buckley’s version of I Know It’s Over, and my heart nearly imploded from its beauty and intensity.  It is one of the most exquisitely poetic songs of all time. You can read the lyrics here.

So there was Morrissey, but one can hardly go up to him and bother him when his whole deal is about being alone and asexual. For an asexual man, he is pretty damn unbelievably attractive.

So, shit, I now wish I could have taken a photo or kissed the hem of his robe. But he’ll always be there when I close my eyes.

The Dresden Dolls were terrific, and they basked in the love of their hardcore fans, who tended toward the Disenfranchised…..the strange, the fat, the emaciated, the ambiguously gendered and of course, the Queer. God bless them every one, and Jeff Buckley too, may his soul rest in peace.

I came upon this essay today, and it reminded me to try to remember every so often that I am alive. It describes that shock of existential clarity when you suddenly experience your self in the moment. It’s such a weird epiphany….sometimes exhilarating or sometimes terrifying, in my experience, anyway. It’s the feeling of “Shit! I’m alive! But not forever! How have I forgotten this?!”

Read the essay, it’s short, and read the comments as well. There is something poignant about the discussion, and it’s entertaining in a nice, unpretentious way.

For sheer existential dread, on the same topic, go here. The original essay, “There is a Secret World” has been expanded and is followed by some impassioned manifestos about how to reject any limitations on one’s personal freedom. I think.  Here is a quote from one of them:

Kiss with every tooth in your mouth, fight with your heart on your sleeve and blood in your eyes—it helps, I promise.

If you’re not feeling too jaded, the romanticism will offest the dread.

Long live rebellious spirits everywhere (except Austria, of course)!

But not at my house! I woke up to a wonderful gift from my Webmaster…a 2-CD recording of Prince’s performance at Coachella last week. Not only a high quality recording but a track list and everything.

You know how fussy Prince is about copyright infringement, and I don’t blame him, as long as I can still get what I want. I have loved the Little Prince since the first time I heard “Dirty Mind,” many light-years ago. Once, a Prince video from that era was playing on my sister’s TV, and her teenage son ran from the room, shrieking “That’s gay, that’s gay!” His terror only confirmed the rebellious, uninhibited brilliance that is Prince.

Prince, don’t be mad! Remember how we paid a thousand bucks to see you in Vegas? And you didn’t come over to sit in my lap? Now we’re even!

Anyway, I’m listening to the concert as I write this. His version of “Creep” is beyond amazing. Try to get your own Webmaster to burn you a copy.

Watching Hillary and Obama speak about their religious views at Messiah College was a demoralizing experience for us heathens. It was as if they each wanted to out-Christian the other: each tried to prove their cred by blabbing about the depth of their “faith.”

Where the hell are we, anyway? Isn’t religion supposed to be a personal matter here in America? What a horrible spectacle it was. Hillary even stooped to mention Esther, as a come-on to her “Jewish friends.”

I can’t believe it’s come to this in Democratic politics. I don’t want anyone’s god in the White House but now it seems like we’re going to be voting for whoever can pose most convincingly as god’s BFF.

If that’s not bad enough, Hillary has a new ad that takes advantage of Obama’s so-called gaffe about “bitterness.” She’s like a shark who smells blood. How dare Obama suggest that poverty and unemployment lead to bitterness!

I never liked Randi Rhodes much, but now that she’s lost her job for calling Hillary a “big fucking whore,” I think she’s a paragon of truth and integrity.

Do I sound bitter at all? If you feel bitter too, check out Bitter Voters for Obama.

Who wouldn’t want this eye-catching bird’s nest bracelet? It’s made of sterling silver and brass wire, a real statement piece according to Vivre, where you can find the most decadent items for the moneyed classes. It’s only $1,035.

I also like these “gold-plated” jeans from Vivre, which are treated with an 18K gold painted finish. They’re $875.

Easter isn’t a big deal at my house any more, but it used to be. I would sneak into the kids’ rooms late at night with a basket full of goodies. I’ll always remember the time my son, around 8 years old and a headbanger, played a Motley Crue tape for one of his friends, who asked where he got it. My son said casually, “The Easter Bunny.” I held my breath. And the friend replied “Cool.”

Wednesday night was the first day of my new life as a follower of televangelist Melissa Scott, and once you’ve seen her, I’m sure you’ll agree that you simply can’t get enough of her.

Pastor Melissa Scott is the third and final wife of the loony Rev. Gene Scott, who had once hired her as a hot young babe to sit in the front row of his TV audience. Anyway, he’s dead and Melissa took over his, ahem, ministry.

She has a waist-length mane of hair that she likes to flip over her shoulder, and her heavy make-up says actress/stripper, in contrast to her bizarre black frock-coat and heavy men’s shoes. She paces back and forth in front of a white board scribbled with weird foreign words. Her hand motions suggest a background in mime or hula dancing. It’s hard to take your eyes off the hands, but given the rest of her, one manages the task.

Pastor Melissa’s accent is hard to pin down and her diction is particularly odd. Her attitude runs the gamut from mildly annoyed to manic and wrathful.

I fucking love her. I remarked to my husband about midway through her show, “I’d like to know what this woman was in her former life.” That’s when he googled her and learned that she was once a porn star and enterpreneur.

My hope is to one day attend her Sunday service in downtown Los Angeles. I want to ask her about those shoes, which look like they might be my size, a full and lovely 10 narrow.

Sometimes the Holy Grail reveals itself when you’re just screwing around on the internet. That’s how I discovered Natalia Brilli, a designer whose fetishistic handbags and accessories are inspirational works of art.  Why won’t someone buy me her deer-head purse, when I so obviously deserve it??