Inspiration: Wall Street conquistadors, madchen in uniform cubicles. Legions of anorexic, rainy day Holly Golightlys sing along, their eyes wet with glycerine tears. They gush and slump over cell phones, desperately seeking agents.

Meanwhile, in some forgotton corner of Silicone Alley, poor Cat is nothing but a stiff -- drowned and forgotten, all matted fur and tiny bone. His implant titties explode just as Rigor Mortis arrives in a hearse-drawn carriage.

My song gently weeps yet defies aging!

I flip the lid on Pandora's box. "Hurrah!" a thousand voices cry.

Women of power and intrigue emerge, dazed, their velvet eyes blinking. Like so many nubile Playmates, they spreadsheet across my mousepad.

We swap stories. Then, strange noises from the shelves above. I look up.

Dusty old leather-bound books move precariously, tip over, and fall open at my feet. A sudden rustle of taffeta as ever so many great literary heroines climb out from their pages. Pale and impatient, they nervously pace up and down in narrow muddy boots -- require of us a song.

How can I sing Queen Alice's song in a strange Wonderland? Estella, "bred and educated to be loved" schoolgirls through an abridged version of Great Expectations.

The Marquise of O -- wants to know, "If Balthus painted me when I was sleeping, would you all forgive me for that?"

Sadly, Emma Bovery is all too "happy to wear a winding sheet" in exchange for a novel life. Just in the nick of time, The Blue Fairy arrives and delicately performs rhinoplasty on Pinocchio.

Suddenly . . . smoke, mirrors and magic! I sing of thee too, Jeannie with the Lurex hair. All present cross arms, nod, smile and exclaim "Stair Master!"

Eschewing the lamp, we coltishly toss our ponytail extensions and kick off the traces.

(For a more formal biography, click here).

©Lisa Parkins. All rights reserved.
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