The tale of the pouting princess
nce upon a time there lived a princess who pouted constantly and obscenely. Her mother routinely warned her that if she continued to pout, her mouth would stay that shape forever but the princess did not listen. She was perennially pouting for she was perennially misunderstood.
The princess was not happy being a mere princess, oh no. She wanted to see the world and experience everything it had to offer. She did not want to marry any old, dull prince and live in the castle and have perfect babies. She wanted to listen to punk rock music and try dangerous drugs and have unprotected sex with boys named ‘Spike’ or girls named ‘Sid’.
So the princess ran away to Big City. She thought to herself, surely with so many people there, she would have to find someone to understand her deepest desires and her darkest dreams; someone to see through her regal exterior and her virginal veil to the core of her soul.
The first thing the princess did when she arrived in Big City was to cut off her flowing locks of golden curls and dye her short new crop the colour of candied apples. She felt more like herself already, as she gazed into the mirror that gazed back at her with such kindness.
Next, the princess went to a charity shop and with a bit of money she had stolen from the queen’s handbag, she acquired a man’s pinstripe suit. It must have been a small man because the suit felt tailor-made for the princess’s lithe body, save perhaps, for being a smidgen too tight over the curve of her hips. She had to hold some of the ripped apart seams together with safety pins but otherwise, her new suit was good as new.
Then the princess found black leather, steel-toe boots in her size and donned those, too. With every small adjustment, she was beginning to feel less like a princess and more like the hardcore rebel she longed to be, flouting every rule of conventional attire for princesses.
So dressed, the princess set off to walk around the city and take in the overwhelming sights and sounds. She felt very good in her new clothes and idly wondered whether the other city people could tell that she was really a princess.
As the princess walked and walked, her senses were attacked by the powerful smells of food and sewage, the loud car horns and speeding tires skidding, and the bright neon signs and glowing phosphorous street lamps. She marvelled at everything around her and sighed.
The princess had never seen so many things crammed together into such a small space before! Especially people! Tons and tons of hurried-harried people of all persuasions, scurrying this way and that and paying the princess no notice whatever. This was very unlike the people the princess was accustomed to, the humble servants in the castle whose entire lives consisted of caring for her and attending to her every whim.
The princess thought that Big City anonymity was a truly remarkable gift. At that moment she was quite content to pout in the shadows and think her own thoughts in the midst of the bustling city life.
Curiously and very much accidentally, she happened upon a little record shop at the very far end of a main road. As she strolled near the storefront window she was lured by a siren call. A thick, lovely, dark sound emanated from within the shop and wrapped itself around her like a friendly feline. Obediently and without hesitation, she stepped into the shop.
“What is this?! Who is this?!” she exclaimed to no one in particular, her mouth agape and her large honey-almond eyes wide. The leather-clad shopkeeper sauntered towards her with the effortless and disinterested manner of record shop workers everywhere and casually replied, “Why it’s Bauhaus of course, luv. Ain’t you ever heard Bela Lugosi before?”
“No,” exclaimed the princess, “No, I haven’t! This is… it’s…” the princess seemed to be at a loss for words, likely for the first time in all of her short and tormented life. She simply stood there listening intently, absorbing every musical note through her pores and feeling each one take the form of shivers that rushed up and down her spine and crawled outwards, to the tips of her delicate fingers and toes.
As the gloriously gloomy sounds filled her ears, she felt a strange tug at the corners of her mouth. Why should that be, she thought awkwardly, when suddenly and without due warning, her face lit up like a firecracker and her perennially pouty lips stretched into the widest of shiny bright smiles.
The shopkeeper smiled back at the princess. He could instantly tell that he was witnessing a moment of great importance and beauty in the young girl’s life. He was very grateful that after all these years he was honoured with the experience of this familiar moment through her new eyes.
Alive with a sense of duty and responsibility to this nubile creature, the shopkeeper put his arm around the princess and ushered her to the back of the till where the records spin. With a knowing smile he said, “Well if you like that, you must listen to this other record…”
And so it was that the beautiful pouting princess at long last found the place to which she rightfully belonged. It was nothing like the place she’d come from and that was absolutely fine with her. In the cacophony of Big City, amidst ageing punks, street-corner hookers and lying-cheating business men, the pouting princess lived happily ever after.
Probably.
27 November 2007 at 9:21 pm
Finger on the pulse, as ever. Ahem.
Is this story set in 1981, then? It’s just that from what I understand through my incontinent, dribbling, senile haze, all Da Kidz today is listenin’ to Amy Winebar and the bangin’ Jungle music, innit?
“The bats have left the belltower, the victims have been bled …”
Oh god. Now look what you’ve done, you utter, utter, UTTER …
27 November 2007 at 9:51 pm
hello. this is sam pink. i am glad to be a human at the same time as you. everyone is really a sad attempt at a human. when i’m brushing my teeth, i keep the mirror door swung open so i don’t see myself and get confused.
27 November 2007 at 9:57 pm
Yes! I know one of them!
27 November 2007 at 10:16 pm
And I know one of them too!
[A pouting princess, I mean. Not a member of Bauhaus.]
27 November 2007 at 11:30 pm
Lithe? I hate lithe people.
28 November 2007 at 3:24 am
Awww. I was hoping for a moral or ill-fated twist at the end. I guess I can deal with the twisted happy ending to this tale. Pleasantly unpleasant. Or? I dunno; it was quaint, a little light-hearted. Not quite what I was expecting here. Not sure how I feel about that. Hmm…
28 November 2007 at 10:55 am
AUW: As you well know, it is a prerequisite that all fairy tales be set in the remote and distant past. Might I also add that this irrefutable fact has nothing whatever to do with my own age. Honestly.
Sam Pink: Hello, Sam Pink, this is Ani Smith. Oh wait. You know that already. I love reading about your bathroom habits, though. Please tell me more.
Z: Oh my god, you know Peter Murphy?! NO WAY!!!
AUW again: Do you, now? Is she smart? And nice? And pretty? Can I meet her, too?
Bohémienne: Clearly someone missed the point of this fairy tale. :D
2ndhandsoul: I have to say that I rather enjoy not meeting expectations, for better or worse. That said, I did intend to be fairly light-hearted. With my own twist, yes, but with a heavy dose of respect for what I understand to be the basic fairy tale rules. The very last word, though? That’s a big clue. Thanks for making me think. :)
28 November 2007 at 1:02 pm
I enjoyed this fable, even though I don’t empathise with the princess’s cultural preferences whatsoever. Her promised land sounds like sheer Babylon to me. But if that’s her trip, then that’s groovy.
I missed out on Bauhaus, on account of spending the 1980s in a flying teapot. For me the best punk band was The Deviants in ‘68, the best goth band Van der Graaf Generator in ‘71.
28 November 2007 at 8:38 pm
Would she have liked Meatloaf?
28 November 2007 at 10:54 pm
No I don’t know Peter Murphy. This post was all about me, wasn’t it?
29 November 2007 at 8:27 am
Z, I don’t wish to argue with you in Ani’s comments, because it would be unseemly and very bad behaviour. But this post was about me. I can pout with the best of ‘em. Oh yes.
I know, shall we arm wrestle over it?
29 November 2007 at 12:22 pm
Drodbar: Careful, Neil, you are in danger of revealing your age. ;)
Clarissa: I get the distinct feeling you are not referring to the meatloaf one eats with a side of mash…
Z and AUW: You are going to arm wrestle over little ole me?! *swooon*
29 November 2007 at 2:42 pm
I think they should make it a cage match, turn it into a pay-per-view event and at least turn out a profit, win or lose. Then they could also buy something really nice for you, like …flowers. :P
30 November 2007 at 6:49 pm
There are many reasons why I stop by your blog, Ms Smith.
Another one I’ve added today is to steal titles of music I’ve never previously encountered, and later pass them off in conversation with others as if I’ve known about them all along.
30 November 2007 at 10:18 pm
Ben, no familiarity with “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by Bauhaus? I remember hearing it in the 80s as a kid and just laughing hysterically at the lyrics, which we found absurd, being as what we were what Piaget would call pre-formal-operational, and thus incapable of abstract thought. So the darkness of the whole thing was completely lost on me, and I think I lost bladder control.
30 November 2007 at 11:54 pm
I haven’t been on Earth for very long. I only found out who shot JR last Wednesday.
It’s certainly now on my list.
1 December 2007 at 1:56 pm
Stick around, Ben - I hear that The Sisters of Mercy are on the agenda next. Hey now, hey now now, sing This Corrosion to me …
I’m off to burn a joss stick and drink Snakebite and Black.
1 December 2007 at 3:18 pm
2ndhandsoul: Flowers? Oh no, these two owe me more than flowers, I assure you. ;)
Ben: Glad to be of service, Mr Leto.
Marcelle Manhattan: Yes, not their best lyrics, it has to be said. It must be all about the guitars.
Ben again: I thought you were 140 years old? Mind you, you don’t look a day over 139.
AUW: You are reliving your Goth heyday, aren’t you? I’d love to see you in black lipstick and a Robert Smith-style coif. Ahem.
5 December 2007 at 8:07 pm
Snakebite and Black! Yes! The vomit taste before you actually vomit!