All posts by Lambchop

Huh? Wha?

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I am foggy in the brain pan. I feel like Vince Noir just had a party upstairs.

Yesterday was a real corker. The World’s Vilest Human is up to her usual cunning tricks. I am legally bound to abstain from the details, but surely you can relate. Hasn’t everyone had some Prof. Moriarty type figure in their lives at one time or another, forever throwing a hissing cartoon bomb through the window of your sanity, or shoving you off a cliff?

My current arch nemesis lobs her flaming bags of poo through the email, and such a case of ire ensued yesterday that I got into a pointless disagreement and took off at a furious clip on my bicycle, at a speed a little antisocial for the Kent St. bike lane on a Sunday. The exercise had a calming effect, but left me with a terrible headache. I took 2 ibuprofen and went to sleep.

Today I have been unable to keep my eyes open all day. My work is not exacly designed for wakefulness, but outright narcolepsy is unusual. Suddenly I remembered (about as suddenly as the oil drifts to the top of a lava lamp, actually) that the only painkillers I have at home (apart from my emergency hope chest of vicodin and klonipin, bless you darlings) are ibuprofen PM, of which I merrily gulped down 2 according to directions. I did not take my hobbit size into account, sadly, or the fact that I never take the stuff so probably have no resistance. I nodded off right into my shaved parmesan arugula! I can see Obama tut-tutting at me, for I am a disgrace.

Let this be a lesson to you people. Take pills for pleasure, not for business, never follow directions, and make sure it is the Professor who goes over the falls and not you. It makes for much better tv. Oh, I don’t know, either. But if you have a good story about *your* arch nemesis, please tell us about it. Especially if it is going badly.

Arch Nemesis: 1
Lambchop: 0

Life is Nothing Much to Lose

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The more I ignore you, the more laborious you get.  In come the botherers, the interrupters and the hecklers to scold us into abundance and industry.

A fanciful head needs neither hat nor occupation.  I require only my wits to accompany me through this doleful semblance of existence.  That leaves the majority of you in the cold.  Well, allow me to suggest an anorak of some type.

And wherefore all this joie de vivre?  Have you all won some kind of lottery in which good looks are dispensed?  Alas, no.  Some English fool wrote “Give the People What They Want”, but I haven’t a bullet or a pill to spare, I have only as many as all of my cares.

So you persist in living, in dragging your pulchritude around like a sack of suet on its way to the butcher.  You may be a freckle on god’s massive scrotum….oh where was I?  You are still here.  You have thoughts and opinions after all.  I have spent my entire career giving you advice, and it has gotten us exactly nowhere.  Well, it has gotten *you* exactly nowhere.  I actually have a rather nice house and some truly exceptional bedding. 

Let my words take over, and remind you of all you should be thinking, and all you should be singing:  Life is a Pigsty!

Supernature

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Oh boys, can’t you see that the people are trying, yet still they fail?  They seek to swim, but can only flail.  You cannot point out the splendour of being, unleashing that inner frabjousness, when most are confounded by the vast number of choices of peanut butter available to them.  (Your mistake was going to the grocery store in the first place.  They have people to do these things!)

So you can barely get your head off the pillow, blighted as it is with thoughts of your insignificance,  as well as combination skin.  I was not born with peacock quills cascading daintily from my bustle to my hustle.  No, no, what is needed here is Structure and Discipline, and the sooner you learn it, the less time we have to waste with this mollycoddling.  You don’t need a mother, she was a useless gin-soaked rag the first time around, tearing up the linoleum and screaming at your uncle.  And your feelings, well those can go by the wayside, too. They have gotten puffed up with far too many trips to the walk-in freezer, from the look of it.

We don’t like the cut of your jib, if you can call that a cut.  It has gone all wobbly.  It is time to wring out the tear stained hanky that is your life and start afresh, with nerves of steel and an unrelenting program of work, fitness, and severely cut trousers.  And for god’s sake, acquire a timepiece.  You are going to need it.

Ask Steve Strange

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You are ever so fond of that randy pirate, Adam Ant.  What about me, the Peacock Prince?  It’s about time my Visage popped up around here.  I am ready to share with you my fabulous hat-pin pearls of wisdom.  And darling, I have lived.  When I ran the Blitz you could only get in if you had charm beaded on your brow and a copy of Proust in your bedazzled knickers.  I have also promoted parties in Ibiza, done more heroin than you have had hamburgers, and got busted shoplifting a tent.  And I don’t even like to go camping.  So profit from my advice, babies, and remember, the Damned Don’t Cry.

Dear Steve Strange,

A friend of mine was laid off a year ago and she never has any money to go out.  At first, I generously offered to cover her.  A drink here and there, her share of dinner.  Nothing to win me any awards.  She is making a solid effort to find a job but after a year, the “Susan tax” has become burdensome.  I feel bad about cutting her off, leaving her perpetually at home with want ads and eggs for dinner.  But I have my own bills to pay and besides I want to save up to go to the Caribbean this winter.

love, Alex

Dear Alex,

Far be it for me to begrudge anyone their days in the sun.  When I was still riding around London in stretch limos, sharpening my fairy boots on Boy George’s insolent bottom and rinsing the cocaine from my teeth with additional cocaine, I would long for periods of sun and frolic.  F#$% your friend.  Charity begins at home, let it end at foreign shores.  Also, your andogyny is intriguing here. I think my schedule is pretty free in February.

love, Steve Strange

Happy Almostiversary

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Today marks nine years for me and my fellah.  Nine years since our misguided, drunken hookup.  And what did that get us?  A free strawberry and nutella crepe with our breakfast!  All week we have been celebrating our “almostiversary”.  Here is how we have marked the occasion:

1. Wearing fancy socks

2. Seeing Swans (OOF)

3. Texting everyone we know to see if they had any happy pills

4. unmentionable (but also involving fancy socks)

And so our 3,285 night stand rolls on.  And on. What else does one do to commemorate a favorite mistake?  Sitting by the East River with some coffees, watchin’ boats roll by, some Assberger dude in a hobo suit and flipflops asked us (or rather shouted at us) if we wanted to see a video of him on fire.  Most definitely not.

Now my sweetheart is reading aloud to me.  About chemotherapy.  That’s how to keep romance alive.  Maybe we should go to a demolition derby, round things out with a little metaphor.  There will probably be some dinner.  If we, dewy-eyed and honey lipped, inform our waitress of the enormity of the occasion, we can probably get another free dessert.

Vomitola Book Club

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Didn’t know we had one, did you?  We didn’t either!  We thought our only hobbies were glue-sniffing and composing artful insults.  Well, we can’t let Oprah have all the fun.  Or all the cake.  Of course, we thought we would tiptoe gingerly into the world of edification through flapping papery objects by choosing one that was mainly pictures.  And pictures of drunken slatterns at that! 

And so, our very first selection is Lambchop’s own book of paintings:

Heather Morgan, Hardcover/Hardcore Edition
 
A painter’s painter and a lady’s lady.
 
“Maybe because I see Vienna in the paintings, I feel like Doctor Freud when I look at them, a bourgeoisie against the power of hysteria…or maybe it’s that Heather Morgan’s painted ladies are so seductively neurotic that they just feel like patients…” (Don Carroll, Foreword)
 
This book contains a glimpse into the neurotic fray of Ms. Morgan’s paintings of women. It is a world of bordellos and boudoirs, of bared teeth and breasts.  Pleasure and terror intertwine like pale and stretched limbs in these paintings.  These works invite your gaze, demand it, but they may not call you after.

There is also a softcover version.

Next month we may actually read something.  So that you don’t have to.

The Humming of the Humdrum

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I am temping this week. Which comprises of helping myself to the Smarties jar and keeping up-to-date on the Lohan situation. Do you have a rewarding job? Don’t answer, only a quiz can tell!

1. Finish this sentence: “I make so much damn money, I can ____”
a. feed it to my dog.
b. buy more stupid shit than anyone I know.
c. heat my apartment next winter.

2. For your commute you:
a. curl up with a book
b. become homicidal
c. scratch your ass on the way from the bed to your laptop

3. Which best describes the people you work with:
a. enjoy owning pets
b. extremely ugly
c. wear orange jumpsuits

4. Which is your favorite serial killer:
a. Albert Fish, the “moon maniac”
b. Charles Starkweather
c. Ed Kemper “the Coed Killer”

5. You can’t look at this quiz while you are working because:
a. You go on as soon as they are done disinfecting the pole
b. Someone might see a big red ass on your screen
c. You are now too busy reading about albert fish, the “moon maniac”

There is no scoring for this quiz, only the following analysis: If you are scratching your ass and feeding money to your dog, you have definitely done something right. If you have to look at ugly people, I hope you are handsomely paid. And if you are a homicidal maniac, then you have the most rewarding work of all, hellish power over life and death.

There are no right answers, except to question #4, which is clearly c. Ed Kemper.