All posts by Lambchop

Deliverance

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When I sit down to a plate of crisp turkey skins and can-shaped cranberry sauce this year, generic I am going to give thanks to Friends. Especially friends like Licketysplit, who has gotten me out of many scrapes and situations. What a tender moment it was when she and Bruno Ganz (they are such friends!) sallied forth to my cell, wearing crisp white shirts and refusing to touch me until I had a bath. It was as though angels had descended from heaven and offered me exfoliant.

I must tell the truth, I will be having a lovely meal with some very nice people. And Licky and Bruno will be riding a Zamboni into the sunset over a frosted lake up north.

So much to be grateful for. I shall return with a LIST!

-xo

Incarcerated

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So I decided not to have a party at my house for my birthday, because of some housemate difficulties.

Instead I went to a party in a shicky micky loft in the South End. It was pretty bumpin’, but at 1:30, some meatwads with badges stormed in, spoiling for a fight, as though they had stumbled upon the Happy Land in the Bronx. As we gathered our coats and our wits, something these gentleman clearly had no need for, we were ordered at top volume to be out in 30 seconds or go in the Wagon. I believe in our constitutional right to party on Lambchop’s Birthday. Or maybe I am a sucker for sarcasm. In any case, this thuggish behavior really teed me off and I started to holler “that’s right everyone, trample for the exits! We want bodies crushed on the stairs! MOVE!”

I won this round of “Most Likely to be Arrested”. I spent the rest of my birthday in the clink with a bunch of hookers, playing scrabble. At least they had a boombox. Chaka Khan, everybody!

Publish or Perish!

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We are happy to announce the upcoming launch of the newest in handy guides to cynicism, recipe nihilism, and narcissism. In addition to Vomitola, we are coming out with a new glossy mag to fill your need for self-loathing, makeup tips, and pictures of Morrissey. That and so much more will be premiering in February, just in time to be your Valentine. And you will have to pay for it. Between stalking Jude law and phone calls to Barack Obama (she says once you go barack…ahem), our Helen does not have the time to edit this perfumed poison fishwrap, so I will be your editorial Lambchop. Helen will still be available to tell us not to get fat, and to slap me with a ruler if I misuse a possesive. Order now or a pox on your webbed offspring.

-xo

Freunde von Mir

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This was a weekend of old friends, and their new works. I went down to NYC to see an exhibition of new paintings by my old pal Chris Mir. But I am not going to review the show here, because Jerry Saltz was there, and he is far, far more clever than I. But really if you are in Chelsea, look for yourself at Rare. They were nice enough to give us an open vodka bar at a nearby snazzateria.

Welcome to the World of What I Did this Weekend. At the opening I ran into a few of my thesis mates from the Old School. I was very excited to see them for the first time since we popped our corks in ’99. I had an Outfit. I also kept the company of my old pal from School and his crazy Serbian wife. He stayed with me several times in Berlin, and I stay with them often when I come to the city. I feel at home there because when I walk in, Marija shrieks, in a voice you could shave with, “ziveli! Heather is here. Now we get drunk!” I also had a lamb schawarma that was so greasy, it left me with a layer of fat paste coating my hands.

The denizens of New York expect you to justify the fact that you live elsewhere, especially if you are an artist. Who ever heard of a painter that lived in Boston? The relief is palpable when I tell them I plan to drift into the city next year. There is a lot to do in New York, and a lot of careers. Sometimes I wonder, though, if I really want to live among so many grownups. Wait, I already know the answer to that is “no!” People assure me that there are plenty of people in New York, who, like me, are Desperate, but Not Serious.

-xo

P.S. The band Coil is one of the beloved old vomitola house bands. One of the pair, Jhonn Balance, died by falling drunk from a balcony. Feel free to appreciate the irony!

People…They’re the Worst!

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*Someone* said this world is full of crashing bores. You can’t swing a dead cat with hitting poseurs and phonies. People who talk about how much everything sucks, but are the first with their backs to the wall. People whose creativity is best expressed by trying on a new pair of shoes. I saw a German film once that described people as “koenners, nicht koenners, und flachschwimmers”. That is, there are those that Can, those that Can’t, and those that flail around, making a public business of their failure and insecurity. Those without dignity, these are the lowest. Everyone loves a winner, and even more so a Loser, the kind of person who can toast his own inadequacy, and then ask you for money. A “flachschwimmer” is a full grown adult who is still wearing water wings, and choking.

Just when you really start to repine your own humanity, you overhear the following (pronounced by a 15 year old boy):

“Everybody wants to be black until the cops show up!”

-xo

Philippe for America

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Fallujah is in the midst of being bombed to smithereens, and Amputee America increases its membership. Recently, I had a chance to meet Achewood’s Philippe. Philippe’s spirited campaign for President mandated everybody not smoking and being happy. This is clearly no match for having less money and fewer limbs!

Inspired by this vision, Helen and I got together for an emergency summit. We compared bruises and prescriptions. We watched the surgery channel. For three hours. We know how to fix America- it should eat fewer Fritos! Sometimes it just seems like Helen and I should form our own island nation. We agree on so many things, like the basic hottness of Jude Law and the right of brown people to exist. In our country, there would be a Clam Sandwich for everyone. But this dream will have to wait, because we care about YOU. Even now we are gluing rhinestones to black armbands so you can let the postman know that you oppose crimes against humanity. Plus they will look really cool and we promise if you wear one you will get laid. A lot.

-xo

Afraid of Americans?

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Things are getting pretty crazy here at Morrissey headquarters. The Morrisseys are uniformly UNINTERESTED IN BUSH. Go figure. Adam and the Ants were eventually driven back by handfuls of confetti and a rousing rendition of “Reel Around the Fountain”. We were then favored by a visit from

PANTS!

Mr. Bowie feels that we need more feminine sophistication in this election, and offered to preside. It’s a walk-off, everybody!

Morrissey the Vote!

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Morrissey has spoken of his fear and loathing of Bush and the Regime of Darkness. So I decided to join the Morrissey Camp for Election Day. And that’s “camp” with a capital “C”! Their party banner “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore”, seems to refer to a desire to ban war, meat consumption, and tedious people at parties! The Morrisseys are casting their votes for Kerry en masse, and advocating the return of lillies and dramatic dancing.

We were just enjoying a round of Earl Grey, when news broke of a rival faction! Moz headquarters are currently being protested by The Adam and the Ants Party.

They are crying out for the nation to “Stand and Deliver!” And while they, too, support Kerry, unlike the Morrisseys they favor extravagant neckwear and sexuality. Vote your conscience!

Back to you in the trenches!

A Room of One’s Own

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Well, tadalafil at last the flaming bricks of poo have done sailing through my window. It is probably a wise policy to keep company with those who basically like and respect you. I have freely dispensed this advice to others, sickness and now I should heed it myself. There must be people out there with Standards! The ideal match for me would like art, makeup, mirrors, martinis, and sarcasm. I need a gay roommate! Why did I not think of this before?!

The replies so far run the usual C-list gamut of desperate men looking for dates, and some actual people with rooms to let. One of these called himself “journeymanpoet” and offered not so much a room, but a “lifestyle change” involving no meat, sex, drink, or drugs. Why he contacted *me* is beyond ridiculous and I pointed that out and wished him luck. Mr. Crunchy then wrote BACK to me to implore me to consider allowing him to “emancipate me from my cynicism”. LORDY, is the internet fun! I offered to emancipate him from his weedy gonads and suggested he add “no Wit” to his list, and he has fortunately not contacted me again.

The piece de resistance was the mail I received this morning, from an actual gay man, with a gorgeous and roomy house, who used a charming turn of phrase to ask me if my listed rent was fixed. I replied that I never thought a gay man would ask me if I was “tight”! This match made in our own bitter and well-dressed heaven, is only disturbed by the fact that the location is not convenient for me. Sigh. Maybe I will still angle for an invitation for mousse- he has already begun to tell me about his love life.

-xo

Silence is Sexy

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It seems that I am the only person this week who has not talked about me on the Internet. Yes, the Internet has decided I am evil. I just want to thank everyone for having taken the time out of what must be very hectic schedules to weigh in with their opinions on the subject of ME, especially all you folks in Milwaukee and Wisconsin! Anyway, I have been silent through the affair, but I thought it was about time that I talk about me, too.

This is my pal Echo, who I have had the good fortune to spend time with lately. We trade drawings, and we talk about Barbie and imaginary sharks. She knows the old adage about throwing stones. And boy does she have a good arm! She is truly a prodigy, and I would wish for her she would never see how ugly people can be. But she also understands that while you don’t have to be friends with them, Ugly people must be tolerated!

-xo