All posts by Lambchop

Baby I Can Drive Your Car

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I have returned from Berlin, and there stood Helen behind the velvet rope at the airport, holding up a sign that said “Morrissey!” It’s a good thing she was there as a witness, because this trawl through the airport has me not only convinced that ugly people have lives, and problems, and pay car insurance, they also go on vacations! Apparently, you can be possessed of a face full of chancres and still zip off to Amsterdam for a Holiday. (and they let you in!) Mouth-breathers with harelips still pack off to St. Tropez. The human spirit is astonishing, ladies and gentleman.

I have not even unpacked or taken my new iBook for a spin (Helen made the Morrisseydance my wallpaper!). ‘Ere I landed, I had to go back to work, and then off to shoot a scene for the My Little Pain in the Ass Movie. I arrive at the set and try not to think of the month’s worth of laundry that I need to do, the giant overflowing suitcase in the middle of my bed, the slides that need to be catalogued, the work that needs to be photographed with my new camera, the new biography I have to write for my gallery website, or the emails yet to send to notify Berlin that I arrived safely. Yes, I thought of none of those things. Good. Then the director tells me that in this scene I have to Drive. A Car. Yes, Drive. A Car. Everyone knows that I do not know how to drive a car! Everyone who has ever helped me move, or travel or go grocery shopping. Hell, even the Liberal State of Massachusetts knows that I can’t drive. I know this is as rare as an individual who has never eaten a hamburger at McDonalds. How did I reach the age of thirty without learning to drive? How did I miss this teenage right of passage? Like a lot of privileges of youth, it just slipped me by. Anyway, I took a cast of three careening down a dark street, screeching to a halt to dump a bloody man out, and tearing off shrieking with mirth. The fact that I needed to be shown where the gas and the brake pedal are, made this rather easy to do. We are going for realistic terror here, people!

So I may be tired, my manicure ragged, and things in general disarray, but I drove a car. Maybe I will even apply for a permit.

In between takes, I got to peer at the debate. I am chagrined to see that Bush has polished up his act enough to appear “likeable” and “compassionate”, so that Middle America will not think about the fact that this is a man unconcerned with the pileups of corpses, who has declared his feeling that captaining a dictatorship would make it easier for him to “get stuff done.” But how much can you really polish a turd? Kerry proved once again that he has a working knowledge of government and an awareness of such impenetrable concepts as human rights (for non-whites!) No matter how much we plead for sanity here at Vomitola, some of you are going to vote for a criminal regime with your own little flag waving hearts. Be our guest.

However, DO NOT VOTE FOR NADER OR WE WILL COME AND FIND YOU. We realize here that a healthy democracy means we have to break this two party jamboree. But the third candidate on the ballot this year exists only as a symbol of that fact. What is more crucial to the vitality of our freedoms, and the right to life of others–a symbolic move toward multiple party elections in the United States, or a Bush-free White House? We leave that for you to determine.*

*we know where you live.

-xo

lambchop

Has the Perrier Gone Straight to My Head?

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I have been working very hard in the manner of Jane, Get me off this crazy thing. The subjects for the portraits I have been comissioned to do showed up at my apartment on Friday afternoon. And I Morrisseyed day and night and finished the two pictures on Saturday. Which is like some kind of record for me. I wanted to be finished in time for my dear friend Smilla’s birthday extravaganza on Saturday night. With my work finished, and my mind awhirl, I was ready to get good and Awesome. The party had sort of a sixties theme so I secured a cylidrical structure to my head and sprayed and spackled my hair over it. Now that my hair has gotten so long, topiary is possible. Next time I will sculpt a giraffe.

I made everyone dance to an extended version of Crimson and Clover.

Sunday in Berlin, the clothes, the cafe brunches, and VIKTOR, Berlin’s most beautiful man. I went to my favorite fleamarket in dem Arkunerplatz, and I knew I was at his table before I even saw him, by the character of the clothes on the rack. He was dallying somewhere, but as I turned over one chic-y micky seventies dress after another, I knew his dirty smile and snarky glint could not be far. I wait all year for my five minutes to bask in Viktor on a Sunday. Sure enough, he is there to tell someone with a fleeting eyeroll that they look amazing and to say hello to “well, everyone…all those….people”. Everyone is a so-and-so next to Viktoriano. Of course for the fifth year running I am too shy to say much more than hello to the coolest cat around. One day I will get his picture, do a portrait. Put a lock of his hair in the secret drawer of an old clock, right next to the gold threaded swatch of Morrissey’s shirt from 1989.

Or something insane like that.

A second look at the paintings tells me I should do a little more work on one before I present them to the client tomorrow night. And five drawings still to do for the Kunst Ring.

Wish me luck, Morrissey!

-xo

Stretch Out and Wait

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I made it alive to Berlin, despite Northwestern Airlines’ steadfast efforts to kill me. They offered a tray full of dumpster trailings for my dinner, and a thimble for my drink. This shallow potable must have been meant for the infant three rows back, who squalled interminably without his mother’s little helper. I long for days when “leave the bottle” actually meant something. I implore you all to fly British Airways and enjoy a hot Korma and some cognac. Next time I find myself in the cheap seats, I will pack a rag soaked with ether. I won’t say for whom.

Anyway, Morrissey, I find myself in dem Vaterland, with my work cut out for me. I have been engaged to do several drawings for an organization that will reproduce them en masse to sell at their bookstore. In looking through the brochure from past years, I see that there are many prominent artists taking part. Apparently one of the organizers saw my work in the gallery, and asked for my grafik. I can hardly wait to get started, and will fill a small biplane with the results, and rain them o’er the land!

My second task is to paint two portraits by Monday. Yes, that is a terrifying three days from now. I met my subjects today and they are lovely, fresh-faced little things, so I am not too worried (this is a lie-ed.)

By Morrissey, I had a lovely day though! Before my meeting in the gallery, I was free to roam about town and it was a lovely autumn day. I had a superb lunch in a french cafe. For seven dollars I got soup, salad, a lamb ragout, and some glazed pear slices. All served in those appropriate dollops that leave you feeling sated but not stuffed like an armchair.

I restocked my studio here this evening, and have the evening free to drink wine and wait for the first sitting tomorrow. So ignore all the codes of the day, let your juvenile impulses swaaaay….

-xo

Welcome Back to the Future

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Well it was a glittery two weeks of vacation in 1982. I was there for the unveiling of Diet Coke! What I never realized at the time is how much the Japanese loved Joanie Loves Chachi. Then I found out that in Japanese, “chachi” means penis. Joanie really does love Chachi.

My alma mater, Yale, was running a 14 week course on how to solve Rubik’s Cube. I had just bought all my course materials (1 Rubik’s Cube) when I remembered that I have a ticket to go see Morrissey with Licketysplit in 2004! And then I have to leave for Berlin, to do a portrait comission.

Blast, I did not have time to shag either David Bowie or Peter Murphy! I did however, manage a trek over to my old neighborhood, where I saw myself at age 9, tottering around on those white skates with the metal wheels and a faceful of Crayola makeup. I fought back tears at the sight of my own manic little face, and I whispered “don’t go swimming with sunglasses.” I didn’t think it would be too interfering to spare myself *that* much loss!

So here I am in 2004, trying to brush out the crimp in my hair. Who wants a souveneir copy of Toto IV?

-xo

ps. Morrissey Morrissey Morrissey!

Point: Some Plain Speaking About Our Men Candidates

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by Thelma Haney

Well, folks, I am very happy to report to you after the first of our Great Debates. I hung Old Glory out on my front porch, and I made lots of sandwiches with American cheese. But let me tell you it sure don’t make it easier for the undecided voter. I admit to favoring our President a bit at the outset, because he is our leader, and he talks plain, just like we do down at Rosie’s parlor. Sometimes I feel like we could be his cabinet! Me and the girls were all down there this morning early as you please to get a set and talk it over. John Kerry is such a high falootin Grumpy Gus. Mr. Bush reminds me of my pappy when he would drop his dentures into a glass of Jim beam and read us “The Three Billy Goats Gruff”, or my cousin Lydon who, god bless him, fell out of a tree on his head. After the accident, he became the kind of thoughtful type, always taking a nice , long pause to collect his thoughts, nostrils flarin’ like a steer. Sometimes I thought he was just wool-gatherin’ but eventually he would give a piece of his mind, like our President to King Kong of North Korea! You can talk to China, we are Not Interested!

Anyway, it touches my heart how both men have such nice families. Did you see John Kerry kiss his wife? You could tell they are truly in love! And when I think of that poor Kerry boy in Vietnam, as a mother my heart breaks. I just can’t decide who the better captain of our troops would be. Ella May said there are other things to consider in electing a leader besides “a military bent”, but she is only saying that because she is rich and has no children. I secretly think she donates money to environmentalists, which as we all know is just domestic terror. Well we hashed it all out, and we decided it was simply the “wrong place, wrong time” and we would wait and see what happens in the next debate. I am going to hang some bunting around my porch and bake a red white and blue bundt cake like I see here on the back of this box of Betty Crocker. Which makes me think, I wish we could get these Yale boys to square-off in a chili cook-off! All the yapping can be so hard to follow, but I sure do know when a chili tastes right!

God Bless,

Thel Haney

The Last of the Famous International Lambchop

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Ahh, fashion week! I can still smell the Aveda and the tang of vomit from all those tossed up lentil wraps. I went to see the Gen Art “Fresh Faces” show, and that was Faaaaancy. Anne was stunning in the best outfit in the show, a bustled jacket by Alice Ritter, who is a very cute and fun french girl. I was backstage with her and a sea of toothpick shaped models, watching them get hair and makeup, and dress their identically endless limbs, while the slender high heeled citizens of fashion New York bickered with the ticket girl for a V.I.P. seat. I watched the show from the back, admiring walks and gauzy layers, and hoping to steal a gift bag.

I got to see the studios of a couple of cool designers (no name dropping!) while Anne was there trying on stuff in the middle of the room. In between appointments, we tramped around the Village and SoHo, where we saw the fashion photographer Terry Richardson Penis Show. Porn has made it to the galleries (AGAIN) and here are the large photos of Terry in sweatsocks, his whanger pressing through the faces of models, to prove it.

Bite me, Terry Richardson with your porn face and bad tattoos. Oh you make sex so cool.

I saw Anne again at the Dres show, which was a red light affair at the Hotel Gershwyn, much flocked by transvestites. I wore pink knee highs. Anne had a polka-dotted skirt and latex makeup. The stylists there were all Very Hott gay men. One was about 6’4″ in a pair of dandy trousers and a pinstriped hat. That’s tall enough to break my heart. Why are gay men so hot?

I stayed in the Model Apartment, a sort of agency dorm for models just a block from the Alexander McQueen shop in the meatpacking district. I love watching bits of flesh and rivulets of fatty blood get washed off the sidewalk in front of these designers. Offal and the fragrance of Stella McCartney- together at last! Staying at the M.A. was really Something. The girls aged 14-21, all very sweet and lanky, talking boys and waist sizes and look books. They were pretty and innocent creatures, ridiculously coltish in their long, tight jeans.

Also included in this fashion weekend were a night of dancing at the Pyramid, walks on the Hudson, a trip to Green Point to see the view of Manhattan from Violet’s new rooftop, a Sunday afternoon wandering Central Park, and a brief tour of Jersey City, which is another story altogether. It was so fab to see Violet, and to badger Manuel on the Street for his first new York chronicle. Coming soon!

Right now Anne is doing a shoot for French Vogue, and I hope Violet went to see her last show. I whisked straight to work on a 3:30am train on Mon., ending three solid days of not seeeing a single Fat Person in Gold Pants.

In these strange environs, I was mistaken for a model a couple of times. I said “Baby, I got 20 lbs. going in the wrong direction!”. I really did.

-xo

The Fashionable and the Not So Fashionable

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NEWS FLASH! Attractive people are leaving Boston in droves, and you can see it in the nightlife. Yesternight at Love Night we keenly felt the absence of our fashionable friends while watching the Other Species jiggle its junk around. It was like having a sofa come on to you.

Your correspondent lambchop is heading for greener pastures. It’s Fashion week in New York, and I am going to take in a show or two with Anne. I will not return until I have gotten a photo of a gangly girl-creature yodeling her breakfast in the trash! Ok, I’ll be back on Monday.

-xo

Are the voices in your head calling, Gloria?

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Most of you are probably already aware of the tragic news that Laura Branigan has Left the Building. When I was in the third grade at P.S. 23 in the spring of 1981, no fewer than 3 separate acts of girls in the talent show lip-synched in choreographed dance routines to “Gloria”. It was so 80’s!

Please share your Gloria memories with us here at Vomitola. We are here for you.

And if you are too overcome with Gloria-related emotion to find the words right now, here are some pictures of Lambchop in her underwear, to shill goods for our favorite comic, Achewood.

-xo