All posts by Lambchop

Tick Tock Goes the Clock

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I am mooning over this typewriter. It’s only 11:04 (I know, shop because I am playing “Shout out the time!”) and I am soulless and sullen already.

I ran into a former professor on the train today and had to feel automatically sheepish for having a job. Because I want to be Somebody. I feel like I should go win a Guggenheim or something. There are even some of you out there reading this that surely find it amusing that I have a job at all, sovaldi never mind one that does not involve me being spanked. In the art game being unemployed is called ambition.

I did finish a painting last night and it wants to kick your a$$.

In today’s afterschool special, I am finally meeting my Little Sister. I hope I can impress an eight year old- she might actually be bigger than me!

-xo

Continuing Chronicles of Bartleby

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There is nothing better than sitting in a dark, climate-controlled office, shivering in a summer dress with a sun burn. I should search for a dusty air filter to stare at.

The last few days have been very jolly in the way that people can’t help being when the weather changes- long bike rides along the Charles, new clothes, parties and dirty jokes. I get a bang out of strolling around my neighborhood with a bright pink cocktail in hand.

The newest of the new drinks on offer at my house is the Los Angeles Iced Tea, which still has five kinds of liquor but replaces sour mix with Rock Star. This concoction gives rise to some interesting dreams. I woke up convinced not only that Prince showed up to our party, but that I had run into some ex-type bastard to find that both of his legs had been amputated. He invited me for a drink and I stood him up. Ha! Stood him up, he had no legs! His Purple Badness was not in actual attendance, but I can hold out hope that ex-bastard is scooching around on a dolly somewhere. No doubt he is merely off taking his James Spader lessons.

But I am not bitter, see how the sun it does shine.

-xo

HIATUS

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The vomitorium is simply not the same while Clammy is traipsing about Tokyo, ampoule offending other cultures, there eating fish that are still twitching, try and leering at strange men while her husband rattles in the grip of SARS. Oh how we kid- he just has a cold, and Clammy is not so much of a leerer as a sneerer.

I am sure every last one of you have seen this by now. I have always wanted a chicken of my very own to order around! Some friends of mine created this, and its wild success has been such that we had a chicken themed party last week, including exploding peeps in the microwave and cockspur rum. I highly recommend the Cock ´n´ Coke. Make it a stiff one!

-xo

Here Come Cowboys

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Me and my pal Violet went to see the Psychedelic Furs last night. And what else can I say but it was Captain Awesome. We were right up front, kissing distance from the legendary band, and they sounded great!

The assembled fans, on the other hand, were a hideous nightmare of wattles and male pattern baldness, and lousy haircuts. People just don’t take a cue from their idols anymore. They are content to shuffle about, mouth-breathing and unkempt, watching Richard Butler slink around in slim trousers. You can’t help it if you are old and decrepit. But you can help looking it. Surely there is something better than an old man sweater lurking in your closet. I consider it an affront to show up to a rock show looking like a substitute teacher, and a poor way of paying tribute to a band that you love.

Where, oh where have all the Beautiful People gone? These halls always used to be filled with such sullen and pretty faces. Tonight I am going to stay in with Jarvis Cocker and Kitty Dukakis.

Guten Tag, Berlin

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For your viewing pleasure here in the Vomitorium, treat this is one of my newer paintings. I have sold it to the Ladengalerie in Berlin for the next exhibition in 2005. So if you want to see it, tadalafil get on a plane to Tegel. I promised the Kids in Germany that I would report to them once a week-ish in a language they can understand. Humorless and efficient? No, German!

Ich bit seit einer Woche wieder hier in Boston und wollte sagen das es richtig schön war, wieder bei Euch zu sein, auch wenn nur kurz. Es läuft prima bei dem neuen Job- das Büro is wahnsinnig cool, viel feiner und hübscher als das alte (Ich habe einen neuen windows xp mit einem flachem LCD Bildschirm- geil, wahr?). Ich habe auch schon angefangen einen Galerie hier zu suchen für die Ausstellung 2005 und werde berichten wenn was davon geworden ist. Mein Zimmer ensteht noch eine Explosion aus dem Gepäck. Ich habe zu viel zu tun gehabt, um mich darum kümmern zu können. Zwei Wörter: David Bowie.

Unter dieser Meldung kann man auf Comments klicken und nachrichten lassen. Also, ihr könnten meine viele Fehler beim schreiben merken oder mir einfach sagen wie toll ich bin!

Bis Bald!

Ad infinitum PANTS

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This is the picture of Mr. Bowie, view Emperor of the Pants, ed that hangs right next to my computer. He is my maestro. The concert was wonderful, apart from the fact that the bulk of the crowd justify the use of the word “bulk”. Oh what an unfashionable lot! There was not an avant-garde brow on display, no Edie Sedgewicks or Candy Darlings. Even a Mandy Moore would have been nice. Well, no.

But the music is of course what transports us, what drives us screaming to our feet, arms flailing, and tears in our eyes when he plays Quicksand or Five Years. Hell, he could play the Alley Cat and with a wave of the hand, I am finished.

We are still sifting through Volumes of entries for the lucky person who gets to come along and see Lambchop have a seizure.

-xo

Das ist Playboy

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That’s what he said when I held up an enormous pair of vintage sunglasses. When Viktor says it looks good, it goes into my pocket. I love the fleamarket on the Akunerplatz in Berlin’s Prenzlauerberg. I love the rows of stands with all the shiny clothes and mod furniture, I love the fashionable people that get dressed up to browse and haggle there. But most of all I love Viktor, the fashion guy. He’s gorgeous, stylish, and delivers a snarky running commentary, “oh, that looks SO GOOD on you”. I have been buying things from him for years, and harboring a massive “he doesn’t know I’m alive” kind of crush. I can only share his stage for the length of time it takes for him to look me over, help me with a zipper, tell me I look fabulous and trade my admiration for 12 euros and a beautiful dress. Then I no longer have an excuse to remain, so I can only steal a glance at his gray eyes, and the fringe of long hair sweeping into them, and go.

Tomorrow morning I catch an early plane back to Boston. Ciao Berlin, ciao Viktor!

Yes, of course I realize he is gay! Shut up.

-xo

Public Works

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I was sitting in a cafe in Mitte with an old friend and a girl came to our table with an entry form for a contest in the Kulturbrauerei (culture brewery). It’s a group of studios, galleries, and spaces where things happen. At any rate, they are building a word in giant steel letters that will adorn the plaza, and are handing out flyers to people who do nothing but sit in cafes all day thinking up words to be cast in giant steel letters. Naturally, we entered Vomitola! We will no doubt soon become a landmark in Berlin’s Underground art culture!

Plus, I stole her pen.

-xo

The Man Without A Past

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I finally got to see Aki Kaurismäki’s last film, and it was just as weird and gripping and lacking in emotional display as you expect from a Finn.

I, too, am erasing my past. Bringing some more of my things back to America. It’s all crap anyway. Closing the door on old relationships. Buying new shoes and planning for an exhibiton in 2005.

Everything is changing and crazy, but it’s ok. It’s about what you expect from your lambchop. Tomorrow I will take some photos of my new work in the gallery. It’s already been purchased, expressly for the 2005 exhibition, Kampf Bilder.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

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Dear Kitty,

It’s been 10 minutes since my esteemed colleague left the firm, and my row,

forever, and already it is unbearable. How does one cope with such loss? I

feel like my life is over. I am sobbing uncontrollably. And on top of this

loss, the colleague I am left with harasses me mercilessly. Just today she

made insulting remarks about the size of my nose, for which I am very touchy

about.

Can you help me?

–anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

I was very much moved by your letter, and I shall give you the name of my very own personal cosmetic surgeon. You shall walk away from this trauma with a perfect nose. One need not miss old friends when one has a beautiful face in the mirror to gaze upon with deep satisfaction. Or has their own television show.

Love,

Kitty Winn