Well, the car is outside and the engine is running. I have cleaned out my desk and am pilfering some postal supplies. My half of Vomitola will be coming to you from Berlin for the next week, but don’t worry, we will still be covering all of the issues that most concern us:
1. Pants
2. Bulimia
3. Casual Sex
-xo
Vomitola is very pleased to present you with Steele, today’s contestant for Win A Date with Lambchop.
He is tall, golden, and silken haired. His favorite things about Lambchop include “her dark-chocolate eyes, her brazen wit, her chicken pot pie, her impish smile, and her butt”. His own self-described good qualities include “a perfect physique…kindness to animals…strength and calm…incredibly rich”. He votes Andy Gibb. Steele is perfect, with taut abs, a firm handshake, and a yacht. However, he is disqualified by virtue of being Lambchop’s former beaux.
And so the search continues!
I saw him again this morning. It has been a while (because I am late to work every day). But there he was this morning on my train, cialis The Ian Curtis Guy. He looks like him, purchase stands like him, moves like him, and most importantly he never looks happy. Of course, he also never looks at me. I have smiled and gazed in his direction (he is not good looking , he looks like Ian Curtis!) but he is far too focused on looking like Ian Curtis to pay any mind to yours truly. He stood 2 feet from me (I want to make him a sandwich and sing him “Heart and Soul” in a goofy falsetto) but then we reached our stop and he disappeared, as always, onto the harbor, leaving me once again powerless to declare “I have this friend- he looks just like Ian Curtis!”
-xo
This is my roomie S. at our impromptu karaoke party on Saturday. I tear up when he sings I’m Not in Love. Even with the pornorific pencil moustache.
Last night one of the greatest rock bands ever was in our neighborhood. The first time I ever had a psychedelic snack, I was watching the video for Under the Milky way when they kicked in. I have not been the same ever since. Which is why I had to do a urine test when I applied for a job at a movie theater. Don’t worry, I always carry a spare. Oh but they still got it. Marty informed us that he has so much talent and charisma, it was bound to ooze onto the first two rows and coagulate there. At one point he needed a stool to support the weight of his genius. WE LOVE MARTY!
I quit my job. But I got another. I am going home to watch Bartleby.
Here are some more things that ROCK:
1. Leaving for sunny Berlin in a week-ish.
2. Orange Julius
3. Going to the roller rink this weekend.
4. Starsky and Hutch!!!
-xo
18. If you can read this, you aren’t dead.
17. Batman!
16. Venti Latte
15. Doin’ the Butt
14. Finding out that someone else who isn’t you just got fired/demoted/a bad perm.
13. The number 13
12. Swivel chairs
11. STIFF, A book on the interesting lives of cadavers.
10. Cardigans with “Lambchop” stitched to the shoulder (you should all feel good about this)
9. Anticipation of Starsky and Hutch, the Movie.
8. The Miss Gothic Massachusetts competition
7. Andy Gibb’s smile
6. Someone probably admires you.
5. Lunch dates with ex-Mormons
4. Electric pencil sharpener
3. The Microscopic Robots of the Future
2. Sun rises
1. A new little sister!
(for those of you keeping score at home, I have a potential little sister through the Big Sister program. I am going to meet her soon! Until then, I am obligated to keep her identity confidential. Stay tuned!)
Oh, No one needs a re-cap on how lame it was that Bill Murray didn’t win, or how much Annie Lennox resembles a papery Nosferatu. Never mind that orange effigy passing itself off as Charlize. I am primarily disappointed that there was no Nipple Spill.
At my house there was couture, pink champagne, and a small army of hecklers.
P.S. Did you see that Hansel??? He is so Hott right now.
-xo
[Co-clam’s note, since I did not want to push down that loverly shot of the true Oscar: my term for Annie Lennox was ‘gratitude leafblower.’ And Marcia Gay Harden neatly supplanted Catherine Zeta Jones as this year’s Official Flotation Device. Peter Jackson, oh jeez. He needs to be Queer Eyed, stat! That is all – CS]
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♥Lambchop and ♥ClamShandy
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I have been encouraging the receptionist on my floor to not only Inform on those who violate the dress code, but to prepare a full Joan Rivers style report every day, on everyone’s dress. Why stop at simply policing open-toed shoes and corduroy pants (strictly VERBOTEN)? We should report the magenta blazers, the bulky shoulderpads, the cheap perfume, and the continued presence of holiday sweaters. Just this morning I saw some cellulite hugging oatmeal pants in the copy room! We should also give commendations for snazzy eyewear and slimming pencil skirts. I shall be preparing a full review for HQ!
I have not seen that old plastic faced gorgon, Ms. Rivers, do her thing at the Oscars. I have not seen an award show, or a star-studded tribute of any kind while I was in Berlin. So I actually plan to have a Grouch the Oscars night at my house. Which will involve champagne, tiaras, and lots of jeering. I suppose it will also involve watching the oscars.
-xo
I have just heard that dress code infractions at the ol’ McJobby Job le Job are to be noted by the receptionist and reported to HQ. Does this mean no more feather boa? Is my tweed cap to be silenced? So I am working on my resume, which causes me to think in bulleted lists of the Things I did Yesterday:
*eat a canoli
*watch a film about noodles
*read a book about waiting, entitled “Waiting”.
Buy a copy of Wired magazine and note that the aforementioned trio Freezepop have a full pager in there. I am preparing myself for them to be hugely famous so that I can write a tell-all. I better start stealing their underwear.
I asked everyone at dinner if they were to be inducted into the Make a Wish Foundation through clerical error and not, say, leukemia, for what would they ask. We had two Bowie-related requests (I would do an exhibition with the Man in Pants. Picture me quaffing wine at our opening, full of mutual adulation!) One wish was to go on tour opening for Duran Duran. Another would modestly wish for a house. Asians are so practical!
And strangely of all, one of us would like to be nine years old. Permanently. Which sparked a lively discussion on the value of consciousness and creativity versus an unconscious sort of happiness.
Personally, as much as I am avoiding adulthood, I would never return to the age of nine. My paintings are better now. Oh, and so is the sex.
-xo
There is a certain kind of mood, a scent in the air as soon as it stops being so wretchedly cold, and suddenly I am 15 again, walking the long walk past Journal Square and the jailhouse (the inmates howling out the windows for us to lift our skirts) to my high school, my headphones tuned to Book of Love, Howard Jones, Heaven 17 and Depeche Mode.
Well, it is not quite that time yet, but I have been waking up listening to Lifestyle and Freezepop and whaddya know it’s skirt-lifting and chirping birds all over again.
-xo