My friend Jim has informed me that its peanut butter jelly time, as they say.
Tonight its Lambchop on toast. I am going to wriggle into a slinky something for the Nick Cave show. Then to an after-party. Its on a boat. See, I told you I would not be averse to a cocktail on Nick’s yacht. I wish you could come, Lickety, you have such a way on the docks! My only goal for the evening is not to get so drunk that I am falling down and acting like a retard. Like most Saturday nights.
xo
Every girl should feel like they are loved by the sexiest man on the planet. It makes this filthy city a thing of beauty, and her sandwich taste better. If you are not doing it for your girl, try sweeping her into your arms, and whispering to her:
Andy Gibb Haiku
Everlasting Love
It’s so Tall, so Wide, so High
I won’t make you blue.
xo
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I really have to give the casting director of my dreams a raise. Not only do I have frightful nightmares that feature Christopher Walken, but last night I dreamt I was hanging out with a couple of prostitutes, played by Beverly D’Angelo and Ellen Barkin. It must be all that time I have been spending lately, hanging out with prostitutes. I aim to pick up some tips on how to pull off sleaze with aplomb when I hit 40.
xo
I like to bowl even though I am not very good at it. What other sport encourages you to drink beer and knock things over? The Disco Bowl in Kreuzberg is where its at! My team was horsing around and bowling a strictly average game over tall glasses of Schultheiss. In the next lane was a man called Crocodile, with one good and one malformed arm. Crocodile was bowling alone, and he held the ball up with his stump, throwing one strike after another, spinning the ball from left to right. Shazzam!
My shoes were brand new, red and blue. Very Sharp. I would have pinched them but I don’t do that anymore (though I did knick this photo from art frahm). I set a sterling example to be sure.
xo
How eagerly we await the imminent return of the Licketysplit! I have word that she is hanging her coonskin cap back on its peg, ailment packing up her weasels and heading back up North. But I have not been privy to further details of her whitewashing of fences or sailing wooden rafts down the muddy crick. I will know she is coming when I hear the clack of her stick, spinning the wagon wheel as she saunters, shoeless, back to town.
xo
Dear Kitty Winn,
I have a hangover the size of a Buick Espace. The I-hate-myself-maybe-I-ought-to-hang-myself kind. What should I do?
-drowning girl
Dear Drowning,
I hope you are not waiting for word from Kitty before you begin to introduce your body to water! You clearly need copious amounts of it. In fact, go sit in some. And while you are there, look to your arsenal of skin and hair products for your redemptive ablutions. Once you are soft, warm, and lightly scented, you will begin to love yourself again. Unless you are horribly unloveable, in which case neither Kitty nor Sephora can help you and you should probably fix yourself another drink as quickly as possible. Hair of the Dog, as they say!
Most importantly, do not despair! If Kitty thought of topping herself everytime she woke up dry mouthed in a spinning room with her boots still on, she would be as tiresome as a Smiths-loving teenager. You’re going to have to take this on the chin, love.
cheers,
Kitty Winn
Once a month I troll on out to the SO36, hospital where david and iggy pop used to make the scene and probably do terrible things in the bathrooms. I save my pennies to attend the gaudy glitter of their bingo night, shop hosted by two cynical transvestites. My favorite is the platinum wigged Kitty Carell, cialis with the fake and charming Holland accent. If you dare to win, you are summoned to the stage where your person, dress, and manner are subject to ridicule by the witty and poisonous ladies. Even the prizes (donated by neighboring shops, and drawn by the winners themselves) seem to mock you! A crocodile handbag goes to the mannish lesbian. A tome about American Indians is handed to the young, bouncy boobala who is waving chirpily to her boyfriend. Kitty casually disdains them all, and coos with self-love.
A girl after our own twisted and glamorous hearts!
xo
(special note to Licketysplit when she returns from her washboard lessons: avoid the squirrel stew and the cherry kiafa. Virginny always wreaks havoc on your poor gizzard!)
Our dear Licketysplit is on the road to Richmond. Even as we speak, she might be squaredancing the living room of her mammy and pappy. Let’s hope she brings back a confederate flag like the one we stole from the grave of Gen. Matthew Fontaine Maury. Come to think of it, that was a fruitful expedition- on that same trip, we also stole a Mars Attacks! poster from a D.C. subway platform.
How I can make up for her temporary absence is unclear. Perhaps I will have to resort to posting nudie pics!
Oh, and listen to this song
xo
Avec un mélange d’horreur et de curiosité, j’ai observé la putain ivre se jeter dans la Seine. Sa échine redoutable, une bouche pour des façons d’untold de la mort, et coeur de consommation ne sont pas plus.
With a mixture of horror and curiosity, I watched the drunken whore hurl herself into the Seine. Her dreadful loins, a maw for untold manners of death, and consumptive heart are no more
