This might just be the last of the beaten and bandaged figures. Hell, it’s spring- perhaps I will move on to amputees.
xo
All posts by Lambchop
L’air de enfer est trop épais pour des hymnes
Mon athéisme n’est plus toléré par les villageois ignorants.
(My atheism is no longer tolerated by the ignorant villagers.)
Chaque jour est silencieux et gris
Je suis le Ténébreux- le Veuf- l’Inconsolé
(I am the dark one- the widower- unconsoled)
faire l’amour, c’est faire le mal
Je nais!
(I am born!)
So jung kommen wir nicht mehr zusammen
I just learned today that a girl with whom I went to undergrad at Boston University has died. At 27, pharmacy she was briefly ill and that was it. In digging out my memories of her (they are few, we were simply classmates in the core art program of a large university), I am amused by the great sense of self-importance that fills the mind and fuels the debates of young art students. It seems so comical now the way I roundly abused this girl for painting a still life of a toilet without providing a reason, some meaning or purpose, that we should have to look at it. “Why?!”, I shouted, “why should we care?!” I was a quivering ball of contempt and sincerity. The others were mainly coolly talented, and relentlessly pretentious. But not Jackie, painter of toilets. She was scatterbrained and cool enough not to pay attention to anyone, and take art school on the chin.
The last time I saw her was about a year after graduation. She was leaving Boston, going to study graphic design, like me making the rounds of shitty jobs, dizzy and chatty like always on a sunny day in Kenmore Square. We said goodbye.
L’Invitation au Voyage
Je m’inquiète pas si vous vivez ou mourez. Je m’inquiète seulement de la vitesse de mon roadster.
(I care not whether you live or die. I care only for the speed of my roadster.)
The Forceps Is Introduced
Do you like songs about dental practice and the “Impossible Dream” of a well-made shirt? Do you love Telly Savalas? Thats only the beginning, kats and kittens. It’s all in Here.
My pal j.o.writes “I think my favorites might be Tableau of a Bladder Operation or 1966 American Lung Association Flu Jingle, but really they all have a special place in my heart.” Thanks j.o.!
Linoleum!
smooch
Le petit Manoir
Mon nom est Melvin. C’est ma maison. Enviez-moi!
Fireside Chat
In which our Lambchop displays great Sincerity
We love David’s blog. Such a wag! That’s why I could not help but write when I noted that he condemns the word “smooch”. Since I often leave this word like so many rose petals in my wake, I had to know what there could be, in his opinion, to offend:
“…I wonder at the truth of “smooch” being your least favorite word! Do you prefer “osculations”? I like to throw “smooch” around when I don’t really want to offer or imply something so sublime as “Kiss”. Please explain your anti-smooch stance.”
and David responded so:
“My dear, it is not the concept I oppose, it is the word itself. To me, smooch is oily, falling in the same category as ooze and schmooze. It is dishonest and terribly, terribly wrong. For the act itself, I prefer kiss with a lesser inflection; even buss and peck have their charms. I stand my by aversion.”
Well, your lambchop has been guilty of many things, but this is a first for oily. Mother would be proud- her assertion that I am every bit as intolerable as Father (and by that I mean excessively charming) has once more been vindicated by a complete stranger. But I want to assure you, my attractive and well-paid readers, when I “smooch,” I truly, truly mean it.
I only want to add that it was extremely clever of David to reply with such an oily phrase as my dear. I nearly choked on my Batard-Montrachet.
smooch
Spring
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… is so slow to arrive in Berlin. I refuse to leave the house until i can exhale sharply without producing a puff of steam. So what is there to do but stay home get drunk and write lists like this one:
Things I Should be Doing- making a chicken and pepper wrap with melted cheese, watching some liposuction on the surgery channel, calling up random strangers and singing them a couple bars of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, working out pent up hostility by smashing coffee cups on my balcony (it keeps my collection fresh at any rate), and returning to that scrummy dream i had this morning (SEXSEXSEX).
Well, before I could rot in my own filth, Steele decided I needed a good spring airing. As if a look at his tanned smooth calves isn’t refreshing enough! So he got us two tickets to a Yankee game. We spent the afternoon in Manhattan, eating pizza in the Village and handing out Bruschettas to homeless people. You should have seen them press their scabby fingers to their eyes when he flashed his blinding grin! Then we made our way over to the stadium. Steele was engrossed in the game- I was eyeballing the hot dog boy while the infielders plucked at their gonads and the afternoon went lazily by. The Yankees won of course, to some other team that did not have those charming pinstriped uniforms.
smooch