All posts by Lambchop

Mood Swinging

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lambchop

I have been so angry lately. Ready to put my fist through glass when people talk to me. Well, I can pick a cliché to excuse myself- It’s because I am Irish. It’s because I am a Scorpio. It’s because I am bipolar. It’s because of hormones. It’s because I am just like my mother, who was a bipolar Irish Scorpio with unbalanced hormones. I am glum from waking up from a dream in which a woman in a supermarket was getting on my nerves and I smashed her head in with a can of peas, stuffed her body in my cart, and continued shopping. When the gruesome corpse in Aisle 4 was noticed by others, I was depressed and surrendered myself, weeping.

I don’t think I will be doing any shopping today.

smooch.

He who is handy with Pumice, and other Tales

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lambchop

O Licketysplit! Steele may preside over my table (and so charmingly does he do his napkin folds- like seashells!) but I shall never forget you. After all, it was together that we pelted Culture Club concert goers with melted sweets to test the strength of the candies themselves. It was with you that I huddled under billiard tables or brazenly bore the scrutiny of the police as we cut a sluttish path through the combat zone in quest of snack treats!

I will enjoy Steele’s footrubs and rounds of miniature golf for another week or so, and then my friends may have my attention once more. You really cannot wonder at my current state of absorbtion. He wears cable knit sweaters and gave me ermine socks for my birthday!

steele loves his puppy

smooch

My Boyfriend’s Back

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Steele

I am so pleased to introduce you to my better half. For the last six months, generic Steele has been sailing around the Americas. He has just returned today with a marvelous tan and a little sack of worry dolls for me from some godforsaken village where they wear blankets over their heads. I am so happy to see him again! I have prepared his favorite- Pasta Primavera. Steele is a godly man. He has a chin you can stuff quarters into. Each of his locks have been individually kissed by a Florentine hairdresser. He loves Grand Marnier and takes me to every Hugh Grant movie. I am going to run around the room drawing red hearts over each of his pictures. My favorite is this one where he is holding a puppy. Not so much holding it, healing as hugging it.

Here we are vacationing in Ibiza.

lamby and steele poolside

smooch

Ain’t no mountain high enough

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Kiss Me, I'm Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

My boyfriend has gone on a camping trip with his buddy/ex-girlfriend. I know her pretty well, it seems on the level, and lord knows I don’t belong on a mountain in platform shoes, swinging my little purse. But the longer he is gone (its a two week trek) the more I miss him and begin to feel jealous. Or that maybe there is something amiss in this relationship that I am in this situation in the first place. Should I be worried? Maybe I should stick to men whose ideas of vacation, like mine, involve hemmorhaging money in a fancy european city or poolside cocktails.

-sadly grieved

Dear Sadly,

Oh, your letter transports me to a river of wine at the Bar du’ Marché. You are in over your head, little missy, with Mr. Tent Flap. And even if everything is on the up-and-up and not on the in-out with his campfire buddy, well, eww. Ex-girlfriends were meant to be despised and compared unfavorably to yourself. That is their job. They did not make love/create happiness/lick stamps as well as you do. However, we must tolerate them occasionally. That does not mean we pack off our mates to roast weenies with them. That is our right. Good luck finding someone a little more black jacket, manhattans, and ranting and storming about his love for you into your intercom and a little less timberlands, wheat grass, and bunking with ex-girlfriends.

On a personal note, Kitty Winn is pleased to announce that she is floating around her flat, humming “Love is in the Air”. Ahh, Men. Kitty Winn loves you all. Nearly. So I am going to take the rest of the weekend off from you sad bastards. I simply advise everyone to spend Sunday curled up on the sofa with someone incredibly good-looking.

-Kitty Winn

Skol!

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I am a social scientist- last night I discovered this weird kind of norwegian schnapps, called Aquavit. It was offered to me by a drunk norwegian writer who proceeded to quote Rimbaud shortly before he fell under the table. The Rimbaud was actually very nice and the Aquavit surprisingly tasty for a culture that eats fish steeped in lye. This was after I went to see the film Life is Shit. err, I mean, About Schmidt. I laughed, I cried, I had to see kathy bates naked. Ponderous mams on that woman. Lastly I went to an oriental lounge with tables cordoned off by gauzy curtains where you lay about on sofas covered in satin pillows and drink chartreuse and smoke the hookah. It was all so very August Strindberg. I have a bit of the existential ya-ya’s today.I ought to rent myself a cheery film like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

smooch

Krank

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Poor Lambchop is home sick all alone, prescription filling up baskets with little bits of tissue. Sniffle, try sniffle. Last night I went to the cabaret. It was very lusty from what I can remember. Men in thick long skirts flagellating themsleves with roses. Drag queen acrobats and a dandy french clown. Tonight I going to wrap myself in wool and cart myself to the picture show. I hope I will sometime soon return to a coherent state.

blossom

Round Three!

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lambchop

I feel worse than a cold plate of clam sauce, sickness as my cold has regrouped and is knocking me about for a third time. But I am really just plain angry. I have been making a prince valiant effort to continue working in my studio. And in addition to the fabulous sundry cocktails, salve I have been taking vitamins and drinking vegetable juice. In other words, treatment I need this like I need a bra with three cups. Or a prosthetic nose or a Shania Twain record.

I am reminded of the latter because one of my housemates has wretched taste in music. And as the native english speaker of the house, I am often called upon to translate song lyrics of such noteworthy talents as Incubus. After one round of a song that contained the line “it goes round and round and round. like an existential carousel…”, I left the room telling her these things were not meant for earnest contemplation.

smooch

You Shriek

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lambchop

These guys are really brilliant. And no human should be without their new album, site Unreal Cities. I am listening this very minute to their snazzy cover of Burning Skies. Also a killer version of Flock of Seagulls “Wishing”.

I had a soggy weekend that bled into this week. Two acquaintances of mine have turned into a regular Stella and Stanley show, ask complete with bottles being thrown out of windows and throat searing shrieking. People like this should not really exist outside of film. But if they must, I am of the opinion I should not know them. I know no woes- I have really large sunglasses and am trip-trapping gaily along shoving pieces of chocolate caffeinated gum into my mouth.

smooch

I’m Bleeeeding

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Lambchop

“I was recently sent a link to an animation site, sickness based on the occult autobiography of one of my favourite authors August Strindberg, salve by a close friend and collaborator from NYC. I recommend this site passionately to all who receive this update or visit the Durtro website. These 4 short and exquisite animations have had myself, pill Mrs Tibet, Steven Stapleton, Geoff Cox and many other friends in hysterical laughter for weeks now. I watch them all at least once a day.

Please, please visit Strindberg and Helium and please support them by buying some Strindberg and Helium merchandise(as I have just done).

God Is Love,

David Tibet, London February 19, 2003″

(thanks j.o.!)

smooch

Let the Spirits Flow

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a lame problem, and I’m trying to wrack my brain to make it seem less lame and more earth shattering, but in the end, it’s pretty lame. Maybe I am lame. You tell me.

I am working on a book. I think what I have so far is really good, and other people have told me so, but I can’t seem to make any progress on it. My therapist says I have a fear of success, but what I could really use in my stagnant life right now is a little success. I thought about hiring someone to crack the whip and make me write, but I can’t really afford it. As it is, I use every diversion at my command to keep from sitting down in front of the computer, and when I finally do, nothing comes to me.

I don’t expect you to have any miracle psychological or logistical solution, but perhaps you can recommend a drug that’ll help me loosen up a bit and get my fingers flying across the keyboard.

Yours,

The Procrastinating Pen

Dear Pen,

What is the writer’s best friend, if not alcohol? Does the name James Joyce ring any bells in your dainty post-everything skull? Where would literature be without booze- you could fill the Library of Alexandria with all the great pages that have been sodden by drink. And then you could burn it down. Perhaps you are not the whiskey guzzling type. Then I suggest you toughen up! Writing isn’t for wusses.

By the way, I would like the name of your therapist. I could stand to have someone pandering to me right now. But maybe thats just my hangover talking.

-Kitty Winn