All posts by Lambchop

WINNING

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I know you are probably all tired of news Warlock, but I heard yesterday that Sheen has been offered his job back on his crappy show.  And to that I say “hooray”.  “WINNING!” I say.  Charlie Sheen is a very fitting representative for this country.  For this is a country of lardass “exceptionalists” led by a jug-eared bastard who understands the concept of civil liberties, but prefers indefinite detention.  I don’t think a tsunami could wash away 8,000 of our citizens because they weigh too damn much.  Operation Odyssey Dickrinse.  Awesome!  Can’t wait to pay my taxes.  I hope we will be melting the faces off some orphans in Libya.  They deserve it, for not being born here where they could all be Exceptional.  And did I mention really fat?  To sum up, we deserve a cultural representative in Charlie Sheen, a man who can stab a woman with a salad fork, and still be on the tee vee.  Who cares if he likes to bang rocks and beat women? At least he is not a government whistleblower.  Then he would still be naked in a jail cell, but without being charged with anything.  This is America, shoot someone in the face if you must, just don’t tell the truth. I am sure we will continue to pursue nuclear energy programs, even if Japan scorches off the face of the planet.  We were probably planning to do that anyway.  Charlie Sheen is the perfect icon for a destruction prone people incapable of learning anything.

My love will turn you on

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What’s to say, people? We are experiencing a grief hangover. Misery fatigue. The destruction in Japan touches us of course on a basic human level, but I have special selfish concerns as well. Licketysplit has been to Japan, but I have not. And it would have been better to see the place when it was not in so many pieces. Also in news of how the news affects *me*, I left a message for my (amazing!) tattoo artist, who had to return to Japan (most unwillingly) because of a visa issue, and I have not heard back. I hope he is safe. He owes me $200.

I timed it. I am capable of seriousness for 23 seconds. It is the grief talking.

Some other terrible things have happened, but I can’t talk about it, because the stories don’t belong to me. Suffice it to say, none of us are going to live forever, and some of us longer than others. It’s a leaky boat we are sitting in, might as well give it some gas. I was having morbid, sorrowful thoughts when I walked into Lu Magnus gallery on the Lower East Side last Friday, just in time to hear the Brooklyn Ladies Choir practicing to perform that evening:

In the middle of a dream
In the middle of a dream I call your name

And I felt simultaneously crushed and liberated by the beauty of their sound. As I fought back tears, my friend in the choir noticed I had come in. She turned, smiled and waved to me, still singing. In the warmth of her smile and their voices, it was so good to be alive, I will never forget it.

Hate Couture

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Poor Chevalier Galliano, aren’t you a bit swarthy to be pointing your pointy little finger? Poor, deluded little pirate! Survey says his mother was an Andalusian, his father a plumber from Gibraltar. From the most humble of beginnings to the tiniest of moustaches, such is the way of the tyrant!

Do you think he can make a comeback? At least he didn’t electrocute any dogs?

Grouching the Oscars Pt. Who Cares

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We are going to be the last people today to have our say about yesterday’s um…whatever that was.  Do we care about the oscars?  Not as such.  As interested as we are in celebrities and their weight gains and losses, addictions, car crashes, affairs and flameouts, the oscars are a stodgy affair where these styled up plasticized humanoids *want* you to be looking at them.  Of course, they can’t help but be somewhat terrible, which provides cringe inducing fodder for our feelings of superiority.  For example, Miss Hathaway and her woo hooing brought painfully to mind the Pretty Woman style Julia Roberts.  Amy Adams is still a blob.  And Gwynnie, ohhhh Gwynnie, thanks for sharing your karaoke and your utter inability to feel shame.

Worst of all, Natalie Portman, whose “beautiful love”..”gave her”…”her greatest role”.  I am assuming she means by sticking her with his meatwad and successfully showering her with life juice.  My super could have done it for you, too, lady, he’s pretty handy with pipes.  Gee, I hope *my* beautiful love is not planning to “give me” motherhood.  He did say he had something for me, but I just assumed it was my tax return.  He’s pretty good with that stuff.  Anyway…ummm..FUCK YOU NATALIE PORTMAN.  Artistic achievement definitely ranks up there along with the other joys of life and there is no need to downplay one or the other, or to speak about your partner like he is the captain of your womb.  GROSS.  Even more gross than Kirk Douglas’ cryptkeeper impression. 

T-minus 2 days until the Fountain Exhibit at the NYC Art Fair, and the installation tonight has been rained out.  One less day to prepare.  Hopefully it will all go smoothly tomorrow.  I am just gonna go James Franco on this and shrug.

Happy Flag Day, Sexicans

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My office issue desk calendar notes that it is flag day in Mexico.  My calendar clearly hates America.  Maybe I will have tacos for dinner, Benito Juarez would have wanted it that way.

Speaking of tacos for dinner, some of you may have read about the dude who fell in a mixer and died horribly in a tortilla factory in Brooklyn.  Holy six feet under, this place is right next door to my studio.  It has been shuttered ever since, but I hope it will open again soon, for the smell of fresh tortilla is one of the few nice things about my street.  Everyday I walk by there, and nod to the nice people working quietly inside.  Everything else on the block is chop shops tire repair and auto body joints with dudes leering at you on the sidewalk playing ear-splitting, tinny music.

Sorry, Benito, that was a tangent.  Back to Mexican pride.  I must admit, I know squat about our downstairs neighbors.  I have enjoyed El Santo and watching their futbol team lose in the opening round of the world cup.  And I can’t overstate my love for tacos.  ¡Viva México!

Freude in the Schaden

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Oh how could he?  How could Justin Bieber have gotten a haircut?  Doesn’t he know how much I really dislike change?  And what with my nerves all shot like they have been.  Pretty soon Venus Williams will start wearing visible underpants and then where will we be?  Exploring the minutiae of a Travolta hairline or watching Madonna’s cheeks explode right through her face.  My life is a very empty place whose chief regret is the infrequency of posting on awfulplasticsurgery.com.  You see, I don’t have an archnemesis in real life at the moment, a sad state of affairs.  I really miss a good high quality loathing, the kind that fat people inspire.  Calm yourselves, twittizens, I do not condone such prejudice by mentioning its existence.  Here are the qualities I look for in a good archenemy:

1. Attractive, but not *too* attractive

2. A severely overinflated sense of their own gifts, worth and importance

3. Terrible diction

4. Stuff I want

If you feel are qualified to fill this position,  you really have a problem and I dislike you already.  So we are off to a roaring start and you should email me right away.  For my part I will mainly ignore you aside from an occasional derisive snort.  I will lapse into a giggle every time something terrible happens to you.  I am no longer the top-flight, punch-you-in-the-cans archenemy that I used to be. 

I have not been getting enough sleep the last two weeks.  It is making my brain feel like butter left out on the table for the ants.  It is making my eyelid muscles twitch.  But this can only serve to improve my “archenemy” game.

Lookee over there!

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I come to, on a pile of red ribbon and torn lace, lipstick on the pillow.  There are heart shaped lollipops ground into the carpet and I know I have either finished all the Hendricks or had a lovely valentine’s day.  The beauty is that one need never know. 

I fear I may have missed some news while in a fog of love and smiths tribute action, so I scan the most serious, most important items of the day.  Hrmm, Justin Bieber has an opinion about something, that’s cute…Sandra Bulllock enjoys making scat porn…Natalie Portman is having a boy, which means you can all think about the tiny penis she has inside her…wow, I guess nothing has happened in the world since Friday.  Which is a fine supposition, because I find I just don’t care about anything anymore.  This planet is doomed, our elected officials are not only unapologetic corporate shills, but they are mainly all asshats.  At least they are winning the war against women!  Damn ladies and their rape-rape. 

Ah but the Flaming Lips have put out another psychedelic multitrack experiment.  To properly experience it, you have to gather 11 people in a room with youtube playing devices, and get them all to buffer up these separate videos and hit play at the same time.  I can’t be bothered with any of that.  Knowing 11 different people, that is.  But the essence of the whole thing is great.  The song is called “Two Blobs Fucking”, and that truly speaks to the level of interest I can take in things right now.  Whatevs Egypt, repugs, and Barack “keep ’em locked up without trial for I am KING”.  Two Blobs Fucking? Yeah, now you’re talking.

Give a little something to my love life

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O lovers! O friends!  It is getting hot down here in the trenches.  Ok, eww. 

 The cafeteria thoughtfully set out rice balls for vday.  They were deligthfully crispy and moist.  You see where I am going with this.  Balls balls!  Chomping on balls on Valentines Day!!!  Balls. It is true that love does not make us any cleverer.  We do have enough sense in our pea brains, however, to indulge in a bit of Mozathon.  There is enough bitter longing in there for several days, one holiday cannot possibly contain it all.  But we can try.  Here is a sample playlist for those of you who will be dining with (or perhaps on) cats this evening:

Unlovable (I know the words to this song, having copied them dutifully onto several notebook covers)

I Know it’s Over/Never Had No One Ever (I always thought of this as one song, one continuous howl.  Look no farther, it gets no worse).

Reel Around the Fountain (and reel from the gayness)

Disappointed (CHECK)

I’m Hated for Loving

I’m OK by myself

I Want the One I Can’t Have

Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me (considerably more poetic than “last night I dreamt I won $15 on a scratch ticket”)

Nobody Loves Us

Now My Heart is Full

I took a walk outside and saw some love happening right in the streets.  This should come as no surprise, as I work near Times Square.  But never mind the peepshow pornstore.  It is 50 degrees, legs are bare, a man on the corner said he liked my red boots.  Balls for lunch.  Long live love!

Valentimes

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The FTD man is downstairs and the snow is melting from our very hearts! Need we remind you that Valentine’s Day is the single best day of the year?  I think not, for you are living in the same love-obsessed culture as we and are surely just as mad for glitter and artificial flowers.  We are going to be liveblogging this incredible celebration.  I had a box of honey chocolates for breakfast.  Why do they put nutritional information on the outside of these now?  I really did not need to know that winter hazelnut cream is rich in fat and utterly lacking in vitamin A. 

Please send us your heartrending tales of how your day is going.  Maybe someone “popped the question”.  You know, “Want to meet me in the bathroom?”  Or maybe you decided to dump someone today, because you are a bitch like that.  Perhaps you were even unfriended by a Morrissey impersonator (ed-true story).  No matter your fate on this gloriously saccharine day, there is a song about you.  And we are singing it.

BRAAAAINS

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Well, try well here we are, site a few days older and what have we got to show for it? I got a futurephone! Now that I am able to communicate at any time, click with any person of my extensive acquaintance, I find I no longer have anything to say. Which sucks most of all for you, dear reader, because now you will be subject to photo captioning contests and endless top ten lists.

So far, holding the future in the palm of my wee hand has enabled me to play Zombie Farm at all hours of the day. Even while sleeping, my little rotted minions continue to faithfully tend the plots I have laid out, and I am reminded with a faint chime that the game is still scrupulously being played and it is time to bring in the sheaves of the undead. Braaaaains, indeed.

But it is not enough. My new little brainbox has a musical component that requires newer software than I have on my computer, newer software which requires a newer operating system than I have on my computer which requires that I back everything up, run an install disk, and hope for the best. I am going to go ahead and assume I am the only human who experiences deep duodenal terror at the prospect of such doings. What if all my stuff gets wiped out and my external drive melts in sympathy? What if my newly aphasiac machine is then unable to complete even the smallest transactions? Will my identity shrivel and disappear along with all those precious memories of me taking a photo of myself? Will I never stream the Jersey Shore again?