All posts by Lambchop

Everything Apart From Sleep

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The Lord supposedly had his day of rest, and I have mine.  Unfortunately, mine includes an inability to remain asleep past 10 a.m. despite 5 a.m. bicycle trawls through a deserted and frozen Manhattan, work and a studio showing.  I have not had more than five hours sleep in many days, and I have an unpleasant floaty feeling in my head which tells me I am about to get sick.  Last month I caught a bad cold that followed on the heels of…not getting more than 5 hours sleep for a couple days in a row.  Hey, Sean T. Drinkwater was there for that one, too!  Like I always says, live and learn: not much.

What was I doing that could have possibly been worth the sacrifice of my health and sanity?  I did a visiting artist lecture at Hofstra, which was a smash.  It felt like a performance of my work, and a chance to throw out witticisms is always a good time.  The people seemed to like it.  If you are reading this and you belong to an institution that has a full program of famous and well-known artists, and you are tired of this and really want to scrape the bottom of the NYC barrel, I am AVAILABLE.

I also had the pleasure of a two day long celebration of the release of Freezepop’s new release, Imaginary Friends.  The listening party introduced me not only to the band’s newest and raddest, but also to the heretofore unknown to me musical stylings of Crispin Glover, circa 1993. Eeesh. On Day 2 Fpop played a show with Plushgun at Mercury Lounge. Even though my eyelids were springing around like Richard Simmons, I swilled the redbull and it was a great time.

Last night I caught a recreation Warhol’s Factory at Party XPO in Bushwick, it was really well done, all the silver decor and bouffants and beatniks. The only thing missing was maybe some mescaline. Twin Guns were amazing as the house band, the Velvet Underground. I love Twin Guns, seeing them always makes me feel like the lone stalker of the underground, like I am living in a Jarmuschian world where New York is still at its filthiest, its seamy underground alive.

I have to trudge on over to the studio. Goro is moving on to L.A. and we are seeking a new tenant. If you are reading this and you want to share studio space with the bottom of the NYC barrel, drop me a line. In the meantime, please enjoy Clowny Clown Clown, since I had to.

You gonna eat that?

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The Hungry Thing, one of Lambchop’s favorite childhood books

I have recovered from the Nero-like consumption of the profusions of Thanksgiving.  Watercress and grapefruit, thank you very much!  Surely, I do fancy a bit of sorbet.  But the triumphant feelings brought on by my ascetic atonement could not last. I scalded my palate and my hand most scandalously from a few drops of soup at dinner.  How dare they! Don’t they know we have law(suits) in this country?!  My solicitor has demanded a photo of the pink crescent shape branded on my skin, but that is probably only because he fancies me. 

I was to have lunch today with my boss, for a belated birthday celebration.  Outside it swirls with rain and howling wind.  On the 30th floor, the windows are shuddering and the building is creaking and shrieking like Ricky Gervais’  laughter.  Scary! After a  brief consult it was determined that my hairdo would not be benefitted by a  trip out of doors, and it had better be put off for another day. 

This weather is a sorry omen to remind me that I should not be here.  That I should be in Miami, unshowered and besotted with all the other New York artists descended upon Art Basel.  I have ambitions!  But that was not in the cards and mainly not in the coins for this year.  I have contented myself by applying to a few exhibitions.  One of them is here, and you can star my portfolio if you choose.

I trucked on down to the cafeteria for lunch to watch the gales.  I had some fennel and apple, a bit of quinoa, and some grilled asparagus.  My coworker had a crock of macaroni and cheese, at the bottom of  which she left a spoonful or two.  I feel I got a great workout, holding myself back from lunging at those bitefuls with my fork  for the ten whole minutes we sat chatting.  Think of it!  All that blah blah BLAH while those starchy morsels lounged there uneaten, just bathing in their gooey sauce.  With what anguish did I watch her place her tray on the conveyor to the dishwashers?  Goodbye, goodbye, waved the bright yellow streak of last of the macaroni and cheese!

Now I know how Godzilla felt.

Pie in the Sky

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I lost count at some point, but I think I may have eaten seven (7) pieces of pie over the holiday weekend, a new personal best. I also ate a grilled baby octopus, some black pudding (made of blood!) and 1/4 tray of brownies. Others may pervert the true meaning of Thanksgiving, making it about sports and “sexy” turkey costumes, but with us the shameful overindulgence of the day is kept alive.

Also it’s Christmas. I came across the first seasonal musical offering on the radio on Thanksgiving Day. It was “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.” It ended up being anticlimatic as a harbinger, since I heard it 15 times in the days that followed on the 3 stations that were ONLY playing Christmas music, in spite of the fact that there are apparently only 4 Christmas songs. Maybe it is pointless to try and note the start of xmas using music as your guide. Or maybe I spent too much time in the car. Especially as it cut into my pie eating time. It need not have, as it turns out. As we drove down 495 in our tuned-to-xmas mobile, we saw a woman driving in the next lane with an unwrapped pie held aloft on a plate. In her hand. With a fork.

That sighting is probably the better bellwether of the holiday season. Seen anyone eating an entire pie while driving? Oh, it must be Thanksgiftsmas!! Time to fill out stockings with meringue and watch Kate’s Secret! For truly ’tis better to give than to receive.

Thanks, friends, for a lovely holiday!

Thx

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Now you have done it, Vomkiteers.  Once one begins to celebrate things, one becomes addicted, eager to celebrate more things.  Last night I ate the last of my birthday cake and ice cream for dinner.  Eyes blazing with sugar, chin dusted in frosting, nose tipped daintily in chocolate, we ask ourselves- what’s next?  For god’s sake man, what are we celebrating next?!?  Fortunately, at this time of year there is no lack of occasion for parties, florid ramblings, and gluttonous pie consumption.  Tell me, will it hurt when it’s all over? 

Yes, I know I should really stop licking my plate and put my pants back on.  You are clearly on the side of those buttery crumbs scattered with grains of raw sugar.  You would take their part over mine wouldn’t you? But you can’t take Thanksgiving away from me, I won’t let you.  Don’t come any closer!

By the by, I should mention the things for which I am thankful.  I am thankful to have good health.  My hands still work for painting, my legs are still perambulating.   My finances remain hilariously deplorable, which reminds me to be thankful for consistency.  And of course I am thankful for Licketysplit, the best mate any cut of meat has a right to ask for.

Are you going to eat the rest of that?  What do you mean, there is nothing left?  I can plainly see a quarter of a pie crust and a drizzle of chocolate and cardamom on your tray!

Never Before and Never Again

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Complain and ye shall receive! I had a truly fantastic birthday, cialis thanks in large part to the squillion birthday messages I received. Facebook is such a “this is your life” (when it is not busy being “this is my life”.) It was very touching to hear from childhood friends, link old and new friends, treatment one fish two fish red fish blue fish. Other highlights included:

And this:

Almost Xmas

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The main character in Nick Hornby’s About a Boy takes special note of the first time in the year he hears a particular xmas song. Because his father made gazillions from a novelty xmas song, never had another hit and drank himself to death, he hates xmas. And I think, Ding Dong!, that’s me, I hate xmas, too!

I have tried playing this game of noting when I hear the first xmas song of the season. This year I yelled at a trio of eleven year olds for singing one in a car on Halloween, because they were throwing my count off. I mean, that can’t really count, can it?

I have not yet legitimately heard the first song, the first strains of cheer meant to make me wax all holiday and break out my Black Amex. Nevertheless, the race is definitely on. Last night the red, gold and green lights over Grand St. and Graham Ave. in Brooklyn were lit for the first time. I have grown to love these lights. Winter lasts about four months around here, sometimes longer. The holiday season, as irritating as it is in many respects, lights up my frigid, late night, wind battered bike ride for about half of that. I find myself actually enjoying passing beneath the glittering lights, where the streets were previously dark and desolate.

Now for the song. Which will it be? I am pretty much ok with anything except for Bob Seger’s version of “the Little Drummer Boy”. Think about it, all those thickly bearded p-p-p-plosives. Whosever idea that was, you are so fired from xmas. Ye Gods. It’s enough to make scrooges of us all.

Nothing so Amusing as a spot of Musing

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I long to be as special as the next Lambchop, but I haven’t made a practice of making a big deal about my birthday. As a small child, I would scream and cry whenever there was any adult expectation that I should be *happy*, as my poor brain was a storm of angst. Why not smash it into the floor?

Childhood birthdays were a time when punishments were briefly lifted, my mother would hang streamers, and my grandmother would bring a cake to our upstairs apartment to exclaim over every gift, “you should thank your lucky stars!” I wasn’t allowed to invite anyone, but it was just as well not having any witnesses to this sad scene, with its childish decorations and its querulous and often sullen subject (me). This joyless parade was repeated without alteration from the time I was ten until I turned 17. My poor mother tried her best, she bought me all the records I asked for. But where were the ice sculptures, pizza and trips to the roller rink with other kids? Wasn’t this supposed to be about ME, being FANTASTIC?

After leaving home, I generally looked forward to my birthday with a wincing, half hopeful expectation that nature would simply provide an outrageous testament to my awesomeness, without me having to tell anyone about it. Of course, the fates do not usually concern themselves with such arbitrary pats on the head for the neurotic. But when I turned 22, I found myself at Deli Haus, dressed to the ratty nines with friends after a night at le club Manray. “Heroes” came on the jukebox and I felt, with a sense of true happiness, that it was just for me. Everything.

In Berlin I finally had some smashing soirees. It was the practice there that on your birthday, you owed your friends a party. We had a bar, a big communal house, roof terrace, and a very ready public. I got to wear a tiara!

In recent years I have pretty much just ignored my birthday. I am not turning 8, but 37, so I do not require a pony ride around the yard with John Wayne Gacy or a loft full of circus performers. Although a trained weasel might be nice. So alas and alack, it is upon us once more. I like Patton Oswalt’s idea about only celebrating on the truly special birthdays.

Anyway, now you know what you have to look foward to for the next few days, a lot of self-absorbed reflection on my history, perchance a photo of a cupcake? Attack!

Attack!

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Spirits are sagging, energy is flagging, and lots of other things that rhyme, too! The only thing that appears to be soaring in an inspirational fashion is my credit card balance. Steve Strange told me it was ok to eat an entire pint of Dulce Delight, but then he followed up with “when you are *thin*, you are always dressed up!” Should have hired Gore Vidal instead. Live and learn! Or, rather, semi-live in a state of crippling anxiety and learn…not so much.

I didn’t learn anything last night by watching Attack!, a WWII film starring Jack Palance and Lee Marvin. Palance’s character gets run over by a tank, then crawls down a flight of stairs with a ruined arm and a busted leg, praying for enough breath to kill Eddie Albert for being a total cowardly a-hole. His death rictus was stellar. I mean, I could really relate.

Sometimes the difference between winners and non-winners (trying to be sensitive here) isn’t in the bank statement or the appealing angle of one’s nose, but simply having the will to continue. It takes guts to do anything in this world, because precious few people are going to care about it, and even fewer will foot the bill. But do something anyway. Of course, Palance fails to kill the captain and dies horribly, crying to be sent to hell. But that was bound to happen.

Don’t be discouraged, by WWII films or by life itself…attack! And while you are up, please bring me back a sandwich. You would have done for Gore Vidal.

I Return

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My dear Werner, but I do have a bone to pick with you. You certainly brought a much needed note of philosophy to my bearing, but you have left my life in a bit of a shambles. You did not find it necessary to report to my job, and you left a lot of laundry. Oh well, that gold minidress is my favorite, too.

I am sure you are all wondering what non-being is like. Is it as deliciously blank and nothing-y as it sounds? Not at all, for as soon as I ceased to exist I was piped on up to Heaven. The pneumatic tube was a real hoot. I should think dying is going to be a lot of fun. At any rate it will do wonders for my windblown look. Being dead, on the other hand, is less fun. Think of all the people you know who are dead. Miss them, don’t you? Quite romanticized them in your memory, haven’t you? Now imagine how terrible it is to see them again, to find they are as flawed and tedious as anyone else. And it’s not like you get to bunk off and hang out with James Dean in his bongo room, or play a bit of cassino with Voltaire. Just as in life, you are doomed to stick with your own kind. So for every treasured Aunt Myrtle, there is a terrible Uncle Barney who clears his throat constantly. Verdict- Heaven, can’t stand it. At least creative attire is encouraged.

(This picture is actually from an opening at Gawker for photographer Kelsey Bennet, which I am incumbent to mention as a fan of her work- ed.)

Where are you Mt. Everest?

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(You get it, you get it…it’s Herzog.)

I am in my final day as Lambchop, I can feel this. And it could not come a moment too soon. I keep getting calls on this ridiculous, tiny phone from a local political organization. Lambchop apparently does not have any friends. But Lambkin, if you do come back, you should pay some money to the electric company. They really want to have it.

And now I really want to tell you all to stop reading this blog. It is my firm belief, and I say this as a dictum, that all these tools now at our disposal, these things part of of this explosive evolution of means of communication, mean we are now heading for an era of solitude. Along with this rapid growth of forms of communication at our disposal — be it fax, phone, email, internet or whatever — human solitude will increase in direct proportion.

Go outside and create some images! Where are all of our images?!