Wrap Your Head Around My Wrap Up

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The end of the year provides not so much of an opportunity for reflection, as a temporary excuse for our boundless narcissism.  We are our own favorite meme!  Just look, Lickety has in fact posted another boob shot to instagram.

We have been so busy with Christmas.  If we had any time to glance at a headline, it was to giggle about all the nabobs and hoobjoobs who won’t be the next President, and whether Baby Goose wore shoes while working out.  Oh no, he didn’t! In all the fuss, you might have missed that Sinead O’ Connor, our standardbearer for consistency, has gotten divorced after 17 days.  She has been in the tabs quite a bit lately, for suggesting she might hump her truck, tweeting about suicide, or using the expression “the difficult brown”.  This has caused me a great deal of distress.  For I was 14 when Sinead released the Lion and the Cobra.  I was a heart pounding, crying in the mirror, soul burner of an adolescent when she appeared on SNL for the first time in a lace top with those purple tinted specs.  Sinead was so marvelously angry and weird and talented that most people barely noticed how achingly beautiful she was.  Even though she was a girl!

A number of things have gone south for me this year, and I can’t help dwelling with dismay on Sinead’s journey from ghost-eyed punk toward being an overweight embarrassment.  You may not be aware, but I was also a very clever and promising youth.  The bad news is that we all must age.  But hopefully we can do so with some semblance of dignity, even if we are a bit eccentric.  I am not sure I am a good example of this, having ended my summer by falling on my face and breaking my shoulder.  Don’t worry, intrepid soul that I am, I did not let this stop me from doing many more stupid things! My motto for 2012, Nothing Compares 2 Me.

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Much has transpired in 2011. I have gone from sitting around in my underwear to sitting around in my underwear. In the Caribbean.

So where have I been? My brain is constantly buzzing. It rarely gets me anywhere. As a thought publisher, I become confused as to where to distribute my best thoughts. There are ramifications. Do I choose Facebook? Twitter? This esteemed site? Tumblr? Should I post a boob shot or disapproving scowl on Instagram? Lengthy comment on a Foursquare check-in? Should I just do a group text? An actual email?  Will what I’m thinking of saying get me fired or arrested? The answer to that last one is often “yes.”

And there’s a question of publishing opportunity. I require regular helpings of sleep and alcohol. Work has the incredibly poor taste to be time consuming. Oh, I got a new nemesis, y’all!  I am not a time waster.

My loose plan is to battle my raging case of ADD and post every day for an entire month. I think I could coast for an entire week just on pictures of dogs with ennui, but that’s not very sporting, is it?

There is no pill for this

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My heart says yes. My gut says move to Belize. I’ll let them fight it out, as none of them are getting out alive.

In the meantime, I will wear the pointy shoes of authority and hope for the best. What does that ancient sage Liz Phair say? “It’s nice to be liked, but it’s better by far to get paid.”  Your love is better than ice cream? Who cares! Liz, you’re a goddamn genius.

 

Quittin’ Time!

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Right now, I’m taking a break from rolling around on the floor, giggling.

My work here is literally done.

Not at Vomitola HQ, mind you. Lambchop and I sued for sexiness discrimination the last time they tried to oust us. It’s true: in America, you cannot be dismissed for being too attractive. Thank God we finally have some protection as Attractive-Americans.

I think I’ll miss commuting at 5 mph the most. But perhaps this longing can be assuaged by swimming in my money bin.

See, I applied to join the 1%, and after a series of tests (mostly matching shoes to bags and ordering off the menu in French), I reached the final hurdle: orphan clubbing. But I saw through this ruse. I hired someone to club the orphans FOR me. And what do you know, I was in!

I take my new responsibilities seriously. No, I will not sponsor your charity walk. Why are you obsessed with redistributing my wealth?

Memorare

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Let us never forget…that Americans are resilient, quickly regaining a complete lack of shame in only ten short years.  Thank you, Operation Enduring Zuckerberg.

I think that calls for a palate cleanser:

No? Too angry?

How about…

Now THAT’s better. America, I am looking for a brand new lover.

In not totally unrelated news, last night at around 11 o’clock, Mr. H. got a text. He read it and said “Oh, hey, happy crapiversary!” And I’ll be darned, the little dickens was right, it was our wedding anniversary. Which we both thoroughly forgot. I don’t know what we’d do without texts from other people to remind us. Oh well, eight years. I guess we had a good run! That’s like a whole model’s career in dog years.

Time in a Bottle

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It does not matter if I am having a raging good time or not, shop summer still flits by on a wing, mind in a way that winter never does. Your head would have to be made of hard cheese not to decipher the metaphor here.  The fertile periods are fleeting- youth, online beauty, inspiration, all managing the briefest of stays.  Darkness, decay and hardship seem interminable.

Even as I spray myself with water and lay in front of a fan in order to sleep, I love summer.  My studio is a brick oven and I am its wee molten pizza, still I love summer.  It seems like only yesterday that I started eating like a sow in anticipation of all the summer exercise.  Well, it was yesterday, but it was not only yesterday.

On Saturday I checked out the last day of Boatel, a floating art space in Far Rockaway.  Diving off the pier into the warm sea, I upended and a plane soared (so close!) between my feet and the sky.  I felt like I was playing with a toy in the bath.  I am not what you might call a happy person.  I am more of what you would call an intense and anxious worrier. Happiness is not really my jam.  Well there is no place or time on earth that I am as happy as when I am floating in the great, blue wobbly.  It is such a strange and unique sensation, I pursue it relentlessly in this short season.

At Boatel we modeled some fashions for Etta Place, a Bushwick salon of arts and oddities run by the fabulous sisters Dimmitt.  Jeff Stark of Fluxus talked about Moby Dick accompanied by haunting music, the motion of the waves beneath our floating pier, and John Barrymore and the white whale on the silent screen.  He brought a freshly baked PIE.  Jeff Stark is a master manipulator.

Now I am staring down the barrel of…the last of summer.  Try not to look too hard at it, you might just cry.

Complain of the heat if you must, just pass the oysters and the Aviations. I will be where the sand meets the sky. Cultivating skin cancer.

 

Cruel Summer

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Most people begin to meditate on mortality with the visibly shortening days and the falling leaves. But for me, it is never too soon to be gloomy. Another summer half over and what did it get me? Too damn busy having fun to do any actual work and a very weird set of tanlines on my feet.

I had a lovely time in Chicago thanks for asking. So much fun, I barely slept. It was still not enough time, though. Those guys are making some amazing work, and you should follow their artist pages on fb.

Speaking of inevitable cycles, people in your life come and go, even when you look this good in a bikini. Fortunately, I have a charming new roommate who not only does not resemble a melted troll doll, but also has a way with words. Sorry to offend any melted troll dolls, I am sure you were cute in your day.

In addition to not being awful, props go to this new lady for introducing me to my new favorite thing, the Spice Channel’s “1000 Ways to Die”. First of all, Spice channel? I didn’t realize you could watch that outside of a Motor Inn.  Anyhoo, this show documents bizarre true-life death scenarios with a cruel-voiced narrator, ridiculous puns, comic levels of gore, and a Frank Miller style intro. The best part is, it gets downright science-y describing the mechanism of death due to hypo- and hyperthermia, or taking a massive projectile to the face at high speed. Spice Channel, you read my mind. OMG, the one where a guy on shrooms stumbles upon a bunch of furries having an orgy* in the desert and when they don’t let him join, he puts the moves on a real bear?!? SPOILER: the bear eats him. EM-BEAR-ASSED. Or the poor bastard who gets rolled and cooked in an industrial drier. TUMBLE DIE.

After watching nine episodes back to back, the narrator’s voice is with me throughout my day, warning me that I am seconds away from a third rail, stepping on a rusted nail, or getting a parasitic brainworm from a raw snail. Running to the container store and eating a salad, I survived at least 50 deaths at lunchtime alone!

*This is known as a “fur pile”. Thanks, Spice Channel!

I Just Can’t Be Happy Today

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So maybe my work is not on view at Pace Wildenstein and I can’t lounge in the tropics while the dust settles after a particularly torrid love affair. I try to see the lighter side.  At least my ears haven’t be necrotized by tainted cocaine.

I had a lovely fourth.  A little beach time.  There were rubes on the beach, celebrating the greatness of old glory and her represented lands, by trying to set them ablaze.

But just when you think life is more or less tolerable, the fates remind you that Everything is Terrible. Starting with holiday bus travel. I know that phrase probably suggests all you need to know. But I did not expect the driver to be a belligerent and possibly racist pervert who summons the cops to drag a hapless old chinese man bodily from the bus before we all get thrown off and an angry mob forms to get on the last bus for the night. Yikes.

Try as I would to get some painting done, my entire plans for the month are sadly upended by a sudden need to find a new roommate. If it’s not one thing, then it’s another.  At the end of the day, it is what it is.  That’s what I was thinking to myself as I rolled over the bridge this morning.  A bird looked down, laughed, and crapped on my elbow.

THE END.

Drive-by Pride

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New York shouted a collective “hurray” for human rights and put on its best Sunday chaps. Of course, sale I feel personally responsible for making the whole thing come about. After all, see we instituted F@g Day on June 14th. Then I gave $20 to a young man in the park collecting funds to bring about the vote, patient in order to do penance for using the word “F@g”. At least I think he was collecting funds to bring about the vote. He had a clipboard. Personal responsibility is what really rings the changes. Plus I am a sucker for a clipboard.

After such a great labor of activism, I felt I had a right to be proud. And I, too, suffer for the cause. I had a date with a very attractive lady last week and she canceled, due to a cold. I had to attend several art openings all by myself. I was even invited to a fete! If you do not bring a date to a fete, surely there are negative social consequences. Alas, you cannot tell the sufferings of others until you have tried walking a mile in their highly stylish footwear. So it has been quite the emotional whirlybird. And here I would like to put in a good word for Everest Hall, painter and all around fancy gentleman.


His show is at DCKT through July 23rd.

Not really being a parade person, I celebrated pride by going to see Midnight in Paris and ogling Marion Cotillard. One other thing that I will say about this very special film, is that finally I have found an antidote to the hopeless feelings I have attached to the pursuit of an art career ever since watching “the Extras”. Really.

Anyway, we are done feeling proud and can heartily return to our bitter march toward oblivion, hastened by the guilt and self-recrimination that so becomes us. Or perhaps I should go home and watch Cabaret again. Tomorrow belongs to ME.