Everything.sucks

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tiny and very reasonable painted sparkle heads

I need someone to take dictation. Ideally someone with some really flumpy sweater kittens. Anyone? Eh, I guess I will continue to shout out loud to myself while I drive. A significant portion of my day is still spent driving, and while I try to delight in the anthropological value of watching a Prius ruthlessly cut off the Coexist-plastered Tercel that ruthlessly cut off me, sometimes the good life wears thin, as Stephin Merritt said. I need an evil twin to handle my commute!

And once I’m on the job, I need to exert a certain amount of mental energy in vanquishing my enemies. Luckily, they pretty much take care of themselves, owing to their stunning incapacity. I am going to suggest the patented Vomitola program of vanquishing when I am next at the Pentagon. I could do it in less than 5 slides, including stick figures and case studies. And with that, we’d save billions of dollars a month, as we leave our enemies to inevitably ruin themselves. We could build a giant dome and keep to ourselves with the extra cash. A swimming pool full of money for every man, woman, and child! Now there’s a stimulus.

But this experiment called life is not all eye rolling on conference calls and sniffing white board markers as others flap their gums. Sometimes we find time to do things! Lambchop has been very busy luring passersby into a van, and she is working on a series of Tiny and Very Reasonable paintings (as seen above!), which can be coveted and purchased at Sparkleheads.com.

I am thinking of raising money on Kickstarter to snap up the .sucks domain when internet anarchy begins to reign next year. I only need $185,000 more, and I think I’ll be good. My company would be called Everything.Sucks. We’re all you need for things that suck! I am assuming I will face stiff competition for the acquisition from Verizon.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out why my Entourage calendar keeps flipping to 2013. Does Microsoft outrank Mayan prophecy?

Happy F@g Day!

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Oh yes, I know it is FLAG Day, but where is the fun in that? We are not the least bit patriotic, at least not what passes for patriotism these days- the ability to consume one’s own weight in ground beef, drape a flag over everything, and pull a lever for the most lipless totalitarian on the ballot. We are much better suited to black and blue than red, white and blue.

So, back to the gays. If we had a three dollar bill, who would we put on it, anyway? For our very first F@g Day, I nominate Quentin Crisp, the English writer, bon vivant and cleverpants famed for his fabulousness, and fabulous for being so famous. My mother gave me his memoir, the Naked Civil Servant, to read when I was a tender high schooler, a good girl with a horrible attitude. Perhaps she wanted me to quit feeling so special for being such a smartass. Naturally, it worked the opposite. I loved the book and the film so much, that I was hardened in my desire to be a ribald contrarian, a vulgar raconteur. Crisp proved that if you could survive on peanuts and champagne, you could make a living out of charming people at social engagements. Hats off to the finest of glad fellows, Quentin Crisp, but make sure it is replaced at the appropriately jaunty angle.

“If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style.”- Quentin Crisp

Sooner or Later I’ll Turn These Times to Sound

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With much fanfare and teased hair did we kickoff El Camino ArtRV with her inaugural exhibition, Last Chance Salon.

It is hard to come back to earth after a show, especially a really good one. One awakes and finds that one has to still floss and locate a clean pair of underwear. Instead of gold statuettes and handprints in concrete, one must endure the opinions of nimrods. In spite of the glaring oversight of not becoming wealthy and famous, I am pleased with how it all went off. Here is a smashing review of the whole affair. Bedraggled, bedazzled, I’ll take it.

So what else is going on, apart from the annoyance of having to pit my own cherries? People want exorbitant sums of money for things. Apparently, a high level of functioning as a human requires a good deal of money. And we dare to scorn Scientology! The good thing about paying one’s bills is that you get to yell at people. Before you start feeling sympathy for a complete stranger, it was just a health insurance toady. Those clever trousers have found a way to cheat me out of coverage for my preferred method of birth control. Don’t they know it is a public health imperative to prevent me from procreating?!? At least my second favorite method is still free. Yelling at people!

We have received many letters of shock and outrage that we have failed to participate in Weinerweek (I am as fed up with the -gate suffix as anyone). YAWN. Tish tosh, my pretties, you must all know that in the parlance of vomitola, every week is weinerweek. Hence my becoming more aerated than usual at the prospect of being thwarted by my health care provider. With weiners as in life, the best defense is a good offense!

A Glamorous Retreat

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I was recently informed that sitting is the new smoking (God help smokers who also sit). I spend a fair amount of time in the car now, typically sitting, and this gives me plenty of time to ponder my own mortality and the mortality of that idiot in front of me with the “Cash For Your Warhol” sticker on his bumper. Oh, tee hee. Frigging Cambridge.

Last night, as I drove home in a lightning storm, narrowly avoiding a squashing as the rear doors of a tractor trailer flew open in front of me, I wondered if I should prepare a farewell post for Just In Case. I already have my clearly marked album of sexy photos labeled “Approved for use for public memorial purposes.” But there are so many ways to kick it that I think I might have to target my posts and photos, much like one used to be advised to target a resume in the olden days when people actually had those or read them.

If I die in a particularly thrilling way, like forced Fugu poisoning because I crossed the Yakuza or going on a mescaline-fueled bender and crashing a stolen fighter jet into Mount Rushmore, I want my family to first call Michael Bay and sell the rights to my story. Then they will need to notify my social networks and even my parents. I would want my official final photos to show the deep, introspective side of me too. It’s not all glitter and body oil and cleavage over here. We also have philosophy. And Opinions.

If I die in one of the far more likely common manners of death, I might need to punch it up a little. Imagine reading an obituary blandly detailing my death in a car accident, an IKEA assembly tragedy, or acute compflunction from exposure to Katy Perry (It’s transcendental/at another level). Yawn. In that case, pull out all the stops! I want to be remembered as a be-frilled vixen who ruled with an iron fist in a newborn skin glove.

It really is impossible to please everyone, even myself, isn’t it. Some people make wills, I leave style guides. Oh hell, I will leave it all up to Lambchop. She’s good with this sort of vision work.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

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I am sure you are all tired of the Rapture, which did or didn’t happen. I guess it depends on how you feel about the state of your life. Morrissey is all well and good, but I know you are wondering about *me*. I can picture you now, hunched over your 3pm snack, licking salt from your fingertips, typing “Lambchop”, “beneath a house” and “Tuscaloosa” into your google image search. Be careful what you google, darlings. For example, do not google the word “finger” or “horse head”.

Oh, but I belong to the League of Eternally Dissatisfied. The weather is even quite fine, so it is a real tax on the imagination to find something to complain about. A cannon of serotonin exploded in my brain last week and now though I appear entirely functional, I am squirting an impotent fizz of miserable bubbles, like a broken windex dispenser. I spent the better part of the day reading the trial testimony of Elizabeth Smart. If you clawed at the delightful pandora’s box of “horse head” (against my advice) do yourself a favor and do not read that. I really can’t think of anything worse to know about. You can trust me to find out if that is literally true!

Publisher’s Note

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We have dropped the ball, all the way from heaven. Did you know balls turn to solid ice when they enter the atmosphere? Ours crashed through the rumpus room of a nice family in Petoskey, Michigan. No one was killed, strictly speaking. I suppose it doesn’t matter what happens to the people of Petoskey, since they are stuck on Earth while we are in heaven.

But heaven really is not all that it’s cracked up to be. We thought it would involve lying around, getting mud wraps, maybe a lute lesson here and there. Nooooo. There is a natural foods co-op, and everyone is required to take a shift. I can’t tell you how sick I am of organic parsnips. I’m sure it builds character, but mine was already in quite a state, so why rock the boat?

Anyway, we had hoped to tune into Earth and see how some our favorite people are doing. Morrissey was going to write a post constructed only of Morrissey song titles and lyrics. But things came up, and as you can see from the above images, he is in a bit of a pissing match with Pete Burns. He has forgiven Jesus (for now), and he tells us about his chances of getting into heaven with uncharacteristic optimism:

Strung out in heaven’s high

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I was gnawing on a skewer of chicken satay, and then I wasn’t. I found myself face down on laminate flooring. I fumbled around, and my satay was gone! I was still hungry. This would not do. I picked myself up and sat on an uncomfortable yet unobtrusive bench. What a strange room. Why is Karen Carpenter sitting across the room reading an Allure magazine from 1998? Did she take my satay? This cannot be. Where are my keys? Where is my phone? I thought this kind of predicament only happened to Lady Gaga.

I poked my head out in the hallway, and I spotted a desk staffed by unflappable women in tidy smocks. I inquired, and they pointed out that, derp, I had been raptured. Oh. That explains my robe and fuzzy socks with rubber grips on the bottom. They said my personal effects were being stored for safe keeping in a little locker. The first day would be free, but there would be a nominal charge after that. My first thought, after my family, yadda, was “Where is Lambchop?” And I thought this would be jazzier somehow.

I was still hungry, so I followed some brutally direct signs. I finally found Lambchop in line at the cafeteria! We have a natural affinity for steam table food, and her last supper was similarly interrupted. We were surprised at how desolate the place seemed, and eventually it came to light from chatting up a man with a ladle that we were the only two citizens of Earth to make the cut on May 21st.

WHAT? That’s not at all what we were expecting. Why would He take us, deprive us of our family and friends, and leave Morrissey? Why was the only thing on the menu Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam? How can a coffee table cost only $14.99? We held each other, weeping. We put back our own trays like the brutal signs instructed. Why the fuck was everything printed in Verdana? I expected at least Helvetica from heaven.

The man with the ladle shrugged and said they were projecting more guests as well, but that’s just how the PEPPARKAKOR crumbles. Three consulting firms had their sticky paws on the algorithm that controls all the technical stuff pertaining to rapturing. The whole project was just a nightmare.

The man normally works upstairs, but he had kindly offered to staff the serving line in case of a rush. Something seemed familiar about his honeyed tones and suave British accent. He was quite striking, really, with one blue eye and one green eye. He smiled a rather rakish smile and told us to go enjoy the rest of our night. Enjoy? In heaven? Who was this guy kidding?

To be continued….

 

I’ll Love You ‘Till the End of World

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Signs and portents indeed abound. Why, it rained all week!  Then I saw 2 sixteen foot high inflatable rats on 21st St.  Why would a sixteen foot high inflatable rat even need to exist?  I don’t know, but let’s get two of ’em! And as I ascended into the fog atop the Williamsburg bridge on my morning bike commute, through my headphones crooned “leave your life behind you now and float away with me.”  How does ipod always know? 

Most ominous of all, yesterday’s fortune cookie had no fortune in it. 

If you are like me, I am sure you spent this past week in a form of reflection on your life and your insignificant place in the grand scheme of things with an attention bordering on obssession every time you heard Bittersweet Symphony come on the radio.  So we have all figured out that life is a highway and love hurts and we are ready for our sweet, sticky dose of redemption.

Licketysplit and I figured there had to be a softer side to the inevitable.  We bring you:

Vol. 2: Pearly Gates

New Dawn Fades- Joy Division
You Have Killed Me -Morrissey (can’t help ourselves!)
Starman- David Bowie
Just Like Heaven- the Cure
Leave Your Life Behind- the Texas Governor
Monkey Gone to Heaven- the Pixies
Personal Jesus- Depeche Mode
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell- Flaming Lips
I Have Forgiven Jesus- Morrissey

and finally…

Number One in Heaven- Sparks

Oh Life on Earth, you were really…something!

Clockwatchers

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Fellow heathens, we are so close I can smell the singed eyebrows we’ll all be sporting come some time, possibly tomorrow. Picture yourself crisped like so much cheese on a toaster oven coil!

With all this foofaraw about the end of the world, everything seems to be an omen. On my journey through the morning vehicular massacre today, I spotted a disheveled crone standing in a yard wearing a backwards rain coat. Not two houses down, there was an empty teddy bear print high chair standing forlornly at the end of the driveway. Then I was passed by three UPS trucks in a row!

I turned the corner, and at an intersection, I was blindsided to see FIVE UPS trucks in a row gliding down the cross street. The effect was akin to watching circus elephants grandly enter a town. What will brown do to me? I quake in anticipation.

It really is the little moments in life, I suppose. Just last week, I slalomed through heavy traffic to approach a Subaru with a missing back window, the hole covered in many layers of plastic sheeting and duct tape. The license plate read ADEPT. Every time I was ready to voice over WACKITY SCHMACKITY DOO into my phone’s video camera, the damned thing would change lanes. I was chasing the ghost of incongruity. A metaphor for the futility of our officing away in offices, fulfilling ever-changing and inconsistent requests for maniacs.

Speaking of maniacs, Lambchop and I slaved over an End of the World mix tape. We found so many worthy candidates (at least 80% of the Morrissey and Judas Priest catalog) that we decided to make 2 volumes. I’ll be bringing you THE PAIN:

Vol. 1: Apocalypso

The Sky’s Gone Out – Bauhaus
It’ll End in Tears – This Mortal Coil
Some Heads Are Gonna Roll – Judas Priest
Wave of Mutilation – The Pixies
Sorry Doesn’t Help – Morrissey
The Weeping Song – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Cities in Dust – Siouxsie and the Banshees
There is a Place in Hell Reserved For Me and My Friends – Morrissey (see??)
Dead Souls – Joy Division
Now I’m Feeling Zombified – Alien Sex Fiend


But the Difference it Made Was Grave

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Rest ye wee little worries, for the Rapture will happen.  How could that crazy guy in the Port Authority Bus Terminal be wrong?  Just because his trousers double as a toilet, he may still have god’s ear.  But what if doomsday comes and goes, and no one notices?  I mean, what if it does not change anything?  So the good people of the Earth all get whisked away in a flash of light or a slight drizzle.  Do you know many such worthy fellows?  The only truly perfect person I can think of is my dealer.  Any time, day or night, you can call that guy.   My mother is not on my speed dial, but Jayjay really comes through.  You people are not likely to miss him, but I am picturing a dark future indeed. 

So I have to keep my votives lit for all-out annhilation.   Now is not the time to relax our expectations.  The world is my oatmeal cookie, and I am going to eat it!  In deference to  you, Mary, the raisins are well advertised.

I have a friend who, though he claims to appreciate science fiction, is raining on my Rapture parade.  Tired of the whole business, it would seem.  Tough tomatoes, cretin, I am going to continue to cheer for the demise of this preposterous civilization, and the checks will keep rollin on in.  Licketysplit has her own bunny mansion and a jet for each tender little foot.  I am designing a line of feminine hygiene products.  Tampon$, made entirely of money.  All the Real Housewives are clamoring for them.  Stuff with cash, ladies, time’s running out!