Tag Archives: on the job

Number 1 in Vomit and Vomit-related products

Uncategorized, , ,

Licketysplit

That’s kind of a lie. www.vomit.com is number one in vomit. We’re number 1 in vomitola! Don’t go to www.vomit.com. It will trigger an epileptic fit of some sort. Worse than Pokemon or the voice of Mary Hart. If you go, remember that I warned you. Once my friend had a seizure at an Iggy Pop show. People hardly noticed! I was the only one remotely concerned as security hauled her off.

But people come here searching for some really strange things. A search terms report is pure zeitgeist, I guess. People turn to us for up-to-the-minute coverage of 50 Cent lyrics, Pop You in the Pooper, and all things Bachelorette. And bukkake. And “manchowder.”

The other funny thing is that people come here at all. Really, what’s wrong with you? Hi mom. It’s ok, I know you’re all just here to get berated by Kitty Winn! I can handle it, really. She’s a swell bird; she deserves all the perfumed fan letters and locks of hair that she gets!

As if you couldn’t tell by now, this is the equivalent of phoning in a clip show. I spent all weekend crouched in front of a computer faking my way through coding some PHP for a freelance project. Luckily my ass is good at cashing checks. Wait, wait, that’s not how it is! I mean….don’t write a check that your ass can’t cash. But I have the utmost confidence in my ass. It’s never failed me. Maybe next weekend I’ll take over the world, or learn French. Anyway, I’m beat, I’m drained, I’m going to get hot noodles.

xxoo

Responsible Journalism

Uncategorized, , , ,

Licketysplit

I’m a magazine junkie. My first Vogue subscription was right up there with getting my driver’s license. Technically, I even have a degree in magazine journalism. That wasn’t too hard to do, as you might imagine. I know a magzine is called a book, and the area with the stories is called a well. But other than that, the curriculum did not live up to my expectations. I dreamed of prancing around in sky-high stilettos, nabbing emu muffs from the freebie closet, maybe fetching Anna Wintour or Liz Tilberis some passion fruit tea. Or infant blood. I would toss off opinions on the bag of the season, foment Halston revivals, and take to hurdling over fire hydrants to escape Bill Cunningham constantly photographing me.

But then I realized that a) I kept having to take crappy newswriting classes to fulfill core requirements, and b) I would make about $25k starting out on staff on a fashion mag. And I wasn’t already independently wealthy enough to afford the requisite wardrobe and the crappy NY studio at a good address. And I got so fed up with the newswriting classes that I just wanted to start making shit up. It’s not like I invented a heroin-addicted tot and started a national outcry, but I nearly had one professor convinced that street luging was Boston’s underground sport of choice. Then I had one whole class on how to “Boston Herald-ize” a headline. A reputable paper says “Nightclub fire kills 90?” The Boston Herald says “DEATHTRAP!” This was not what I wanted to do in life. And I only had a semester left to get my degree! If I had it to do over again, I would have picked a different program at a different school. Seventeen-year-olds should not be allowed to make momentous decisions that will eventually cost them much aggravation, not to mention a hundred grand.

Since I was clearly no good at creative non-fiction unless I was making it up, I gave up on writing for a living and went for the cheap, easy loot of web development. Ah, the late 90’s! Hell, back then I could afford the clothes. Nowadays I still buy all the magazines. Not Glamour, not Cosmo, not In Style. Lucky? Doesn’t turn my crank. Just the ones with really inaccessible fashion layouts. I have piles and piles littering my apartment. This morning I was flipping through Elle, and I ran across this bang-up piece on Matt Dillon, by Rachael Combe. Basically she lured Mr. Dillon back to her apartment and cooked up dinner on the pretext of interviewing him. Then she let the steak catch fire! He had to wield an extinguisher!

Now I’m cradling my head in my hands and thinking “Oh, I’ve wasted my life” (using the voice of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons). If only I had known that the secret to journalism was putting celebrities in peril. To think that I could be luring a drunken David Bowie to my rooftop plunge pool right now! I could be scattering ball bearings in the foyer to welcome Ashton Kutcher or Adrian Brody. Think Misery. Think shoving Christopher Walken from a ski gondola. Am I ever on the wrong track….

C’est la vie.

xxoo

workaday

Uncategorized,

When I was an undergrad studying art, we thought that being a painter meant being asked for your opinions while sitting in a café in paint-smeared clothes. When I was a grad student we thought that being a painter meant being asked for your opinions in Vanity Fair, wearing Versace. But I’ll tell you it really means spending the day in your underwear listening to the Psychedelic Furs, and being asked to take the trash out once in while.

Oh, sometimes making stuff, too:

Lambchop and Licketysplitsmooch

chop change chop

Uncategorized, ,

vomitola

I don’t ask Kitty Winn for advice. The solution to all that ails me lies in re-sculpting my eyebrows, a new shade of lipstick and a behemoth cup of sumatra- preferably with an espresso dropped in (there’s a spiffy name for that- something to do with guns, i think). I live on the edge- note how I ended a sentence with a preposition back there.

So I was out shopping for clothes today for work. Smart new grey trousers and some shiny new ankle boots. I didn’t let it put me off in the slightest that I haven’t got a job. The point is, I can picture myself in a tie and vest with a silk hankerchief in the breast pocket, telling people what to do, twirling a telephone cord, and having sushi for lunch. Now all I have to do is choose a calling and find a job, preferably one in which I will be in a position to fire people. I better get some silk stockings. I don’t know about you, but I can’t send a man packing in a cotton/lycra blend. I’m a professional!

What did I come in this room again for? Was I looking for something, or was I going to do something?

smooch

Road Trip Wreckage

Uncategorized, , , ,

This is what you people love to see in a Blog- sleep patterns minutely charted! It was a twelve hour round trip to an opening in a mental hospital, troche and two days later i am still TIRED. Anyhoo, no rx I sold a painting and who knows what else can happen? In the van we drank champagne and there was general rowdiness. After all the jokes about the opening being crawling with lunatics, ailment there were in fact several patients present. They were easy to spot because they were INSANE. One of them cornered me to congratulate me on maintaining a semblance of a productive existence, since it was “obvious” looking at my work that I, too, am a “deeply disturbed person”. I kid you not boys and girls.

Well, even though I am TIRED, I suppose I ought to get back to work in the studio today. After all, there is that facade of living to promote! I must maintain the porous barrier between my present state of being and a shuffling lithium induced stupor (staves off the ranting and construction of tinfoil armies of tiny soldiers). My routine is an eggshell-like veneer concealing emptiness which requires but the slightest pressure to be crushed into gritty shards.

smooch

Off we go!

Uncategorized, , , ,

If you are ever in East Berlin, cialis you must go to “russian disco”. Its in an old east german bar, the Café Burger, that still has the low ceilings and tacky wallpaper. The music was eastern european- it was like being at a latvian wedding, complete with violins, trombones, and lots of foot stomping. I danced all night long and drinks were poured down my throat. They make a stiff one there, they do.

On saturday I bloody got klezzed! the world is a malicious and awful place, even if you are only sitting in front of your computer. So if anybody gets an email from me with a funny looking attachment, do Not open it, even if it claims to be a picture of my bottom. it was sent by the devil!

Tomorrow I am off early to my opening in Essen in a mini-bus. I have an entourage of seven! and I have bought cookies and juice boxes for all of them! Its a long drive, but i have much to do. I will spend the entire duration applying makeup. and playing travel connect 4. The opening should be very fun and glamorous- I am slowly mastering the art of getting drunk enough to charm people so they want to buy my work, and not so drunk that i puke on their shiny new kenneth coles. There is going to be a cocktail pianist!

smooch

My Life Story, by Lambchop

Uncategorized, ,

So the Women’s Art Association of Berlin is putting out a book of the self-portraits of a hundred female Berlin artists. And I have been lucky enough to get a few pages. Here is my biography as it will appear in the book, which is coming out next month-ish, followed by an english translation:

Heather Morgan (1973-?) Malerin, geboren in Staten Island, New York City, ein weiteres fragwürdige Produkt der siebziger Jahre. Als Kind wollte sie Tänzerin werden, studierte sie dann jedoch Malerei in Boston University School for the Arts (B.F.A 1996) und in Yale University School of Art (M.F.A. 1999), verbrachte allerdings die meisten Zeit in verschiedenen Untergrund Musik Szenen. Sie ist ein Teil Dorothy Parker, ein Teil David Bowie. Zurückblickend auf eine lange Irische Familiengeschichte ist sie warscheinlich Wahnsinning. Das heißt, man muß sie auf jeden Fall ernst nehmen, dafür ihr aber nie glauben. Heute lebt, malt und tanzt sie in Berlin.

Heather Morgan (1973-?), born in Staten Island, New York, another questionable product of the seventies. As a child she wanted to be a dancer, but instead studied painting at Boston and Yale University, spending most of her time haunting underground music scenes. Sie is part Dorothy Parker, part David Bowie. Coming from a long line of Irish folk, she is likely insane. That means she should be taken very seriously, but never believed.* Today she lives, paints, and dances in Berlin.

*I just want to add for the kids at home, please don’t take me seriously, either!

A broth of a different color!

Uncategorized, , , ,

One of the best parts of my day as an underling for an international soup concern has got to be dealing with the foreign language stuff. Today I had to swap out a picture of a can of soup for…a new can of soup. All the writing is Japanese, and it’s a brimming bowl of yellow liquid. I started tittering at the possibilities. Let’s play “What’s! In! The Can!” shall we? Could it be…Cream of Dog? Tincture of Eel? Extract of Cock? Or, as my office pal suggested, that old standby, Rat Oil. Mmmm!

You’d think there would be exotic products like that, but actually it’s just boring shit like clam chowder and chicken noodle. Ho hum. So much for diversity. I guess I could link to the humorous foreign soup pages, but I’d probably get “canned.” Ahahahahaha. Then how would I pay for my drugs?

Yes, Lambchop, work is a funny thing. You used to make fun of me for wearing sneakers with my suit, but once you tried it you admitted there was no going back. The world of banking was not for me….I could write a novella out of my failed careers. Soda Jerk, Grease Monkey, Exotic Dancer, Roustabout. I really lost the love for the hot $9/hr world of bank tellering when I realized you are behind glass not so much because of the threat of robbery, but because people spit at you!

Sample Workaday Dialogue:

Me: How may I help you today?

Disgruntled Vagrant: I wanna take out all my money

Me: Account number please, and I’ll need 2 forms of ID.

DV: ARGHRRRPHHMMMPHPHHH! Cunt! Whore!

I can’t tell you what was in the briefcase. But just the other day I saw a guy handcuffed to a Louis Vuitton monogrammed case. In the checkout line at Stop n’ Shop. I wouldn’t fool about something that weird.

xxoo

Unfriendly-ass Boston

Uncategorized, ,

Who would have thought the Friendlyass Bear would ever cease to grace Boylston street with its ponderous bronze bottom? I used to work right across the street from old FAO, and when I wasn’t watching homeless people coupling in the BayBank ATM (another woefully absent institution!), there was ol’ Friendlyass, carefree and ample cheeked. And there was the company president sneaking up behind me and screeching at me to get back to my terminal before she throttled me with my headset.

Man, was she a bitch.

Speaking of bitches and muddy bears, I have monthly blues pretty badly. But I am not all moon womanly jazzed about discussing such topics, so look elsewhere for a rant about tides and bad moods. lets just say there are no chocolate chips in my cookie today.

However, nothing cheers one up more than tales of ‘tards. I myself went to a Special School. See, I was in an accelerated program with kids from all over jersey city, and we got booted out of the normal public school where we collected (for knocking a baby out of a stroller and onto the tarmac during a game of touch football. Accelerated kids and their high spirits!) Anyway, my orphaned program was taken in by a Special School. We occupied the top floor of their building, shared their stinking cafeteria, and tried not to stare at them openly masturbating in the nurses office. We did not have much contact with them- but they would come up to our auditorium for holiday parties. Halloween was the best. All the mongoloids and pinheads dressed like animals, and plants. I remember them gathering around to sing a song. Picture all those raised tuneless voices, out of sync- and a really gangly pinhead dressed up like a bumblebee dancing, antennae bouncing, and moaning out the words to “Lean on Me”.

yeah.

Muffiny Muffins

Uncategorized,

Today it was my turn to bring breakfast to my meeting, cialis and I knocked everyone out with a one-two punch of frosting and cake, masquerading as muffins! Oh how I love muffins. The real star of the show would have to be the Boston Kreme muffin, which is frosted with chocolate and filled with a “kreme-y” substance. Gaze upon the magic at The Gingerbread Construction Company. I know this may some mundane compared to other descriptions of two-headed hijinks that I could be posting, but they really are a sweet treat! Meant to be savored and squished betwixt the toes!

xxoo