Tag Archives: tunes

Extrem-Relax

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I am taking my cue from a skilled eurotrash impersonator of my acquaintance and prefacing everything with “Extrem.” I also like to say “Super-Cool” (pronounced SoooPAIR) and “Giga-Cool.”

The new Air cd, Talkie Walkie, is indeed Super-Cool. Extrem-Sexy. I can’t stop listening to it. It works for making out, for drinking wine, for driving, for staring out the window, for ironing, you name it. It makes me turn up the collar of my jean jacket and muss Mr. H’s hair.

I also bought Hai! by The Creatures, and ees giving me Super-Mega-Goth flashback. I am this close to cutting really short bangs and buying tons of used clothing again. I find myself missing the days of velvet blazers and poppy red hair streaks, of tattered prom dresses and stripper heels. That and hearing “I Dig You” in that Monster.com ad. I must admit that my knowledge of the Cure’s catalog and side projects is shockingly extensive. I’m also going through old CDs and sighing, “Alien Sex Fiend, AWWWWW!”

Aw, screw it, I don’t have a job! I can have interesting hair yet again! Where’s the Manic Panic?

-xxoo

Oh My Goodness!

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Ever just feel unloved? No, you are far too amazing? Well, if you ever do, just cut out Poor Little Rich Girl and make her dance to this perky little tune:

When I say it’s day

you say it´s night

When I say it´s black

you say it’s white

Tell me,

what’s wrong with you Baby?

At times I ought to hate you

You make me so blue

But honestly I can’t hate you

when you smile at me the way you do

Oh My Goodness!

I don’t know what it is thats so irresistible- the sailor suit, the squeaky voice, boing boing curls, or charmingly sucking on one’s pinky. In uncertain times, you better go with all four.

Huzzah, huzzah!

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Unfurl the gossamer banners, and don your t-shirt featuring dogs having a tea party! Pipe lurid pink icing flowers on a solid slab of marzipan, and flood the streets with confetti, for it is Lambchop’s birthday! And not just any birthday, oh no. It is a special number, but I shall leave that for her to reveal in her own good time.

To celebrate, I have quite the surprise. I let us get pregnant a few weeks ago when she was passed out! No, kidding, kidding. But I did pick up a few gaudy do-dads, and when I purchased one of them the sales-slattern said “Oh, your daughter is going to love this!” What is more alarming: our truly infantile taste, or that this shrew thought I looked old enough to have a six-year-old?

Now I give you photographic proof that we are two heads sharing one body. This was taken in Barcelona a few years ago, atop a bus. Luckily we never forget which one of us is on the right in photos (Lambchop!).

Now what more can I say about my splendid pal? Hmm… no matter what I come up with, I am sure that ABBA has said it better at some point.

There was something in the air that night

The stars were bright, Fernando

They were shining there for you and me

For liberty, Fernando

Though I never thought that we could lose

There’s no regret

If I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando

Yes, if I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando…

-xxoo

Jackie O.T.

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Dear Diary,

I have been put in charge of filing the orders of a very important customer. So I ask myself: what goes better with a glittery silver top- glittery silver polish or just the plain silver???

Life is six-cups-of-coffee-by-day,-on-the-rocks-yes-please-salt-the-glass-by-night, kind of good. Now that I am a Drudge like the rest of you, I can see it has some merits. The free flavored coffees, the bad moods, the charmingly misspelled articles in the Metro. I can stand around the copier, plucking at my highlights and talking about the South Beach diet in a South Shore Redux. (the South Beach diet is the one where you eat clam rolls and waffle cones, right?)

Since Helen and I opened the Pandora’s Box of Lambchop and Licketysplit memorabilia, I also sifted through my own box of Stuff That Used to Matter. Among the myriad of fascinating items were (1) a Brownie Smock, (2) a collection of orange Honor Roll buttons (they say “Honor Roll” on them in chunky black letters. This way all non-Honor Roll types can make them out and know they are in the presence of Achievement. I wear these to work.), and (3) a report card that says my long division Needs Improvement (NI) but my Spelling is E for Excellent!

I am going to start issuing Needs Improvement cards to my friends and associates. There really ought to be a system of checks and balances for the faux pas’ of our acquaintance, to address horrible sweaters, placing knees on the table, and interrupting ME when I am saying something fascinating.

The last thing I want to rant about, before I go back to punching holes in things, is a startling new development in Boston culture (didn’t know we had any, did you?). Musical amplification devices and Wind Instruments are strictly VERBOTEN! from subway platforms and trains. No more can that batty old geezer plonk out “Alleycat” on his Casio. And the tortured yearnings of the acoustic guitar player will also go unheard as he whispers, ampless. This is all Licketysplit’s doing, for it is she who went around paying these chaps to STOP playing. The frightening result of all this is that it has opened the floodgates to ACAPELLA. My betteylunchbucket morning commute is now punctuated by the few brave soloists who try their hands at Crooning. The resulting bellows and caterwaul make me feel like Day Room at the madhouse again.

-xo

There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west

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I’ve got “Stairway to Heaven” stuck in my head because some deviant was playing it on an acoustic guitar in the train station. Call me a Nazi (“Nazi!”), but people shouldn’t be allowed to play in public if they aren’t any good. There, I said it. It’s too bad there’s not a musical version of nanowrimo to keep those sorts otherwise occupied.

I also inadvertently confused the names of two ethnic characters in a thinger I was trying to code, which led to hijinks and me wondering why my shit didn’t work. Hi, my name is Hitler. Then my sister pointed out that I am terrible at recognizing people, just like she is. And it’s true: people frequently say things like “Hey, I saw you at blah blah (the cheese counter at Shaw’s, Starbucks) and you were blah blah (staring into space, trying on a bra), and I blah blah (batted my eyes, yelled at you) but you didn’t notice me.” I think it’s a symptom of late-onset autism.

(But really, if you were an art director, would you name your token ethnic characters incredibly similar names? Mary, John, Patty, Samir, and Samar? I think not!)

Heather mentioned the joys of being completely insane in her triumphant return post. These days, instead of skittering around worrying that the Hancock Tower is going to thwap down like a flyswatter and squash me, or goggling at how shiny the sidewalk is, I just stick with garden variety rage. I blame the MBTA, hormonal birth control, the downstairs neighbors, going to work, ill-fitting pants, the incredibly unexciting lunar eclipse, and solar flares for my rage. If I had managed to retain my propensity for ingesting random substances people hand me, things might be different. Curse you, aging process. And curse you, common sense.

But someday Lambchop and l will have to tell you about the time we huddled under a pool table for hours, only taking a break to watch Suddenly Susan and wrap duct tape around a computer monitor.

-xxoo

I, Melvin

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Already today I have been provoked to the brink of madness. As I wandered into the train station at the start of my morning journey, I thought I heard the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner,” but in a manner so devoid of musical talent that I thought a wee child must be having his way with a recorder. As I descended the stairs, I saw that it was in fact a gentleman of competent mental age wielding a fife.

He gamely struck up an off-key attempt at “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I clenched my fist and rolled my eyes heavenward, debating what to do. Should I club him dead where he stood with my umbrella? Should I offer him money to stop playing until the train came? I feared that either approach would lead to an unpleasant discussion on the nature and quality of my patriotism, so I slunk away. I may indeed be a patriot, but I am no nationalist, and there is nothing inherent in the meaning of patriotism about suffering through the abuse of the Western musical scale. Just try telling this to the Ashcrofts among us.

Then he lurched into an utterly tuneless rendition of “Greensleeves,” followed by a dissonant take on Pachelbel’s Canon. All bets are off, I thought, I owe it to myself and the rest of the populus to strike him dead. The train was approaching at long last, and the hapless fool began to tweet his way through “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” I lunged viciously, but was restrained at the last second by a burly buffoon wearing a fleece vest that read “Pro Player.”

And you sir, you are a professional at what endeavor? Balding? Overeating? The wearing of stone washed DENIM? I hissed and narrowed the pupils of my eyes like a lizard, and he released me from his grasp as if burned. I dove into a waiting car and stalked to a seat, only to be displaced by an immensely fat woman.

I sulked all the way to the terminus of my route. I wasn’t even able to delight myself with my favorite game of imagination, wherein I script little cards bearing grooming and sartorial advice to be handed to the other passengers.

-xxoo

Lambchop turns the world on with her smile

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Bringing new meaning to the term “phoning it in,” I am pleased to present news from our young spitfire, who is still without internet access.

pants

“Ian McCulloch to Lambchop after the show last Thursday at the Paradise:

“Well, heeeello.  Saaay, you’re rather fetching!”

I have adored this gentleman since I was 14 years old boring into a copy of Porcupine.

Greatest. Day. Ever.

Well, it runs a close second to the day I got my first tapeworm, anyway.”

-xxoo

Fish, Barrel, Barrel, Fish

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gary shandling

Hey, ampoule the Emmys were on last night! How about that? Most of the country demonstrated the same level of rabid appreciation as some lady on the train this morning.

“Did Friends win anything? No? Oh. But that girl from the gay show did? I like her hair.”

I enjoyed the triumph of The Daily Show and the Hispanic monkeypox montage, treatment but then I realized there was probably an episode of Law & Order on some other channel, help so I flipped around until I found it. Then I fell asleep because my couch is soooo comfortable. I missed the tribute to John Ritter. From eOnline: “Henry Winkler delivered a touching tribute to his friend John Ritter and asked that we remember the star for his versatility, not just for his pratfalls. And then they showed a hilarious clip where Ritter slams facefirst into a bowl of guacamole.”

Other than that, slow news weekend. Lambchop (who is currently without internet access) and I went to a horrendous art show that a friend had some great pieces in. The highlight besides her lamps was definitely the portrait of the cats done in sequins. No really, it was sparky. The lowlight? All the giant photos of female genitalia. I got in trouble by saying “Oh look, a clam sandwich,” and the clam in question was standing behind me. She glared at me. I scuttled away. Fighting a giant clam is a little more Mario Brothers than I care to get into on a Saturday night.

We also saw Goldfrapp; she really does make those crazy noises! Check it out. I love that she dresses like a deranged girl scout crossed with Nazi youth. People should really get into hats more.

-xxoo

The business of strange people

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According to the ol’ Crate & Barrel registry, we are at t-minus 12 days until W-day. Please God, we mutter, make it come even sooner. Sure, the favor tins haven’t been dropped off at Teuscher to be filled with sweeties, my harlot dress is still hanging in an alterations shop, and Mr. H is a rugged wooly mammoth in need of a visit to his stylist. The florist hasn’t been paid, the programs aren’t written, nor are we exfoliated. But I’d show up in pajamas, my hair crusted with ape dung (aren’t you glad I specified just which kind?), if it would stop the constant flood of bizarre questions from assorted helpless out-of-towners.

N.B.: for the purposes of wedding etiquette, ‘out of town’ also includes people who live 20 minutes away and typically know how to help themselves. There is surely nothing someone who is in the throes of planning a major event would rather do than book other people in for manicures! This is the beauty event of my young life, now please do endlessly explain what YOU plan to wear. Not to worry, the photographer has been armed with a “do not commemorate” list, much as the band has their “do not play” list.

And apparently being married across Boston Harbor is practically a scene right out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, with guests forced to hop across from the mainland on floating chunks of ice while being pursued by slavering hounds. “I saw the water taxi is going to stop running, can I take a regular taxi?” We picked the spot for the stunning view of the city skyline, but had I known I would end up having to hire an amphibious assault vehicle, or heaven forfend, tell people to take the damn T, we might have made a different choice.

My standard answer to these nervous nellies is much the same as my code for living: “Ask the concierge!” Although somehow they have mistaken ME for the concierge. Is it my silly little hat? My wing tips or name tag? What gives me away, I wonder. A pox on them.

***

Deep breaths. True, all I accomplished on my day off today was fielding endless calls and emails (and eating 2 pudding cups). But I did have a swell weekend, thanks to the undeservedly fine weather. We were lured into South Boston by the jutting bones of the new convention center. After a thoroughly random drive, we ended up at Castle Island, loafing in the shadow of the giant fort and watching planes take off. We enjoyed greasy ridged fries from the snack bar and meeting friendly dogs. File it under things I never fucking knew about, and go see the Harbor Islands website.

Later that day we sprawled out in the shade in Columbus Park, full of orange gelati from the North End. Life is good even if having a wedding isn’t. But it’ll be quite the bash. We picked the single worst song ever written for our first dance: “I can’t stop loving you,” by Phil Collins. Relatives will probably wonder why all of our friends are laughing uncontrollably. Then we drink, straight on til morning. I hope someone remembers to put us on our plane the next day.

-xxoo

if it’s not love, then its the bomb…

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The last few weeks on the run have finally caught up to your poor lambchop. I spent a lovely day of recovery in the wilds of the south shore with my sick pal Stu. He bought me big sunglasses and I made him a fancy chicken.

Oh my casbah is rocked. Friday night I went to see Rock Bottom, a 70’s cover band. We’re talking mulleted wigs and plaid flares. We’re talking Love Hurts and smoking way too much. We’re talking I am going to stay quietly at home and make paper dolls out of the Times this fine Sunday.

Good times, good times.

-xo