Hulk go to bridal salon. Hulk try on dress again. Hulk HATE dress. Who will make Hulk pretty now?
Hulk cry.
Why Hulk ever eat carbs? Hulk looking for love in wrong place.
Hulk watch Oprah. Hulk feel empowered, online call other bridal salon who better at fawning in English.
-xxoo
Lambchop knows many people are out of work these days. Some of you are sitting in your underwear all day and sobbing. Others are enjoying noon cocktails and cashing a check. Still others are scouring want ads and pressing their trousers daily, full of vain hope. We can all agree that the great thing about joblessness, is Jim Rockford.
Cap’n Crunch with Jim
Is the best part Of My Day
Breakfast, 3pm
-xo
This morning I awoke from a bizarre Tylenol PM-fueled dream that I was a spectator at a reality TV show featuring celebrity amputations. There was a glossy multi-tiered set, a cheering crowd, a dapper host (Ryan Seacrest?). I woke up, groggy and rubbing my eyes, not sure if I dreamed that or not. The name of the show escapes me, but I know it was something incredibly twee, like “Cut It Out!” Come to think of it, they should have gotten Dave Coulier.
The celebrities were pleased to be featured, and they were trotted out and an extraneous extremity was pruned with the benefit of local anesthetic, their choice of machete or mini guillotine. White uniformed medical professionals were in attendance, overseeing everything very seriously. The amputations had little catch phrases depending on the part in question. Jennifer Anniston got all the toes on one foot off; that one was called “The Footsie Tootsie.”
It all started getting hazy after something went awry with the severing of Jim J. Bullock’s forearm from the rest of him. A hazard of live TV I guess. Paramedics came, and then suddenly I realized the set was in the middle of a giant Pier 1. And Kirstie Alley was there, trying to sell me some fake sea grass. Arghhhhhhhhhh!
Can someone please tell me why there are C-list stars in my dreams? I am never taking Tylenol PM again, even if I stay up for 3 days. I’ve worked 7 days straight, looking at another 5. My marbles are rolling around in my head, all loosey goosey like.
-xxoo
Your intrepid lambchop is still in search of gainful employ. Walking through Post Office Square at lunchtime is like entering a yuppie petting zoo. If only there were dispensers of kibble. I take heart from the monument to the Hungarian Revolution on Kilby Street. It looks like a woman holding up a baby and the plaque quotes Kennedy “it was a day of courage, conscience, and triumph…” Looking for work does not have much in common with bloody uprisings (no threat of evisceration, really) and yet i mutter this phrase to myself before every hearty handshake with a prospective employer. Which is very likely the reason I am still looking for a job.
I should just change my title to:
flaneur \flah-NUR\, noun:
One who strolls about aimlessly; a lounger; a loafer.
The studio practice is back in full swing. Stay tuned and see!
Yesterday I was on the loose with my pal Stu. We drove through perilous lightning and cracking thunder. We drank pink gin and tonics with our friend Mr. King and wrestled on the wet asphalt. We took turns racing Mr. King’s bicycle down the rain slicked street and Stu came up bloody. We thought he was kidding. Sometime around four it began to rain again and we just stood in the street getting rained on.
xo
Hello there folks! I trust your 4th of July was painted red, white and blue. My neighbor Flora and I made enough lobster macaroni salad to feed all of Epsom! It gave me a touch of the gas, though. Mayonnaise will do that.
Thel’ has more exciting doings to report- my daughter Jessica got a raise over at the Help Center and she treated me to a haircut at VIDAL SASSOON. “ooh-la-la”, I said! Not since my son was born has anyone but Rosie Fitch touched my hair, but I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth so I called and made an appointment with someone named Giacomo. I was a little bit nervous so I put on my Sunday finest and drove on up to the city. The nice lady at the desk gave me a blue robe to put on and sent me into the bathroom. I did not know what to make of that. I didn’t know if I was supposed to undress or tinkle in a cup or what, so I just threw the thing on over my clothes. Then another nice lady with a very deep voice washed my hair and massaged my scalp! She even offered me coffee. For free!
Then it was time for me to meet Giacomo. Only I was so excited I kept calling him Vidal by mistake. We chatted about my two wonderful kids and his partner while he snipped away like nobody’s business. And well, when he was done, I just loved it! Wait until all the ladies at the Golden Age Society see! Any of you folks out there that have too much hair, should really go to Vidal.
Don’t worry, Rosie, I will be back in your chair come next tuesday!
God Bless,
Thelma Haney
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
Today is stressful. I bet you people think my life is all fun and games, an endless blur of sucking champagne from the navels of cabana boys, but that’s a dirty lie. A misconception.
In a traumatic turn of events, I had to decide which stamp to use on my wedding invitation. I am allergic to my wedding anyway. The invites that we thought we could do ourselves ended up requiring an emergency overnight trip to Sir Speedy for printing. Sir Speedy lived up to his royal image and did a great job though. After much hemming and hawing, I went with the Andy Warhol stamp.
I know I’m not legally married unless the invite bears a “Love” stamp, but nothing says “this is a big production that bores me terribly” like Andy. The best part is that the invite requires 2 stamps, so I can have a proper Andy diptych. And Mr. H pointed out that it “works with our color scheme.” We love it, yes we do.
-xxoo
Day Five: At last yonder lies the smog of LA, beyond the infinite snake of traffic. Jim’s new place is very SoCal- porticos, palms, and a pool. I schlepped his stuff inside with the help of some big boys. My reward was to drown myself in likker at a bar in Westwood Village. Afterwards we went to Denny’s. This is LA and so the Denny’s did not have the low rent Country Kitchen decor or a bag of crack beneath my seat (hooray for Denny’s, New Haven!). Nope, it was real swankeroo- all neon tubes, chrome, and red and blue vinyl. The boys were laying out odds on whether their friend, who had gone off with some chick, was going to get any and how and how much. It felt like a scene out of Swingers. Don’t ask me if that’s good.
Day 6, 4am: LA just was not agreeing with me so I called up my Dad in the Phoenix area:
Me: “hey Dad, wanna go for a ride?”
Him:”glllmmmmph.”
But within six hours we were on the road to San Francisco along the Pacific coastal highway. We passed Big Sur in a light fog. We stopped to stand on the beach and watch the green waves break. I stood on a cliff and watched the seals diving.
We stopped in Monterey and Cannery Row. Steinbeck is long gone and a fire swept away some of the canneries, but we had clam chowder bread boules. We stayed in a Motel 6 in Gilroy, the garlic capitol. One cannot doubt the distinction well-applied when one wafts into the town on a thick garlic breeze.
Day Seven-Ten: We hit San Francisco and found a sheltered path to an out of the way beach looking out on the Golden Gate and Bay bridges.
I saw a Chinese fisherman catch a stingray and let him go.
We went over to the piers where the scent of fish and fried clams mingled with the sight of Alcatraz, the bustle of tourists, the green tides, and sailboats. Pier 39 is now solely occupied by sea lions.
I had supper in a Chinatown eatery and my fortune cookie read You will soon be surrounded by good friends and laughter.
It was a sixteen hour drive to Wickenburg, Arizona, where my dad lives. We took a five minute nap on an exit in the California desert. He was confused when he woke up and made an illegal hard right onto the interstate going the wrong way down the on-ramp. And smokey was sitting just a few yards away. He was clearly flummoxed by the overall strategy of my dad’s driving but he liked lambchop’s smile and we got off scot free. I didn’t even have my seat belt on.
I spent the next few days in the Arizona desert, eating jalapeno mac and cheese with my dad and posing with his collecting of antique weapons. He has a Walther PPK, a .357 Magnum, and a bayoneted WWII rifle still notched from the Battle of Berlin. Yee-f@#$%ing-Haw!
After driving back to LA to catch my plane, I eventually woke up in Boston, threw my swimsuit and Barbie beach towel in a bag and took a bus up to Bristol, NH where my friends draped me with lei’s and a coconut bra and sailor hats. We cha cha’d and drank enormous cocktails. We floated on the river all day on giant blow up flowers with floating drink caddies. We watched 70s porn and ate shrimps crusted with coconut and black beans and corn. We went to brunch for bloody marys and eggs benedict. On Sunday, we went to a huge arcade where we could play old atari games but we were scolded for riding the mechanical horses. (We snuck a photo on the bumper cars anyway). But mostly we just swam and paddled up and down the river, drinking, eating fourth of july cupcakes, and laughing till we puked. Lambchop loves the lovely friends!
…and that’s all!
-xo
Max from Where The Wild Things Are found a marble that looked like a bloody eyeball. Well, I spotted it, but made him dig it up with his wee paws.
It’s important to have a smashing rock. For smashing. Just wait til that kid reads Lord of the Flies.
It really was foggy.
-xxoo
