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I’m Thankful!

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You say potato and I say “fuck it”, Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off. I decided not to have Thanksgiving Dinner after all. Though I received several kind invitations to warm hearths, I decided I would rather laze around in my unheated room, and drive around looking for a convenience store that has frozen bagels. When you play surf music, everything feels like a Mission. Take Gas, Goofy Footer Hodad!

Like every lily-livered gold plated American, I have a tarjillion things to be thankful for. But no one wants to hear me opine about how lucky I feel to have all my limbs, food, and a bomb free-sky to gaze up at. So we decided to ask Happy-Go-Lucky Hasselhoff, for a list of the things he holds dear on this day. And we bring you:

I am Thankful For…

by Hasselhoff.

1. Adventure!

2. Chest Wax

3. Birdsong

4. My favorite well-worn Speedo, “the Gunboat”

but most of all,

5. The Germans!

Happy Thx-giving Everyone!

-xo

The Lay of the Land Today at 10,000 Feet: A High Level Overview

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I’ve got that ‘last day of school’ feeling so bad. I launched a site I’ve been slaving over for a while, because either the day before a holiday or a Friday at 5 p.m. is totally the best time to do complicated things like that. I did not break the database, and I am thankful.

Ever keep predicting things that are likely to happen anyway? I’ll think “That guy is going to call me,” and that guy does. Or “Heather just posted to Vomitola,” and she did. Or “My sister’s flight is cancelled.” If I weren’t psychic, I wouldn’t have known about that, because Orbitz just called to assure me that while there may be weather delays, the flight is on time. Then they called ten minutes later to say the flight will depart on time. However, I’d already checked the website thanks to my spidey sense, called the airline, and rebooked for tomorrow before I received either of those calls. I hope they call every ten minutes. It makes me feel important.

I am super excited that there will be pie tomorrow! I hope everyone has pie! Personally, I don’t eat, but I encourage you to try the Other Apple Pie: equal parts hard cider and Harpoon Winter Warmer. When my sister finally arrives after being squished in a tin can with ugly people, I will pour one down her gullet.

I wish you all a velocitous re-valuetization this holiday season. Link courtesy of Max, who hates both Freedom and America, almost as much as Orbitz does.

Deliverance

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When I sit down to a plate of crisp turkey skins and can-shaped cranberry sauce this year, generic I am going to give thanks to Friends. Especially friends like Licketysplit, who has gotten me out of many scrapes and situations. What a tender moment it was when she and Bruno Ganz (they are such friends!) sallied forth to my cell, wearing crisp white shirts and refusing to touch me until I had a bath. It was as though angels had descended from heaven and offered me exfoliant.

I must tell the truth, I will be having a lovely meal with some very nice people. And Licky and Bruno will be riding a Zamboni into the sunset over a frosted lake up north.

So much to be grateful for. I shall return with a LIST!

-xo

Incarcerated

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So I decided not to have a party at my house for my birthday, because of some housemate difficulties.

Instead I went to a party in a shicky micky loft in the South End. It was pretty bumpin’, but at 1:30, some meatwads with badges stormed in, spoiling for a fight, as though they had stumbled upon the Happy Land in the Bronx. As we gathered our coats and our wits, something these gentleman clearly had no need for, we were ordered at top volume to be out in 30 seconds or go in the Wagon. I believe in our constitutional right to party on Lambchop’s Birthday. Or maybe I am a sucker for sarcasm. In any case, this thuggish behavior really teed me off and I started to holler “that’s right everyone, trample for the exits! We want bodies crushed on the stairs! MOVE!”

I won this round of “Most Likely to be Arrested”. I spent the rest of my birthday in the clink with a bunch of hookers, playing scrabble. At least they had a boombox. Chaka Khan, everybody!

A sweet romantic place

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Hey America! How’s it going? I have so much to tell you. Well, not really anything interesting. Have you ever wondered what it’s like in my head, America? My inner monologue goes something like “Oh hey, that is one fat squirrel, look that guy is feeding him, do I smell bagels, oh no he did not button the “never” button, oh he did, my feet are cold, isn’t it weird that advocados are in season now, that person would not be so fat if they did not get the chips with their sandwich.” My inner monologue cares not for punctuation.

And somehow I still walk around and deposit checks in the bank and drive a car and have a husband and friends and pay bills and pick out thoughtful Christmas presents. I would love to know how this all works. Does everyone walk around with a head full of TV static, or is it just me? I’m not saying I mind, it’s just a marvel.

Oh, and I had a bout of existentialism while shopping for shoes. It was brutal, and for a few tenuous moments, it did not matter which pair of black boots I purchased. Luckily, it turned out to be low blood sugar, and I went with the black ones. I should start carrying an emergency pie.

Last night, Mr. Helen and I ordered pizza from the internet, pretty much just because we could. The only wrinkle in this plan is that the end product is delivered by a human and not ASIMO. Still, the pizza tasted of progress, and we even had a coupon for progress. Good deal, America.

Publish or Perish!

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We are happy to announce the upcoming launch of the newest in handy guides to cynicism, recipe nihilism, and narcissism. In addition to Vomitola, we are coming out with a new glossy mag to fill your need for self-loathing, makeup tips, and pictures of Morrissey. That and so much more will be premiering in February, just in time to be your Valentine. And you will have to pay for it. Between stalking Jude law and phone calls to Barack Obama (she says once you go barack…ahem), our Helen does not have the time to edit this perfumed poison fishwrap, so I will be your editorial Lambchop. Helen will still be available to tell us not to get fat, and to slap me with a ruler if I misuse a possesive. Order now or a pox on your webbed offspring.

-xo

Freunde von Mir

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This was a weekend of old friends, and their new works. I went down to NYC to see an exhibition of new paintings by my old pal Chris Mir. But I am not going to review the show here, because Jerry Saltz was there, and he is far, far more clever than I. But really if you are in Chelsea, look for yourself at Rare. They were nice enough to give us an open vodka bar at a nearby snazzateria.

Welcome to the World of What I Did this Weekend. At the opening I ran into a few of my thesis mates from the Old School. I was very excited to see them for the first time since we popped our corks in ’99. I had an Outfit. I also kept the company of my old pal from School and his crazy Serbian wife. He stayed with me several times in Berlin, and I stay with them often when I come to the city. I feel at home there because when I walk in, Marija shrieks, in a voice you could shave with, “ziveli! Heather is here. Now we get drunk!” I also had a lamb schawarma that was so greasy, it left me with a layer of fat paste coating my hands.

The denizens of New York expect you to justify the fact that you live elsewhere, especially if you are an artist. Who ever heard of a painter that lived in Boston? The relief is palpable when I tell them I plan to drift into the city next year. There is a lot to do in New York, and a lot of careers. Sometimes I wonder, though, if I really want to live among so many grownups. Wait, I already know the answer to that is “no!” People assure me that there are plenty of people in New York, who, like me, are Desperate, but Not Serious.

-xo

P.S. The band Coil is one of the beloved old vomitola house bands. One of the pair, Jhonn Balance, died by falling drunk from a balcony. Feel free to appreciate the irony!

You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t need me

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This week I was so busy that time actually slowed down, and I felt like I was trying to do lunges across the bottom of a pool. Now, overall, it’s good to be busy because it distracts me from feeling guilty about converting my disposable income into frivolous things like teeth whitening strips and manchego cheese. But yesterday was especially terrible and unholy, and I shall exhaustively detail it to impart just an iota of the suffering to you, gentle reader.

First, I discovered that the Mac OS 10.3.6 update is a lulu, in that I got the kernel panic curtain of doom when it was 80% installed, and my powerbook refused to start up past the chime. I had a presentation that afternoon and needed to burn a CD of stuff I had not backed up yet. I called to berate Apple, and an unflappable woman named Shalonda mandated that I use the system restore disc. So there I sat, shrieking “Twenty-nine minutes!” at the progress bar. Luckily, it turned out to go much faster. I cursed the Fins and the Danes and all the Asians as their language packs were installed, holding up American ME, ME, goddammit, ME. In the end, I did not lose any data, and I know this is because God approves of the high moral standards of this great nation.

Then I almost got killed by some BeUro trash driving a black Kompressor, but luckily MY German car, assembled in Mexico, is sufficiently maneuverable to compensate for total idiots being allowed to do things like drive. I still could not reach my intended destination because a marching band was, well, marching down the street. They were followed by a band of Morrissey impersonators, waving handmade banners decrying our reliance on foreign oil. I made that last one up, but it would have been great.

Then I had to sit in a small office and teach someone how to use Dreamweaver, something I had stupidly promised about nine months ago.

Sample dialogue:

oaf: “So these pages are Word documents?”

me: “No.”

oaf, later: “So we measure things with pixels because everyone has different fonts on their computers?”

me: “No.”

It is hard to be the caretaker of the little creatures of nature. I realized that I am almost a year into my retirement, and I should really stop being eccentric and “working.” So from here on out, I only do work that I like, which means no more front-end coding whatsoever, even if you lit a match under my left foot. And Mai Tais, we’ll have lots of those. It’s about setting limits, America.

People…They’re the Worst!

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*Someone* said this world is full of crashing bores. You can’t swing a dead cat with hitting poseurs and phonies. People who talk about how much everything sucks, but are the first with their backs to the wall. People whose creativity is best expressed by trying on a new pair of shoes. I saw a German film once that described people as “koenners, nicht koenners, und flachschwimmers”. That is, there are those that Can, those that Can’t, and those that flail around, making a public business of their failure and insecurity. Those without dignity, these are the lowest. Everyone loves a winner, and even more so a Loser, the kind of person who can toast his own inadequacy, and then ask you for money. A “flachschwimmer” is a full grown adult who is still wearing water wings, and choking.

Just when you really start to repine your own humanity, you overhear the following (pronounced by a 15 year old boy):

“Everybody wants to be black until the cops show up!”

-xo