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Now my heart is full

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he's the Mary, hurrah

Wow, that was a hell of a ride. Yesterday was certainly the most memorable November Tuesday of MY young, glamorous life. John Kerry’s stunning upset over George W. Bush had me up until the wee hours, biting my nails at first until Florida and Michigan and Pennsylvania came in blue.

My jaw hung open when they called Texas for Kerry, followed by North Carolina and Tennessee. After that, I wasted no time diving into the case of Chateau Lafitte I’d been saving for just such an occasion. Kerry looked so presidential when he gave his victory speech. That man can pick out a tie. As anyone could have predicted, Bush simpered and smirked and screwed up a Yogi Berra quote, something along the lines of “The over it ain’t.” At some point my head hit the coffee table.

I just don’t know what I would have done if John Kerry did not win this election. Probably I would have continued to think about my hair, or I might have ordered a bubble tea. Oh well, now I no longer have to retain any conscience or political awareness at all!

Yet I am puzzled that the morning papers have absolutely no coverage of this momentous event. And talk of the Red Sox and their thrilling series victory also seems to have faded. Stranger still, when I went to my shrink appointment, he seemed utterly unaware of Daylight Savings Time, and told me I was too late for my appointment. Oh well, the stupid little creatures of nature don’t bother me now that we are free from the perilous scourge of four more years of totalitarian rule. Did Daylight Savings Time get cancelled this year? I seem to have totally missed the Today show. I was really wondering what Al Roker thought about all of this.

(edit: This is what happens when someone staggers drunkenly into the time machine, their fingers still sticky from gummi bears! Licketysplit is now vomiting in the pines somwhere in the catskills, 1947. I have no idea where she plans to spend her hangover- Havana, perhaps? So you must all still VOTE, and save the planet and all that. A Rush and a Push and the Land we stand on is Ours. It has been before, so it shall be again!-lc)

A Room of One’s Own

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Well, tadalafil at last the flaming bricks of poo have done sailing through my window. It is probably a wise policy to keep company with those who basically like and respect you. I have freely dispensed this advice to others, sickness and now I should heed it myself. There must be people out there with Standards! The ideal match for me would like art, makeup, mirrors, martinis, and sarcasm. I need a gay roommate! Why did I not think of this before?!

The replies so far run the usual C-list gamut of desperate men looking for dates, and some actual people with rooms to let. One of these called himself “journeymanpoet” and offered not so much a room, but a “lifestyle change” involving no meat, sex, drink, or drugs. Why he contacted *me* is beyond ridiculous and I pointed that out and wished him luck. Mr. Crunchy then wrote BACK to me to implore me to consider allowing him to “emancipate me from my cynicism”. LORDY, is the internet fun! I offered to emancipate him from his weedy gonads and suggested he add “no Wit” to his list, and he has fortunately not contacted me again.

The piece de resistance was the mail I received this morning, from an actual gay man, with a gorgeous and roomy house, who used a charming turn of phrase to ask me if my listed rent was fixed. I replied that I never thought a gay man would ask me if I was “tight”! This match made in our own bitter and well-dressed heaven, is only disturbed by the fact that the location is not convenient for me. Sigh. Maybe I will still angle for an invitation for mousse- he has already begun to tell me about his love life.

-xo

Silence is Sexy

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It seems that I am the only person this week who has not talked about me on the Internet. Yes, the Internet has decided I am evil. I just want to thank everyone for having taken the time out of what must be very hectic schedules to weigh in with their opinions on the subject of ME, especially all you folks in Milwaukee and Wisconsin! Anyway, I have been silent through the affair, but I thought it was about time that I talk about me, too.

This is my pal Echo, who I have had the good fortune to spend time with lately. We trade drawings, and we talk about Barbie and imaginary sharks. She knows the old adage about throwing stones. And boy does she have a good arm! She is truly a prodigy, and I would wish for her she would never see how ugly people can be. But she also understands that while you don’t have to be friends with them, Ugly people must be tolerated!

-xo

Can’t Stand Us Now

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I have spent this morning frantically paging my ethicist, my analyst, and my ghostwriter, but they are all getting herbal wraps together. My personal chef is off today, and I had to make my own breakfast (I had a popsicle). What manner of torment does the Lord plan for me next?

You see, I am blocked. B-l-o-c-k-e-d. You’re a blockhead, Charlie Brown. No, it’s not something my colon therapist could fix — I am the picture of health in that department, thank you for asking. I just can’t finish a design to save my life. This has never happened before. My patented formula of waiting until the last minute and then being filled with divine inspiration has failed me miserably. I am used to being a person with Answers, but I seem to have killed my inner Lucy Van Pelt. Was it because I switched to Splenda? Upgraded to Creative Suite? Stopped drinking as much? I want you back, Know-It-All. Abuh buh buh buh. All I want! Abuh buh buh buh. All I need! You hot bitch.

In other news, Netflix is sidling up to me, swearing it will all be different this time. I wrote them a cordial reply, stating that I will happily sign up again if they invent 36-hour days and start stocking shitloads of porn. I hate you, Netflix. You mock me.

Speaking of mocking, I watched the TV show “Biggest Loser” the other night, wherein a group of tubby people are chained to treadmills and fed nothing but Vitamin Water. The person who loses the most weight gets some kind of prize. I think. I don’t know, because I glazed over during all those slow mo shots of roiling seas of fat running or doing pull-ups or whatnot. They also tempt the participants with trays of treats. I was thinking “It’s like Heather and I finally sold a TV show!” Sure, it’s deplorable exploitation, but it’s nice to know our demographic is finally “in.” I also get sick of those home makeover shows where they let unstylish people return to showplace manses, so I was thinking “they should really also fix these poor, ill-coiffed troglodytes before they are allowed to touch those Corian countertops.” And what do you know, FOX went and came up with “Make Over My Family.” They bulldoze the house, and everyone gets highlights and an under-the-sea themed bedroom. About ding-dang time. Stop reading my mind, television. Just stop.

My next decree: Extreme Makeover candidates should not have to go home to ugly loved ones, as keeping company with ugly people only drags one down. The surprise reveal will include everyone in the family getting teeth veneers and butt lifts, right down to the house pets. If this turns up on the air, I would like a whopping check.

Time after time

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sweet!

Today we reach a milestone in the Vomitorium: Our 500th post. Even Seinfeld didn’t make it to 500 episodes! It is only fitting, that as a blog about nothing, we go the distance. This one’s for you, Larry David.

Looking back on the past year and a half or so, we are humbled. All the hairstyles we’ve tried, all the candy necklaces eaten, all the gumjobs gummed. It’s staggering. To say nothing of the flailing. And as Connected Americans, we’ve done all of this while physically attached to each other. This is no small feat considering we live about twenty miles apart and enjoy traveling to other continents alone. Where is our genius grant?

As a convenience to our loyal readers, we’ve made a wee timeline detailing some of the hightlights of the past 499 posts.

>> View the timeline

Here’s hoping the next 500 violate you just as vilely. Remember, WE LET YOU LIVE.

Baby I Can Drive Your Car

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I have returned from Berlin, and there stood Helen behind the velvet rope at the airport, holding up a sign that said “Morrissey!” It’s a good thing she was there as a witness, because this trawl through the airport has me not only convinced that ugly people have lives, and problems, and pay car insurance, they also go on vacations! Apparently, you can be possessed of a face full of chancres and still zip off to Amsterdam for a Holiday. (and they let you in!) Mouth-breathers with harelips still pack off to St. Tropez. The human spirit is astonishing, ladies and gentleman.

I have not even unpacked or taken my new iBook for a spin (Helen made the Morrisseydance my wallpaper!). ‘Ere I landed, I had to go back to work, and then off to shoot a scene for the My Little Pain in the Ass Movie. I arrive at the set and try not to think of the month’s worth of laundry that I need to do, the giant overflowing suitcase in the middle of my bed, the slides that need to be catalogued, the work that needs to be photographed with my new camera, the new biography I have to write for my gallery website, or the emails yet to send to notify Berlin that I arrived safely. Yes, I thought of none of those things. Good. Then the director tells me that in this scene I have to Drive. A Car. Yes, Drive. A Car. Everyone knows that I do not know how to drive a car! Everyone who has ever helped me move, or travel or go grocery shopping. Hell, even the Liberal State of Massachusetts knows that I can’t drive. I know this is as rare as an individual who has never eaten a hamburger at McDonalds. How did I reach the age of thirty without learning to drive? How did I miss this teenage right of passage? Like a lot of privileges of youth, it just slipped me by. Anyway, I took a cast of three careening down a dark street, screeching to a halt to dump a bloody man out, and tearing off shrieking with mirth. The fact that I needed to be shown where the gas and the brake pedal are, made this rather easy to do. We are going for realistic terror here, people!

So I may be tired, my manicure ragged, and things in general disarray, but I drove a car. Maybe I will even apply for a permit.

In between takes, I got to peer at the debate. I am chagrined to see that Bush has polished up his act enough to appear “likeable” and “compassionate”, so that Middle America will not think about the fact that this is a man unconcerned with the pileups of corpses, who has declared his feeling that captaining a dictatorship would make it easier for him to “get stuff done.” But how much can you really polish a turd? Kerry proved once again that he has a working knowledge of government and an awareness of such impenetrable concepts as human rights (for non-whites!) No matter how much we plead for sanity here at Vomitola, some of you are going to vote for a criminal regime with your own little flag waving hearts. Be our guest.

However, DO NOT VOTE FOR NADER OR WE WILL COME AND FIND YOU. We realize here that a healthy democracy means we have to break this two party jamboree. But the third candidate on the ballot this year exists only as a symbol of that fact. What is more crucial to the vitality of our freedoms, and the right to life of others–a symbolic move toward multiple party elections in the United States, or a Bush-free White House? We leave that for you to determine.*

*we know where you live.

-xo

lambchop

Go straight to hell boys

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I Support Our Troops More Than You Do

My friends, I am a hateful American. I’ve got rage in my heart, even supplanting the usual lust. Last night I sat around with Lambchop and Midsentence and Mr. H, and we tried to sloganeer something in witty opposition to the slew of yellow ribbons floating around on cars around these parts. If by some miracle you haven’t seen one, they are all a variation on the wording “Support Our Troops,” and the most prevalent design features an elaborate script font that one must view from about two inches away to parse.

So what do these affronts to graphic design actually mean? We thought “I don’t want anyone else to suffer or die as part of the specious war on terror, and I hope the troops get home safely very soon, and I’d like everyone to take a moment and hope their tax dollars are being spent in the most judicious manner to ensure all this safety” would be too long for a bumper sticker. Of course what everyone really means is exactly what is depicted on the button above, from the delightfully wicked Whitehouse.org. My cause is holier than your cause.

It really is hard to know what to do with oneself when larger doings are afoot. There are no victory gardens or scrap drives, but you can send a random soldier a $79 gift basket of peppermint foot lotion via Treats for Troops. I can only imagine it would be well-appreciated, but somehow it borders on insulting. Here’s some Halloween candy, how is it in Hell? Have all the people with those magnets on their cars sent a soldier lip balm, sunscreen, or baby wipes? Phone cards or batteries? Are they contributing to funds to equip housing for newly disabled soldiers with wheelchair ramps? Perhaps babysitting so an overwhelmed military spouse dealing with a deployment of a partner can go grocery shopping? Did they do anything besides slap that sucker on the car and feel better for 5 whole minutes? Maybe they donated a Gmail address.

I wish I had the answers. I think I know one thing most of us can do on November 2, but that won’t suddenly introduce logical thinking to the country as a whole, no matter who wins.

This morning at the grocery store, I was behind a man with a Bush button on his collar. The bagger in this line clearly has Down Syndrome, and he is always very efficient and pleasant despite the wave of people who pretend he doesn’t exist every day. He noticed the man’s button, and said “Oh, so you’re for the president then.” The man smiled and said he was, and left, saying “Support those troops!” The bagger muttered under his breath “I’m for Kerry!” I said “Hey, me too,” and he beamed and asked if I planned to watch the debate tonight. I said I did even though I had made up my mind already, and he said “It’s good to know what’s going on in the world.”

No shit. Then he told me store brand ice cream is actually made by Breyers. Also good to know!

Has the Perrier Gone Straight to My Head?

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I have been working very hard in the manner of Jane, Get me off this crazy thing. The subjects for the portraits I have been comissioned to do showed up at my apartment on Friday afternoon. And I Morrisseyed day and night and finished the two pictures on Saturday. Which is like some kind of record for me. I wanted to be finished in time for my dear friend Smilla’s birthday extravaganza on Saturday night. With my work finished, and my mind awhirl, I was ready to get good and Awesome. The party had sort of a sixties theme so I secured a cylidrical structure to my head and sprayed and spackled my hair over it. Now that my hair has gotten so long, topiary is possible. Next time I will sculpt a giraffe.

I made everyone dance to an extended version of Crimson and Clover.

Sunday in Berlin, the clothes, the cafe brunches, and VIKTOR, Berlin’s most beautiful man. I went to my favorite fleamarket in dem Arkunerplatz, and I knew I was at his table before I even saw him, by the character of the clothes on the rack. He was dallying somewhere, but as I turned over one chic-y micky seventies dress after another, I knew his dirty smile and snarky glint could not be far. I wait all year for my five minutes to bask in Viktor on a Sunday. Sure enough, he is there to tell someone with a fleeting eyeroll that they look amazing and to say hello to “well, everyone…all those….people”. Everyone is a so-and-so next to Viktoriano. Of course for the fifth year running I am too shy to say much more than hello to the coolest cat around. One day I will get his picture, do a portrait. Put a lock of his hair in the secret drawer of an old clock, right next to the gold threaded swatch of Morrissey’s shirt from 1989.

Or something insane like that.

A second look at the paintings tells me I should do a little more work on one before I present them to the client tomorrow night. And five drawings still to do for the Kunst Ring.

Wish me luck, Morrissey!

-xo