Darlings, don’t you hate it when you are assaulted with accolades just for your amazing talent at being you? It is trying: the endless composing of acceptance speeches, the constant attention to one’s hair, and never being able to take a bathroom break in case you are called to the stage.
I found myself in just such a situation the other night, at a local industry awards show (I am a hobby industrialist), replete with a resigned 3-piece cover band, an ersatz Seacrest emcee, and hoards of other people actually taking the whole thing seriously. Did they forget about how they entered their work themselves? And how nearly everyone in Boston is on the judging panel? Only to end up surprised, like “Who, me? Nominated? What an honor!”
I tuned out after I found but a single drink ticket shoved in my badge. Then what do you know, my faction won the first award of the night. Then most of the rest of them. Ryan Notcrest began to make fun of us. I guess if you’re going to rig it, at least make it look believable. Right, Obama?? I had second-hand embarrassment at various points seeing how excited people were to win these things. It’s not that the work was not snazzy, but isn’t it existentially troubling to get a charge out of something that is Not a Big Deal?
Apparently everyone with an ironic mustache and all the rest of America disagrees, so who are we to argue! We are pleased to announce we’ll be hosting The Clammies, the first ever annual or whenever Vomitola awards show. I have a turkey to brine, however one does that, or I’d go ahead and Photoshop up a cute icon. We aren’t sure what we’ll be evaluating for excellence, or what the judging criteria might be, so do sling some suggestions our way. Best Use of Stolen Cell Phone Footage in a Blackmail Situation? Most Undeserved Success Story? Most Astonishing Photobomb by a Sandwich?
Does it really matter? Just know that we are tastemakers to the last. Deep down, no one wants to be but a background player.
I cradle my face in my hands (pictured, below). I sip my drink and moan softly.
Then I get up at 5 a.m., and I go to a gym. They play The Smiths and Depeche Mode with some regularity, so it must be a gym for senior citizens. I walked in for a tour a few months ago, and “There Is a Light That Will Never Go Out” came on. I became resigned and handed over my credit card. I was asked about my “goals,” and I replied that they were more existential in nature, but not seeing any ugly people while at the gym would be a good start. They assured me that this would be the case. I was heartened when they told me they only make promotional t-shirts in XS and XXS. Then they told me I was skinny fat and yelled at me.
While I have been attentively strengthening my hip flexors and drinking vodka at noon for actual work-related purposes, Lambchop has fled the country. She has a show called Red Room opening in Dusseldorf. I wish I could have gone, as I am always so proud of my Lambchop. She won’t let me come to the gynecologist with her anymore because I won’t stop cheering. Heaven knows how I might embarrass her in a town like Dusseldorf!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to drink a bottle of wine and prepare for Sunday anxiety.
Imagine you were seated at a table, fiddling with your swizzle stick when a great spotlight lit upon you. “Congratulations, you are GREAT, prepare for life at the head of the queue!” As soon as your fancy calls to mind images of yourself, splayed naked on the back of a jewel encrusted sea tortoise, someone comes along and smashes all your fingers with a ball peen hammer. Well, glory is fleeting!
I have been offered a show in Duesseldorf in a gallery immediately following Alex Katz. Aaaaaaand, I have arthritis in my painting hand. As tempting as it is to get all Morrissey about how the brightest lights attract the bleakest fates, I am not actually all-that-plussed about it. You see, something terrible happened to me at the end of last summer. After experiencing my first ever painful injury, I was subject to the alarming discovery that I am mortal…possibly even vulnerable. I am going to die like the rest of you scruffy louts no matter how many cherry stems I tie into bows. This was a a great shock, and has me picturing gruesome tableaux of hideous fates within sight of cars, trains, staircases, knives or large holes. I assume I will get back to taking existence for granted again and thank heaven! No sense tiptoeing around in awe and fright like some grateful pilgrim. I welcome even a slight return of reckless nature. If my hook withers like a monkey’s paw, I will just have it fitted with a rig for holding my paintbrush. Whatever. As it is, I have a pretty cool brace in my current favorite color, “spoiled mayonnaise”. It comes with a fingerless gauze glove, like crippled Madonna!
We have dropped the ball, all the way from heaven. Did you know balls turn to solid ice when they enter the atmosphere? Ours crashed through the rumpus room of a nice family in Petoskey, Michigan. No one was killed, strictly speaking. I suppose it doesn’t matter what happens to the people of Petoskey, since they are stuck on Earth while we are in heaven.
But heaven really is not all that it’s cracked up to be. We thought it would involve lying around, getting mud wraps, maybe a lute lesson here and there. Nooooo. There is a natural foods co-op, and everyone is required to take a shift. I can’t tell you how sick I am of organic parsnips. I’m sure it builds character, but mine was already in quite a state, so why rock the boat?
Anyway, we had hoped to tune into Earth and see how some our favorite people are doing. Morrissey was going to write a post constructed only of Morrissey song titles and lyrics. But things came up, and as you can see from the above images, he is in a bit of a pissing match with Pete Burns. He has forgiven Jesus (for now), and he tells us about his chances of getting into heaven with uncharacteristic optimism:
I ventured out to see the glorious world, and I soon got a warm, tingly feeling in my lower regions. Then I realized it was only the ass warmer in the car seat, and for the first time in 3 months, I shut it off with a flourish. Could spring be here soon? I might have to shave my legs.
I saw no real signs of Valentine’s Day in the streets, besides the occasional fly-by-night carnation/bear operation on a street corner, but the child did come home with a paper bag poorly stenciled with hearts and stuffed with little valentines. I want! Where is my paste-slathered offering? I suppose failing glitter and foam dove stickers, I would accept one of these.