All posts by Licketysplit

Oh MAN

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Licketysplit

Curse it all, but I have to contend with the return of Steele! I tremble equally with awe at his acquiline profile and with rage at how he wrests my friend’s attentions from me! Is there a scientific name for when girlfriends are unceremoniously swept aside in favor of fresh boy?

Oh Lambchop, remember all our good times? Remember when you got into Yale? Who was there with you, under the bridge in the Public Garden, sipping grape-flavored Mad Dog? ME! Remember the time that drunk guy parked his yellow Geo Tracker in front of my balcony and left it unlocked with the keys in it? Who was right there with you, turning it to face the opposite direction? ME! Who was with you when Nick Cave purchased a YooHoo at Christies? ME!

In case you have forgotten, may I remind you of a picture from our girlhood:

Lambchop and Licketysplit in their Exhibition Days

Doesn’t that tug the heart strings? Mom always liked you best! Now I am going to go and fling myself on my canopy bed, to have a proper be-kneesocked schoolgirl tantrum!

Hmmph!

in Just- spring

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A young woman’s fancy turns to shoes. Sassy wedges, kicky slides. My kingdom for a pedicure! Oh, to a find a crooked surgeon who will amputate my little toes in a cosmetically-appealing fashion and ply me with narcotics. The better to cram my wee goat feet into the casual buckle-detail mules.

My weekend was a sad ordeal through no fault of my own. I didn’t do anything fun like take candy from babies or set women in fur coats on fire. There were no acrobats, no jugglers, no mysteries of the trapeze. Instead there was a lot of driving. And listening to bad radio stations. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock, together at last… If you haven’t heard that painful spot of nouveau country, consider retiring to a remote mountain cabin posthaste!

I’m still in a foul mood, no way around that. So I had some more coffee and put on some show tunes! Broadway right in my living room, promises the cable radio display. Seems I can add jazz hands to my own personal raft of the Medusa (er, the couch with the puffy pillows) with the click of a button! Some Bernadette Peters sure soothes the savage beast. At nine, Bernadette received her Equity Card. At nine, I was still biting my sister.

I used to work at the Art History department at BU, and we called the circulation desk cubicle in the slide library the Raft of the Medusa. The work wasn’t bad. Filing, reminding professors that the little dot on the slides went to the upper right. Occasionally overhearing students pleading about grades, or even faculty pissing contests. I almost got a degree in Art History, but I realized that would lead to years more of expensive graduate education, not to mention the emotional price of seriously discussing Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst. I did write a rippin’ good paper of the “storms of fortune in the paintings of Poussin.” hoo dee doo. I’m sure continuing to do such things would have been ever so financially compelling. Thank god I’ve always been more motivated by cold, hard cash.

-yr dime a dance gal

F-F-F-F-Fashion

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn:

My problem is my new girlfriend. Now that the honeymoon, everything-swell phase is nearly at an end, we are spending a lot more time together with our clothes on. And it is slowly dawning on me that she dresses like a real geek. It’s like she had this whole wardrobe I was not allowed to see while we were casually dating. Suddenly I am seeing khaki pants and panty lines and white tennis socks and ill fitting jeans. I really like her very much, and I want to keep her. How do I get her to leave that horrible raincoat at home?

-Mr. Suave

Dear Rico Suave,

Listen to me, don’t listen to me, talk to me, don’t talk to me, dance with me, don’t dance with me — wait, were you saying something? Kitty was too busy adjusting her Dior iPod case to better display the logo.

Now why are you even bothering to waste Kitty’s time with this precious little problem? If you as stylish a guy as you say, just take her out for a Pretty Woman-style shopping spree! And call Kitty before you go, she’s got friends in the shoe department at Barney’s.

Your relationships are a reflection upon you, and it’s a good thing you are so sensitive as to realize this. Sounds like it’s time for an “I love you…but…” speech. Ellipses central! Either she will realize she’s been letting herself go and make more of an effort, or she will howl and weep and look even more unattractive with a puffy red squinched-up face. And that will make you feel much better about dumping her when you see just how vile and soggy she can look! Why, this problem practically solves itself!

Of course this is assuming that you are all that much of a much yourself. Please send Kitty a head shot and a close up of your torso. And no cheating with a 3/4 view on the headshot, Kitty wants to see profile! Also supply your shoe size.

Beep beep,

-Kitty

Horrorscope

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I’m done with being a scrappy newsie. I just don’t have the energy these days. I’m reinventing myself as a symbol. Refer to the floating feather meant to indicate Dan Quayle in Doonesbury. Yes, I’m just that sluggish. I feel like someone is reading a narration of my daily activities in the voice of Goliath from Davey and Goliath. “Oh Davey…”

My horoscope for yesterday said “There seems to be some danger from a weapon or sharp object and you can also burn yourself or receive a bite from a dog. Avoid situations that are risky. Disappointments may be indicated especially in financial matters if your expectations are too high.”

Jeez. Why get up? But then someone sent me this link: Man complains bad rope spoiled his suicide, and I had to giggle. I thought of one of my favorite Dorothy Parker poems:

“Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.”

Anyway, horoscopes are for shit. Because yesterday I made it through wholly unscathed! And I got an unexpected check in the mail for an invoice I forgot I sent! But today, jebus. It only warned against going to the bad areas of town. But so far I’ve managed to cut the inside of my mouth with a piece of bread (why aren’t people boycotting Au Bon Pain and their hazardous French crusty bread?) and get embroiled in assorted other dramas not of my creation.

My mouth hurts. This entry is approaching LiveJournal-like banality, eh? Speaking of crappy blogs…check out www.ragingcow.com. Dr. Pepper is behind this as part of marketing their new “Extreme Milk” beverage line. I shit you not. Some people are all up in arms about blogs being exploited for marketing purposes. To that I say “sign me up!” If the makers of Fancy Feast want to contact me to talk about how much their product changed my cat’s life, swell! How about this, I’ll extol the virtues of your product for US $5 per mention. Any product. Clorox, Tampax, Exxon, you name it. Bring it!

xxoo

Number 1 in Vomit and Vomit-related products

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Licketysplit

That’s kind of a lie. www.vomit.com is number one in vomit. We’re number 1 in vomitola! Don’t go to www.vomit.com. It will trigger an epileptic fit of some sort. Worse than Pokemon or the voice of Mary Hart. If you go, remember that I warned you. Once my friend had a seizure at an Iggy Pop show. People hardly noticed! I was the only one remotely concerned as security hauled her off.

But people come here searching for some really strange things. A search terms report is pure zeitgeist, I guess. People turn to us for up-to-the-minute coverage of 50 Cent lyrics, Pop You in the Pooper, and all things Bachelorette. And bukkake. And “manchowder.”

The other funny thing is that people come here at all. Really, what’s wrong with you? Hi mom. It’s ok, I know you’re all just here to get berated by Kitty Winn! I can handle it, really. She’s a swell bird; she deserves all the perfumed fan letters and locks of hair that she gets!

As if you couldn’t tell by now, this is the equivalent of phoning in a clip show. I spent all weekend crouched in front of a computer faking my way through coding some PHP for a freelance project. Luckily my ass is good at cashing checks. Wait, wait, that’s not how it is! I mean….don’t write a check that your ass can’t cash. But I have the utmost confidence in my ass. It’s never failed me. Maybe next weekend I’ll take over the world, or learn French. Anyway, I’m beat, I’m drained, I’m going to get hot noodles.

xxoo

Mutton dressed as lamb?

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I was sorting through my wardrobe today and looking over my snazzy collection of miniskirts — leopard, glitter, pinstripe, houndstooth. But then I got to thinking: I just turned 31 and I don’t want to end up like one of those garish middle aged hags you see on the subway in ankle boots, dripping mascara and showing off leathery, sagging thigh. When do I know when to say when with flashy clothes and glittery makeup? I am a tramp with Dignity!

-hot diggety

Dear dig dug,

Kitty thinks you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. You’re never too old for glitter! Sagging breasts? Just think of that as feature-length cleavage. Kitty looks forward to seeing the old whore who lives down the street waiting for the bus, as do the neighborhood school kids. You should hear them call out in their cheerful childish tones!

Really, cupcake, you should dress in a way that makes YOU feel good at the time. Damn the feelings of others! Vogue magazine might tell you to invest in a closet chock-full of Escada and a platinum Rascal scooter, and these harpies will tell you What Not to Wear. They firmly decree that “No woman over 35 should wear skirts above the knee.” So you have a grace period of about 4 years! Problem solved?

But Kitty feels confident that there are no definitive rules, with the one exception being that VPL is déclassé at any age! Pull up your pants, Paris Hilton!

That old whore from the bus stop is happy, and that’s good enough for Kitty. Kitty personally can’t wait to age another 20, er, 40 years so she can really work the “whatever happened to Baby Jane?” look. Scarlet lips lined outside the natural border, eyebrows plucked off and drawn back on? The stuff of legends. Add an ivory-tipped cane, and you’ll be rapping the knuckles of orphans in no time!

You might try to pick a role model for your impending golden years, someone you feel oozes class and style, and hop that train. Joan Crawford? Debbie Harry? How about the Queen Mum or Mrs. Hannigan? Loni Anderson? Ah, or Vegas Ann-Margret.

Anyhoo, dignity, schmignity. After all, you don’t want to cheat your loved ones out of a Jenny Jones appearance? See You’re Too Old, You’re Somebody’s Mom, That Sexy Gear Is NOT The Bomb!

Once more into the bleach,

-Kitty

…Like I need a hole in the head

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Licketysplit

Today only! Interview with a folksinging exposure victim!

Notorious T.I.M.: I almost died today waiting for the redline at Harvard..

Notorious T.I.M.: folk singers

Licketysplit: no!

Notorious T.I.M.: you would have gotten such a laugh

Notorious T.I.M.: there is this new pair

Licketysplit: worse than carnies!

Notorious T.I.M.: man and woman

Notorious T.I.M.: they sing in harmony

Notorious T.I.M.: he plays guitar

Notorious T.I.M.: so after seeing that preview I’m dying laughing

Licketysplit: how revolting it must have been for you!

Notorious T.I.M.: the T was backed up so I got stuck listening to like 5 or 6 songs

Notorious T.I.M.: I came in at “River runs deep”

Licketysplit: holy shit

Notorious T.I.M.: which had the same chorus over and over that said “deep” like 8 times

Licketysplit: do they do this kind of thing to be *funny*?

Notorious T.I.M.: river runs deep, the river runs deep, deeper than the deep valley to the deep sea, river runs deep

Notorious T.I.M.: no

Notorious T.I.M.: I don’t think so

Notorious T.I.M.: then there was “hercules and einstein”

Licketysplit: oh man i’m cracking up

Notorious T.I.M.: then they broke into “give a little kindness”

Notorious T.I.M.: which had the best line of “loving your neighbor/ looks good on paper”

Notorious T.I.M.: “but its really hard to live that way” or something

Notorious T.I.M.: I didn’t think it could get any cheesier but

Notorious T.I.M.: then came “You’ve got to have a backup plan”

Licketysplit: gack!

Licketysplit: nothing like starting your day on a totally surreal footing

Notorious T.I.M.: it’s main chorus line was something like “you’ve got to have something to fall back on, you have to have a little something on the side”

Licketysplit: did you write this shit down?

Notorious T.I.M.: so sometimes he starts in with his light guitar playing and sings, then she comes in and they sing in harmony the rest of the song

Notorious T.I.M.: haha, no I just had to listen for so long

Notorious T.I.M.: I tried to remember on purpose because I had to tell you

Licketysplit: i am so glad you did!

Notorious T.I.M.: I’ve seen them like twice now

Notorious T.I.M.: but today I listened

Licketysplit: this is totally reviving me from my marginally hungover state

Notorious T.I.M.: they were straight out of the movie [A Mighty Wind]

Notorious T.I.M.: they made me want to jump in front of the next train

xxoo

Hungry for love

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a relatively new boyfriend (six months) and an even newer bit of pudge. I have begun to exercise because I am not into it. But how do I find out if he thinks I am fat?! You can’t just ask!

I have to know!!

-can’t sleep (no trouble eating, though)

Dear Sally,

Au contraire, mon cherie, guys love it when you come right out and ask! Repeatedly. Try to cry while inquiring.

Wait until you are slated to head out for a big night on the town. Put on an especially form-fitting frock and collapse in a heap of smeared lipstick and Lee Press-Ons, drumming your feet on the divan until your mules fly off. He’ll ask “What’s wrong, darling?” and you can yank back the curtain from your fun house mirror of body image!

Actually, Kitty will let you in on the secret to men: Everyone likes a little junk in the trunk. You must learn to wave it like a juicy filet before a hungry dingo. If this guy’s not into it, you can surely find someone who is!

And why aren’t your budoir antics enough to keep off the pounds? No woman worth her weight in Fracas should have to suffer the indignity of exercising, especially after only six months of lovin’. Is this the real heart of your problem? Is he a dud between the sheets?

Let’s get physical,

-Kitty

Responsible Journalism

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Licketysplit

I’m a magazine junkie. My first Vogue subscription was right up there with getting my driver’s license. Technically, I even have a degree in magazine journalism. That wasn’t too hard to do, as you might imagine. I know a magzine is called a book, and the area with the stories is called a well. But other than that, the curriculum did not live up to my expectations. I dreamed of prancing around in sky-high stilettos, nabbing emu muffs from the freebie closet, maybe fetching Anna Wintour or Liz Tilberis some passion fruit tea. Or infant blood. I would toss off opinions on the bag of the season, foment Halston revivals, and take to hurdling over fire hydrants to escape Bill Cunningham constantly photographing me.

But then I realized that a) I kept having to take crappy newswriting classes to fulfill core requirements, and b) I would make about $25k starting out on staff on a fashion mag. And I wasn’t already independently wealthy enough to afford the requisite wardrobe and the crappy NY studio at a good address. And I got so fed up with the newswriting classes that I just wanted to start making shit up. It’s not like I invented a heroin-addicted tot and started a national outcry, but I nearly had one professor convinced that street luging was Boston’s underground sport of choice. Then I had one whole class on how to “Boston Herald-ize” a headline. A reputable paper says “Nightclub fire kills 90?” The Boston Herald says “DEATHTRAP!” This was not what I wanted to do in life. And I only had a semester left to get my degree! If I had it to do over again, I would have picked a different program at a different school. Seventeen-year-olds should not be allowed to make momentous decisions that will eventually cost them much aggravation, not to mention a hundred grand.

Since I was clearly no good at creative non-fiction unless I was making it up, I gave up on writing for a living and went for the cheap, easy loot of web development. Ah, the late 90’s! Hell, back then I could afford the clothes. Nowadays I still buy all the magazines. Not Glamour, not Cosmo, not In Style. Lucky? Doesn’t turn my crank. Just the ones with really inaccessible fashion layouts. I have piles and piles littering my apartment. This morning I was flipping through Elle, and I ran across this bang-up piece on Matt Dillon, by Rachael Combe. Basically she lured Mr. Dillon back to her apartment and cooked up dinner on the pretext of interviewing him. Then she let the steak catch fire! He had to wield an extinguisher!

Now I’m cradling my head in my hands and thinking “Oh, I’ve wasted my life” (using the voice of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons). If only I had known that the secret to journalism was putting celebrities in peril. To think that I could be luring a drunken David Bowie to my rooftop plunge pool right now! I could be scattering ball bearings in the foyer to welcome Ashton Kutcher or Adrian Brody. Think Misery. Think shoving Christopher Walken from a ski gondola. Am I ever on the wrong track….

C’est la vie.

xxoo