All posts by Lambchop

Steele Yourself

Had it with Hoobjoobery?  Ready for the perfect specimen of masculinity?  Then let me remind you of the fine qualities of my erstwhile beloved, Steele.  He has everything- the golden calves of a man who is unafraid to lounge naked beneath the Italian sun because his body is more taut than Beelzebub’s bedspread.  He has a great personal fortune, about which he cares nothing apart than it is needed to keep his stylist on 24 hour alert to tend to his unstudied appearance.  He loves to travel and weep at romcoms.  He loves cheese and wolf puppies.

Oh, Steele and I have had some times.  We rode elephants in Thrissur, we sunned in Ibiza.  Why he even took me to visit the Holy Father.  (By the by, if that crumply gentleman had held his cup any lower, I would have thrown a quarter into it!)

He is an adventurer with teeth of lunar brilliance and excellently cut jackets.  There is no downside, this man has no flaw. In addition to be handsome, courteous, and able to balance a ball on the end of his nose, he has the good manners to not be overly reflective. When his pretty eyes close dreamily on my pillow, thinking of nothing more than the wax on his ivory Rolls, I do not wish I had some anxious poindexter in his place, more capable at pointing out the ills in society than giving me the what-for.


I am sure you are all wondering what life must be like in this gilded lane. While Steele will always remain my model of the ideal boyfriend and sailing companion, Lambchop is not one to be tied down to any man, and so I let him loose on the world of woman to add even more to his perfections.

The Ugly Truth

Mary clearly had her intern up all afternoon scouring the internet when said intern should have been highlighting the fringe on Mary’s water dog.  How she does let normal business run amok when she is on a quest!  I took a gander at the ugly people wikipedia, and it appears nothing more than a dating association for Italians.  I could barely restrain a giggle.  Ugly Italians?  I should sooner see Intelligent Oklahomaoans.  Or Moderate Republicans.

Moving on to Ugly People Problems, I was thrown into uncertainty.  There do seem to be a lot of complaints, and yet, they all seem to relate to unpleasant quantities of hair or missplacement of features. Just as a warm, gloaty feeling began to settle upon my person, I chanced upon a very disturbing factoid.  Apparently, it is common for ugly people to take an interest in a handsome celebrity, and then envy the partner of that celebrity!

Suddenly I was plunged into an abyss, recalling my torment when my precious Baby Goose packed his things and took up with that cradle robbing asp.  Can it be that these unfortunates, the hideous, the hirsute among us could actually relate to what I felt??  That they also might have prowled the outskirts of a Paris film set looking for a good place to hide a body? Would they, too, have sent to her home one hundred tiny boxes filled with mouse tails, just to spy her look of fearful dread from a tree branch across the street?  It may be, it may be so.

What if we have other things in common?!  I don’t know if I can handle having my world view so shaken on a Wednesday.  I better have a lie down.  Perhaps Mary’s sadly dull-looking water dog will keep me company.

Hot Probs

I was off on a cruise last week with dear, old Ron Jeremy, for it is dreadfully gloomy in New York right now.  Apart from a spot of bad fish, it was a rollick.  So what have I missed?  Mary informs me that two of the dampest teens in existence have a philosophical point to make:  Hot girls have problems, too.  Casting these nasal-piped puffins aside (done!), I really have to disagree with the message here.  It is not in dispute that beautiful people have problems.  Heavy is the head that wears the crown!

Truly, the attractive among us are the *only* ones who have any substantial problems.  We worry about diseases we might get, the ones that poors have.  We worry that our shag carpet is just the wrong shade of ecru, and it might be bringing us down.  We are frightfully concerned about whether anyone truly loves us, or whether it is all just an illusion brought on by our celestial allure.  To be so exceptional is to be very lonely.  Everyone else is stuck in a tractor beam on their miserable chins and gaping nostrils in the mirror, and never actually get around to any real trouble. Like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, ugly people are at the very bottom, and do not have the sense to be plagued with hunger and loneliness.  How I envy the simplicity of their self loathing, which revolves right around the facial area.  Ugly people are delighted to have cancer because at least they will slim down and not look so sweaty.  It is a condition you and I could not possibly comprehend, mired as we are in hob-knobbing, and misting our undereyes with diamond cream.  The PM of France knows exactly what we like.

So please do not tell us about the problems of the excessively handsome.  We are too well acquainted.  Ugly people do not have any problems.  Apart from being ugly, of course.

Pointy or Pointless: Are There Limits to the Satisfactions of Pampering?

Should our delicate limbs trudge through a sorghum field when we might repose at table, our heads covered in white linen as we savor the tiny life of the ortolan?  “What songs were in its wee heart?”, we may wonder as we swallow it whole.

Cottages and mason jars, we may be dirty, but we are not *filthy*.  Those who are bored with the finer things simply lack imagination.  When was the last time you had a sliver of carpaccio served to you upon the eyelid of a dwarf as you lay prone upon your shiatsu pillar?  You have neglected yourself far too long.  Did you know that for a paltry sum, you could be shot into space, to float in a private celestial womb?  Surely, the pressures of being “you” merit a brief spot of weightlessness.  I bet you have not even given yourself the consideration of booking passage on the ship that is even now tracing the route of the Titanic.  It is about time the Arctic had its comeuppance, and it is a lucky party indeed that will wear tiny hats and feast on marrow farci, roasted squab, and Maynard’s glaze.  To say nothing of the fresh shavings of iceberg tinkling in highball glasses.  It really is just *better*.  To say that we are jaded by finery is to admit that we have overlooked the limitless nature of pleasure, we have overlooked our very selves.  To fail to properly esteem oneself is the worst of crimes, and can only be righted by shooting something silken-furred right this instant, and sporting the entire carcass for a smock.  I have always wanted a bunny’s tail to wave from my bosom.  It says “adieu, adieu!”

It’s Totally OK to Hate Me Because I am Beautiful

Hey guess what?  Fuck you!  The Internet says so.  But then it apologizes, sorta.  If you are like me then you have been very busy making sure small paper clips do not get mixed into the cup with big paper clips.*  And also reading encapsulations *about* stupid articles in the Daily Mail.  The above pictured woman wrote a lengthy lament about how beauty has made her life very difficult, along with the occasional free salad.  And she was summarily pilloried, partly because our paternalistic society will not permit female boasting, and partly because people enjoy pummeling a soft, weak, pudgy target.  The internet apologized today for some reason.  Perhaps it has decided that this actually is what passes for beauty in Britain.

We do not take sides, we think you are all pretty unsightly.  You still haven’t learned to check the rear view before setting out.  And you know what else, Fuck You!

And now I must fly in the face of this intolerance of the ladyboast:  I am totally above average in most senses, and care not a whit about who knows it and finds it a bother.  I do take umbrage at my failure to be accorded free salad!

*Fuck you, paperclip!

Fuck You Friday: Split the Indifference!

It’s Fuck You Friday.  This is not a time to howl into the winds about the callous nature of existence, or to swear vengeance on the score of some family blood feud.  It is a day for deploring petty crap!  Did you know that I spent several seconds searching for my phone this morning?  I do not enjoy that!  At work, the hot water dispenser furnished water that was COLD.  One cannot make tea with *that*!  Pretty soon I am deluged with idiotic questions at the top of email chains whose bottoms contain the answers (don’t they always- faw faw faw) and it is truly Fuck You Friday.  My deskmate has called in sick, so she is probably off enjoying herself.  Fuck You.

There is a hole in the toe of my stockings.
I made my monthly student loan payment.
It could definitely be a bit warmer.
I haven’t any gum!

Oh, now don’t work yourself up into a lather.  This is no time for rosacea or spitting while you talk, it makes you look Irish.  For this kind of disdain we are all for keeping it casual.  After all, it *is* Friday.

The Good, the Bad, and the Actually Quite Nice

Why is it that *I* am not accorded painkillers like so many candy dots?  I would make just as much use of them as Mary would!  I know, it is because she has that thin veneer of responsibility, like the shell on a four minute egg.  Give me a silver spoon and I will scoop out its precious, buttery insides.  I have been in near constant pain for the last month or so, but the old truism is truly true, “those that do not complain are never pitied.”

Speaking of COMPLAINING, I was just talking with a friend about one of the greater crimes of humanity, when people complain about being busy with all the good things they have going on.  This is an indirect boast, and an infuriating one, as it seems to ask your consideration and solace, for a condition of abundance.  “Ohhhhh dear, I am soooo sorry to hear you have several performances lined up and you have many dinners to attend.  And answering email besides???  Please allow me to flog myself for your pleasure that you might have an instant of entertainment to alleviate such misery.”  The good life is terribly hard to bear.

Not that I would know.

For my part I am mounting a solo show at Dacia Galeria on the Lower East Side, January 18-Feb 4.  There will be a delightful collection of paintings, and I hope you will come and see it.  The opening reception is January 19.  I may wear a hat.

On Friday night I was feeling totally beset.  I found out that something ghastly will be have to be performed on my shoulder under general anesthesia, and my dentist surprised me with a root canal.  Even though he knows I hate them!  I gummed my rice porridge with preserved egg, rather inattentive to my two lovely friends as I steeped in woe.  I also told them the wrong date for the opening I wanted to attend, so after dinner we were met with a closed gate where a party might have been.  At this moment, I could not have been more low, and thought only of a blanket to chew on with some percocet.

We wandered aimlessly down the street, about to call it a night, when we came upon a man dancing in front on a camera, wearing a sequined jacket, a t-shirt that said “fight for your right to party” and a cat mask.  We stopped to take his picture and he invited us “on an adventure”.  We blinked at each other and said, why not?  Why not accompany this seeming crazy person to his kill room?  Or whatever.  He led us down the street, filming all the while, and instructed us to take turns walking romantically for the camera, in front of a house that may have been used in a Woody Allen film.  Then he asked us if we would be willing to kiss a rabbit.  We were all game for this, but he announced that we would have to run, as we were late!  Really. Late for a date?  With a rabbit?  Indeed, he led us on a spirited jog down the street, through traffic, the camera rolling, until we reach the Cooper Union Cube, where more masked people with cameras awaited us.  Suddenly a man in a pink tuxedo and rabbit mask, the hero of the night, arrived and swept me off my feet.  I kissed the rabbit.  He then tore away his costume, handing it over to me and we embraced.  It was truly a special moment.

Much to our astonishment, we were then led into a theater, where a very large crowd were assembled, roaring with applause as the actors ran into the theater, cameras still running.  Apparently, the audience made their appearance at the end of this film, Super Night Shot, in which we became accidental stars.  The film was very funny and made up of lovely moments.  And then we three show up, the sequence totally unedited.  A swell of Sigur Ros amid rabbit kiss.  Beautiful!  The actors lead me onstage to take a bow.  And that is how I went from crying into my congee, to receiving boisterous applause on the stage of the Public Theater, within the space of an hour.  When you need something, I suppose it is often delivered.

Kelsey, Admiral and I had some champagne to celebrate the night’s strangeness.  And Kelsey realized, we had done this before.

Wrap Your Head Around My Wrap Up

The end of the year provides not so much of an opportunity for reflection, as a temporary excuse for our boundless narcissism.  We are our own favorite meme!  Just look, Lickety has in fact posted another boob shot to instagram.

We have been so busy with Christmas.  If we had any time to glance at a headline, it was to giggle about all the nabobs and hoobjoobs who won’t be the next President, and whether Baby Goose wore shoes while working out.  Oh no, he didn’t! In all the fuss, you might have missed that Sinead O’ Connor, our standardbearer for consistency, has gotten divorced after 17 days.  She has been in the tabs quite a bit lately, for suggesting she might hump her truck, tweeting about suicide, or using the expression “the difficult brown”.  This has caused me a great deal of distress.  For I was 14 when Sinead released the Lion and the Cobra.  I was a heart pounding, crying in the mirror, soul burner of an adolescent when she appeared on SNL for the first time in a lace top with those purple tinted specs.  Sinead was so marvelously angry and weird and talented that most people barely noticed how achingly beautiful she was.  Even though she was a girl!

A number of things have gone south for me this year, and I can’t help dwelling with dismay on Sinead’s journey from ghost-eyed punk toward being an overweight embarrassment.  You may not be aware, but I was also a very clever and promising youth.  The bad news is that we all must age.  But hopefully we can do so with some semblance of dignity, even if we are a bit eccentric.  I am not sure I am a good example of this, having ended my summer by falling on my face and breaking my shoulder.  Don’t worry, intrepid soul that I am, I did not let this stop me from doing many more stupid things! My motto for 2012, Nothing Compares 2 Me.

Time in a Bottle

It does not matter if I am having a raging good time or not, shop summer still flits by on a wing, mind in a way that winter never does. Your head would have to be made of hard cheese not to decipher the metaphor here.  The fertile periods are fleeting- youth, online beauty, inspiration, all managing the briefest of stays.  Darkness, decay and hardship seem interminable.

Even as I spray myself with water and lay in front of a fan in order to sleep, I love summer.  My studio is a brick oven and I am its wee molten pizza, still I love summer.  It seems like only yesterday that I started eating like a sow in anticipation of all the summer exercise.  Well, it was yesterday, but it was not only yesterday.

On Saturday I checked out the last day of Boatel, a floating art space in Far Rockaway.  Diving off the pier into the warm sea, I upended and a plane soared (so close!) between my feet and the sky.  I felt like I was playing with a toy in the bath.  I am not what you might call a happy person.  I am more of what you would call an intense and anxious worrier. Happiness is not really my jam.  Well there is no place or time on earth that I am as happy as when I am floating in the great, blue wobbly.  It is such a strange and unique sensation, I pursue it relentlessly in this short season.

At Boatel we modeled some fashions for Etta Place, a Bushwick salon of arts and oddities run by the fabulous sisters Dimmitt.  Jeff Stark of Fluxus talked about Moby Dick accompanied by haunting music, the motion of the waves beneath our floating pier, and John Barrymore and the white whale on the silent screen.  He brought a freshly baked PIE.  Jeff Stark is a master manipulator.

Now I am staring down the barrel of…the last of summer.  Try not to look too hard at it, you might just cry.

Complain of the heat if you must, just pass the oysters and the Aviations. I will be where the sand meets the sky. Cultivating skin cancer.


Cruel Summer

Most people begin to meditate on mortality with the visibly shortening days and the falling leaves. But for me, it is never too soon to be gloomy. Another summer half over and what did it get me? Too damn busy having fun to do any actual work and a very weird set of tanlines on my feet.

I had a lovely time in Chicago thanks for asking. So much fun, I barely slept. It was still not enough time, though. Those guys are making some amazing work, and you should follow their artist pages on fb.

Speaking of inevitable cycles, people in your life come and go, even when you look this good in a bikini. Fortunately, I have a charming new roommate who not only does not resemble a melted troll doll, but also has a way with words. Sorry to offend any melted troll dolls, I am sure you were cute in your day.

In addition to not being awful, props go to this new lady for introducing me to my new favorite thing, the Spice Channel’s “1000 Ways to Die”. First of all, Spice channel? I didn’t realize you could watch that outside of a Motor Inn.  Anyhoo, this show documents bizarre true-life death scenarios with a cruel-voiced narrator, ridiculous puns, comic levels of gore, and a Frank Miller style intro. The best part is, it gets downright science-y describing the mechanism of death due to hypo- and hyperthermia, or taking a massive projectile to the face at high speed. Spice Channel, you read my mind. OMG, the one where a guy on shrooms stumbles upon a bunch of furries having an orgy* in the desert and when they don’t let him join, he puts the moves on a real bear?!? SPOILER: the bear eats him. EM-BEAR-ASSED. Or the poor bastard who gets rolled and cooked in an industrial drier. TUMBLE DIE.

After watching nine episodes back to back, the narrator’s voice is with me throughout my day, warning me that I am seconds away from a third rail, stepping on a rusted nail, or getting a parasitic brainworm from a raw snail. Running to the container store and eating a salad, I survived at least 50 deaths at lunchtime alone!

*This is known as a “fur pile”. Thanks, Spice Channel!