All posts by Lambchop

I Just Can’t Be Happy Today

So maybe my work is not on view at Pace Wildenstein and I can’t lounge in the tropics while the dust settles after a particularly torrid love affair. I try to see the lighter side.  At least my ears haven’t be necrotized by tainted cocaine.

I had a lovely fourth.  A little beach time.  There were rubes on the beach, celebrating the greatness of old glory and her represented lands, by trying to set them ablaze.

But just when you think life is more or less tolerable, the fates remind you that Everything is Terrible. Starting with holiday bus travel. I know that phrase probably suggests all you need to know. But I did not expect the driver to be a belligerent and possibly racist pervert who summons the cops to drag a hapless old chinese man bodily from the bus before we all get thrown off and an angry mob forms to get on the last bus for the night. Yikes.

Try as I would to get some painting done, my entire plans for the month are sadly upended by a sudden need to find a new roommate. If it’s not one thing, then it’s another.  At the end of the day, it is what it is.  That’s what I was thinking to myself as I rolled over the bridge this morning.  A bird looked down, laughed, and crapped on my elbow.

THE END.

Drive-by Pride

New York shouted a collective “hurray” for human rights and put on its best Sunday chaps. Of course, sale I feel personally responsible for making the whole thing come about. After all, see we instituted F@g Day on June 14th. Then I gave $20 to a young man in the park collecting funds to bring about the vote, patient in order to do penance for using the word “F@g”. At least I think he was collecting funds to bring about the vote. He had a clipboard. Personal responsibility is what really rings the changes. Plus I am a sucker for a clipboard.

After such a great labor of activism, I felt I had a right to be proud. And I, too, suffer for the cause. I had a date with a very attractive lady last week and she canceled, due to a cold. I had to attend several art openings all by myself. I was even invited to a fete! If you do not bring a date to a fete, surely there are negative social consequences. Alas, you cannot tell the sufferings of others until you have tried walking a mile in their highly stylish footwear. So it has been quite the emotional whirlybird. And here I would like to put in a good word for Everest Hall, painter and all around fancy gentleman.


His show is at DCKT through July 23rd.

Not really being a parade person, I celebrated pride by going to see Midnight in Paris and ogling Marion Cotillard. One other thing that I will say about this very special film, is that finally I have found an antidote to the hopeless feelings I have attached to the pursuit of an art career ever since watching “the Extras”. Really.

Anyway, we are done feeling proud and can heartily return to our bitter march toward oblivion, hastened by the guilt and self-recrimination that so becomes us. Or perhaps I should go home and watch Cabaret again. Tomorrow belongs to ME.

Happy F@g Day!

Oh yes, I know it is FLAG Day, but where is the fun in that? We are not the least bit patriotic, at least not what passes for patriotism these days- the ability to consume one’s own weight in ground beef, drape a flag over everything, and pull a lever for the most lipless totalitarian on the ballot. We are much better suited to black and blue than red, white and blue.

So, back to the gays. If we had a three dollar bill, who would we put on it, anyway? For our very first F@g Day, I nominate Quentin Crisp, the English writer, bon vivant and cleverpants famed for his fabulousness, and fabulous for being so famous. My mother gave me his memoir, the Naked Civil Servant, to read when I was a tender high schooler, a good girl with a horrible attitude. Perhaps she wanted me to quit feeling so special for being such a smartass. Naturally, it worked the opposite. I loved the book and the film so much, that I was hardened in my desire to be a ribald contrarian, a vulgar raconteur. Crisp proved that if you could survive on peanuts and champagne, you could make a living out of charming people at social engagements. Hats off to the finest of glad fellows, Quentin Crisp, but make sure it is replaced at the appropriately jaunty angle.

“If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style.”- Quentin Crisp

Sooner or Later I’ll Turn These Times to Sound

With much fanfare and teased hair did we kickoff El Camino ArtRV with her inaugural exhibition, Last Chance Salon.

It is hard to come back to earth after a show, especially a really good one. One awakes and finds that one has to still floss and locate a clean pair of underwear. Instead of gold statuettes and handprints in concrete, one must endure the opinions of nimrods. In spite of the glaring oversight of not becoming wealthy and famous, I am pleased with how it all went off. Here is a smashing review of the whole affair. Bedraggled, bedazzled, I’ll take it.

So what else is going on, apart from the annoyance of having to pit my own cherries? People want exorbitant sums of money for things. Apparently, a high level of functioning as a human requires a good deal of money. And we dare to scorn Scientology! The good thing about paying one’s bills is that you get to yell at people. Before you start feeling sympathy for a complete stranger, it was just a health insurance toady. Those clever trousers have found a way to cheat me out of coverage for my preferred method of birth control. Don’t they know it is a public health imperative to prevent me from procreating?!? At least my second favorite method is still free. Yelling at people!

We have received many letters of shock and outrage that we have failed to participate in Weinerweek (I am as fed up with the -gate suffix as anyone). YAWN. Tish tosh, my pretties, you must all know that in the parlance of vomitola, every week is weinerweek. Hence my becoming more aerated than usual at the prospect of being thwarted by my health care provider. With weiners as in life, the best defense is a good offense!

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

I am sure you are all tired of the Rapture, which did or didn’t happen. I guess it depends on how you feel about the state of your life. Morrissey is all well and good, but I know you are wondering about *me*. I can picture you now, hunched over your 3pm snack, licking salt from your fingertips, typing “Lambchop”, “beneath a house” and “Tuscaloosa” into your google image search. Be careful what you google, darlings. For example, do not google the word “finger” or “horse head”.

Oh, but I belong to the League of Eternally Dissatisfied. The weather is even quite fine, so it is a real tax on the imagination to find something to complain about. A cannon of serotonin exploded in my brain last week and now though I appear entirely functional, I am squirting an impotent fizz of miserable bubbles, like a broken windex dispenser. I spent the better part of the day reading the trial testimony of Elizabeth Smart. If you clawed at the delightful pandora’s box of “horse head” (against my advice) do yourself a favor and do not read that. I really can’t think of anything worse to know about. You can trust me to find out if that is literally true!

I’ll Love You ‘Till the End of World

Signs and portents indeed abound. Why, it rained all week!  Then I saw 2 sixteen foot high inflatable rats on 21st St.  Why would a sixteen foot high inflatable rat even need to exist?  I don’t know, but let’s get two of ’em! And as I ascended into the fog atop the Williamsburg bridge on my morning bike commute, through my headphones crooned “leave your life behind you now and float away with me.”  How does ipod always know? 

Most ominous of all, yesterday’s fortune cookie had no fortune in it. 

If you are like me, I am sure you spent this past week in a form of reflection on your life and your insignificant place in the grand scheme of things with an attention bordering on obssession every time you heard Bittersweet Symphony come on the radio.  So we have all figured out that life is a highway and love hurts and we are ready for our sweet, sticky dose of redemption.

Licketysplit and I figured there had to be a softer side to the inevitable.  We bring you:

Vol. 2: Pearly Gates

New Dawn Fades- Joy Division
You Have Killed Me -Morrissey (can’t help ourselves!)
Starman- David Bowie
Just Like Heaven- the Cure
Leave Your Life Behind- the Texas Governor
Monkey Gone to Heaven- the Pixies
Personal Jesus- Depeche Mode
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell- Flaming Lips
I Have Forgiven Jesus- Morrissey

and finally…

Number One in Heaven- Sparks

Oh Life on Earth, you were really…something!

But the Difference it Made Was Grave

Rest ye wee little worries, for the Rapture will happen.  How could that crazy guy in the Port Authority Bus Terminal be wrong?  Just because his trousers double as a toilet, he may still have god’s ear.  But what if doomsday comes and goes, and no one notices?  I mean, what if it does not change anything?  So the good people of the Earth all get whisked away in a flash of light or a slight drizzle.  Do you know many such worthy fellows?  The only truly perfect person I can think of is my dealer.  Any time, day or night, you can call that guy.   My mother is not on my speed dial, but Jayjay really comes through.  You people are not likely to miss him, but I am picturing a dark future indeed. 

So I have to keep my votives lit for all-out annhilation.   Now is not the time to relax our expectations.  The world is my oatmeal cookie, and I am going to eat it!  In deference to  you, Mary, the raisins are well advertised.

I have a friend who, though he claims to appreciate science fiction, is raining on my Rapture parade.  Tired of the whole business, it would seem.  Tough tomatoes, cretin, I am going to continue to cheer for the demise of this preposterous civilization, and the checks will keep rollin on in.  Licketysplit has her own bunny mansion and a jet for each tender little foot.  I am designing a line of feminine hygiene products.  Tampon$, made entirely of money.  All the Real Housewives are clamoring for them.  Stuff with cash, ladies, time’s running out!

Not Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven

Only four more days until the Rapture and we are pretty stymied about what to do with the rest of the time.  To be sure, our “To Do” lists are as crammed and full of squiggles as ever.  But do I really need to rotate my wardrobe when there are only 4 days left of spring? Surely, closet space will be plentiful with so many of you vacating to the clouds or being eaten by radioactive mutants. 

Like most things in life, I find myself getting excited but then ultimately bored and depressed by the prospect of the world coming to an end.  It is a joy to think of not having to show up to work on Monday, perhaps to spend the day armoring a stolen car or working on a painting.  No longer will I have to listen to your children whine at breakfast at the cafe, while you indulge their wretchedness to a faulty degree.  But I know that something will come along and ruin it for me.  Like Burgess Meredith in the Twilight Zone, I will trip and shred the last remaining pair of David Bowie’s pants, left on this rock beneath the unbearable sun without Pants*, forever!  The giddy excesses of the post-Rapture world, the murderous looting will subside and I will still be required to do paperwork.  Ho Hum.

And yet I do not envy those who will be Rapturing on up to Heaven.  The idea does not appeal at all,  for infinite reasons.  But need I say more than:  Christian Rock Music.  Seventh Day Slumber anyone?  No, thanks. 

But I have to hand it to my better half, the Rapture Insurance business is booming.  We are going to make a vacation yurt thatched entirely out of money.  Obscene displays of wealth will have to be managed quickly.  What if they are simply not meaningful in our end time aftermath?  Who could have foreseen that our already vague and listless existences might yet become *more* meaningless?  Oh now you see why it is all so dull to contemplate.  I had better get back to my finest mixtape yet, “Goodbye to the Human Race”. 

*Not just any pants, but very sexy pants. 

Illuminated Sausage


Once in a while someone stirs me from my vacuum of discontent to write me, diagnosis mentioning something they read here. And I am reminded that I have a job to do! To inform the people that things are annoying and not arranged for our pleasure or convenience. Why should I suffer alone?

To wit, advice I wish to share with you how Vomitola sausage gets made (and purged!):

1. We awaken, cialis cursing the day we were born. This is exactly the inspiration upon which House of Vomitola is built.
2. We endure packs of humans in a transit or traffic situation. Further indignities are suffered in a cubicle.
3. We review the news of all the foolish things many of you are up to, especially the really wealthy and good looking among you. Your folly is the savoriest.
4. We locate pictures of Morrissey looking properly disdainful.
5. We paste our faces onto things.

Somewhere in there we might actually write something. But it is usually while at lunch, loading my face with brioche and scrawling a few words over a sign about diversity thoughtfully placed on the table. You see, the creative process is a mysterious sacrament that can barely be understood by mortals who do not dare to unpack social conventions and hemlines the way we do.  Just ask Gaga!*  It is a tremendously lonely enterprise to be so right about everything.

Take a moment today to appreciate the artist in your life who at this very moment is steeping in loathing and ingratitude.  They will not thank you, but you will have done your part.  We each have our mission.

*If you have not had a chance today to get properly annoyed, I mean really aggravated about something, I suggest you read the article in its entirety, there is a link to it in the post.

Heaven is (not) Real

Ever heard of Colton Burpo? If you can forget his unfortunate moniker, there is another reason to dislike the chubby little tyke. He had one of those near death hallucinations on the operating table. An extremely magical tale of white light and a visit with a miscarried sister (eww) which his minister father turned into a book, which is now being made into a film, called Heaven is For Real. If you can banish the image of a mewling fetus that wants to hug you, REJOICE for, according to Master Burpo, there is also a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus waiting in that snuggle queue! Well, thank fuck, li’l Burpo, because I thought my heathen ass was grass. Actually, I thought my ass was gonna be Satan’s personal little golf green.

We have written about our trips to Heaven in this very space, and you don’t see us making a poxy film about it! Heaven was a bonified snooze. Heaven is a lot of things, but the one thing it most certainly isn’t is REAL. Someone break it to wee, little Burpo, your dad is just an asshole. Of course the most irritating thing about the whole sorry business is that no one ever offers to pair MY ideas with a craft services table. I want advances, Malibu homes with saltwater pools and sexually voracious nannies. And you won’t even have to accept Zac Efron as Jesus*, your lord and personal celluloid savior, in the process!

*credit for that particular casting decision goes to Gawker’s angry Richard Lawson.