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Nothing so Amusing as a spot of Musing

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I long to be as special as the next Lambchop, but I haven’t made a practice of making a big deal about my birthday. As a small child, I would scream and cry whenever there was any adult expectation that I should be *happy*, as my poor brain was a storm of angst. Why not smash it into the floor?

Childhood birthdays were a time when punishments were briefly lifted, my mother would hang streamers, and my grandmother would bring a cake to our upstairs apartment to exclaim over every gift, “you should thank your lucky stars!” I wasn’t allowed to invite anyone, but it was just as well not having any witnesses to this sad scene, with its childish decorations and its querulous and often sullen subject (me). This joyless parade was repeated without alteration from the time I was ten until I turned 17. My poor mother tried her best, she bought me all the records I asked for. But where were the ice sculptures, pizza and trips to the roller rink with other kids? Wasn’t this supposed to be about ME, being FANTASTIC?

After leaving home, I generally looked forward to my birthday with a wincing, half hopeful expectation that nature would simply provide an outrageous testament to my awesomeness, without me having to tell anyone about it. Of course, the fates do not usually concern themselves with such arbitrary pats on the head for the neurotic. But when I turned 22, I found myself at Deli Haus, dressed to the ratty nines with friends after a night at le club Manray. “Heroes” came on the jukebox and I felt, with a sense of true happiness, that it was just for me. Everything.

In Berlin I finally had some smashing soirees. It was the practice there that on your birthday, you owed your friends a party. We had a bar, a big communal house, roof terrace, and a very ready public. I got to wear a tiara!

In recent years I have pretty much just ignored my birthday. I am not turning 8, but 37, so I do not require a pony ride around the yard with John Wayne Gacy or a loft full of circus performers. Although a trained weasel might be nice. So alas and alack, it is upon us once more. I like Patton Oswalt’s idea about only celebrating on the truly special birthdays.

Anyway, now you know what you have to look foward to for the next few days, a lot of self-absorbed reflection on my history, perchance a photo of a cupcake? Attack!

Like a little lamb lead me to the slaughter!

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Oh duckies, it is wet out there! I just swam home, after returning some overdue puppets. These things happen when one is as careless a lunk as I.

I was just at the doctor to find out how never to have any more children, and she had many helpful answers and diagrams. The more you know.

She ran down the usual health questions: “Have you become an alcoholic since I last saw you?” Not for lack of trying, lady.

Then she regaled me with tales of showing up at the crack of dawn to hospital committee meetings and storming out dramatically. I suggested that stress is a killer, and she agreed that she should start crazy pills or risk being non-functional until March. Hey, is this is a HIPAA violation if I’m the one talking about the doctor?

Anyway, we compared happy lites and exercise routines, and she told me about magical $59 fares on Southwest to the Caribbean. All medical professionals should be so helpful! She is going to St. Something in February, the perfect timing for escaping winter, and she mentioned she had no one to go with yet, but she was going anyway, and I almost hopped off the table to volunteer. We could party! We might see Zellweger skulking around. ATTACK!

Attack!

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Spirits are sagging, energy is flagging, and lots of other things that rhyme, too! The only thing that appears to be soaring in an inspirational fashion is my credit card balance. Steve Strange told me it was ok to eat an entire pint of Dulce Delight, but then he followed up with “when you are *thin*, you are always dressed up!” Should have hired Gore Vidal instead. Live and learn! Or, rather, semi-live in a state of crippling anxiety and learn…not so much.

I didn’t learn anything last night by watching Attack!, a WWII film starring Jack Palance and Lee Marvin. Palance’s character gets run over by a tank, then crawls down a flight of stairs with a ruined arm and a busted leg, praying for enough breath to kill Eddie Albert for being a total cowardly a-hole. His death rictus was stellar. I mean, I could really relate.

Sometimes the difference between winners and non-winners (trying to be sensitive here) isn’t in the bank statement or the appealing angle of one’s nose, but simply having the will to continue. It takes guts to do anything in this world, because precious few people are going to care about it, and even fewer will foot the bill. But do something anyway. Of course, Palance fails to kill the captain and dies horribly, crying to be sent to hell. But that was bound to happen.

Don’t be discouraged, by WWII films or by life itself…attack! And while you are up, please bring me back a sandwich. You would have done for Gore Vidal.

I buy myself a little time

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Cat with a picture of a cat

It’s cat picture Monday! Piping hot 5-year-old content! But that cat doesn’t look a day over 9 now, so I think she’s holding her own. We do not still have a framed photo of a cat. We don’t even have framed photos of a child. That framing things ship sailed years ago.

It has just come to my attention that it is No!vember, and thus I spent a few contemplative hours under a pile of pillows, trying to replicate that most soothing of feelings: lead apron at the dentist. Every six months, I try to con them out of one, but they won’t fall for it. “Say, this one is looking rather frayed at the hem. Are you sure you aren’t planning to get a new one?”  I can see why they might not jump at the chance. The damn things are over $300! I tried bargaining, “Oh, sure, I’ll come in for a teeth bleaching, if you let me use the apron.”

“But you don’t need it.”

“Yes, I do!”

This might be my idea of heaven: lying there in a tanning bed, wearing a lead apron, while someone rubs my feet. All sensory experiences met! But I am too pale and pre-cancerous to tan, and we can’t have nice things. And I don’t have feet so much as hooves.

But really, sanity and I had a good run if I made it to mid-No!vember without crippling anxiety. You are on your own for the rest of the month. If you think I’m making pumpkin flan for anyone, well, I probably am. I can’t deny anyone the glory of flan. I will rise from my very deathbed for flan.

I Return

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My dear Werner, but I do have a bone to pick with you. You certainly brought a much needed note of philosophy to my bearing, but you have left my life in a bit of a shambles. You did not find it necessary to report to my job, and you left a lot of laundry. Oh well, that gold minidress is my favorite, too.

I am sure you are all wondering what non-being is like. Is it as deliciously blank and nothing-y as it sounds? Not at all, for as soon as I ceased to exist I was piped on up to Heaven. The pneumatic tube was a real hoot. I should think dying is going to be a lot of fun. At any rate it will do wonders for my windblown look. Being dead, on the other hand, is less fun. Think of all the people you know who are dead. Miss them, don’t you? Quite romanticized them in your memory, haven’t you? Now imagine how terrible it is to see them again, to find they are as flawed and tedious as anyone else. And it’s not like you get to bunk off and hang out with James Dean in his bongo room, or play a bit of cassino with Voltaire. Just as in life, you are doomed to stick with your own kind. So for every treasured Aunt Myrtle, there is a terrible Uncle Barney who clears his throat constantly. Verdict- Heaven, can’t stand it. At least creative attire is encouraged.

(This picture is actually from an opening at Gawker for photographer Kelsey Bennet, which I am incumbent to mention as a fan of her work- ed.)

Where are you Mt. Everest?

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(You get it, you get it…it’s Herzog.)

I am in my final day as Lambchop, I can feel this. And it could not come a moment too soon. I keep getting calls on this ridiculous, tiny phone from a local political organization. Lambchop apparently does not have any friends. But Lambkin, if you do come back, you should pay some money to the electric company. They really want to have it.

And now I really want to tell you all to stop reading this blog. It is my firm belief, and I say this as a dictum, that all these tools now at our disposal, these things part of of this explosive evolution of means of communication, mean we are now heading for an era of solitude. Along with this rapid growth of forms of communication at our disposal — be it fax, phone, email, internet or whatever — human solitude will increase in direct proportion.

Go outside and create some images! Where are all of our images?!

Inner Chronicle of What We Are

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(Ed. note:  To truly understand the contents of this narrative, pharm please listen with your Werner Herzog voice generator.  Still on the fritz?  Then jumpstart your inner Herzog monolog (Herzolog?) with this classic wisdom on art v. bovine nature)

I feel that Lambchop must be pleased with the outcome of this situation as I have continued to exist in this place for a second day.  In the evening I noticed there was a line drawn across a bottle of Johnny Walker Black in my cabinet, recipe so I made a point of draining it into the plants.  In my experience, mind I have learned that you should never try to control people. 

It seems strange that garbage should be collected and kept in front of the houses here like some rotten form of sculpture, barely concealing a foul and monstrous nature, making a display of that.  There is a lot of savagery to be observed in New York.  On the subway platform, I have seen a rat on the track carrying a mouse for its dinner, holding its neck in its jaws.  The mouse struggled and squeaked, but there is no escape from the reality of our fates.  You either have dinner or become it yourself.  I think I would have a burger for lunch.

Healthy Competition

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Dear Steve Strange,

I have recently lost weight due to some heartbreak, but it really seems to be staying off. When the numbers on the scale started to drop, I anticipated all sorts of happiness. But all I got is that my clothes fit me rather unflatteringly. I am afraid to buy new things for a svelte new me, afraid this is just setting myself up for failure. Where is all the joy I was promised if I would Just. Be. Thin.

love,
Sad in a Sack

Well, helloooo there, Sack, I know you were expecting Steve, but I really think he could use a break, don’t you? The man is looking positively haggard. The bags under his eyes remind me of Canal St. Vuittons. No, Coach. I believe this is where the guttersnipes of today say “Snaps.” Or some other spot of nonsense.

Let’s talk about me, since I am already before you, commanding attention, shirtless, taut and iconic. I like to change my look quite a bit, and I will be the first tell you the answer to “when?” is never! Nothing will ever be good enough, so you might as well enjoy your journey. That’s the point of this little teacup ride, right? Have you considered plastic surgery? You get painkillers with that. The room does spin a bit faster post-op.

So what does it really matter: eat up, or not; actually, I never eat. Eating demeans us all. In these times where even I have had to cut back on my sartorial allowance (I have dispensed with shirts in order to remain abreast of trends in fur), you might consider tailoring, and be sure to advise the tailor that you predictably plan to become fat again at some point so he can leave a seam allowance.

Now cheer up, and put down that sandwich!

Burden of Lambchop’s Dreams

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(To obtain the maximum of meaning of this text, please filter through your Werner Herzog voice generator.  If you do not have one of these for some reason, please use the slightly inferior quality of your imagination.  Here, some classic Herzog to help you get started.)

What does a Lambchop think and feel, and most importantly, what does she eat?  Not much, apparently.  There is nothing in the cupboard but a jar of unopened mayonnaise.  I am not interested in the condiment, so I do not delay in the start of the quest, to spend some days as Lambchop. 

I travel to my studio at the ends of the earth in Brooklyn.  Am I in Williamsburg or in Bushwick?  It is  difficult to say, the auto parts shops are manned only by dogs.  I arrive at my studio at 8 o’clock and this is the time of my first disappointment.  The workspace is a square measuring 60 meters.  Am I a human being creating artworks, or a mouse getting measured for its first coffin?  Also, it is quite dusty.  This is no space for adventure.Â