Category Archives: Uncategorized
Dandy in the Underworld
Wait a tick, let me get this straight: you natterers are complaining about boots and hats? Are you unaware that I DIED TOO YOUNG? That’s right, there are no hats where we’re going, people. No heads, really, either. But let’s not dwell.
Life’s a gas. Bang a gong. Rock on. Roll on. Sedately, ideally under the power of your own two feet.
I’ve had a lot of time to do some studying, and I have learned to use this internets thing from the Beyond. They have free wireless at Bed, Bath and Beyond, you see! There are a lot of facts floating around out there about me:
2) David Bowie once went to some sort of palm reading or something along those lines and was told that He, Jimi Hendrix, and Marc Bolan were some sort of mystic phenomenon that was only destined to be here for a few years. At the time it was laughable, as Hendrix was the only one who had passed. After Bolan’s death Bowie was devastated and fairly scared. Luckily whoever the prophetic individual was turned out to be only 2/3 right as Bowie is still alive and performing today, some 25 years after Marc Bolan’s death.
I shall neither confirm nor deny, as I know you cads have nothing better to do than speculate. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bowie as to whether or not he shoved me off a stage.
Supernature
Oh boys, can’t you see that the people are trying, yet still they fail? They seek to swim, but can only flail. You cannot point out the splendour of being, unleashing that inner frabjousness, when most are confounded by the vast number of choices of peanut butter available to them.  (Your mistake was going to the grocery store in the first place. They have people to do these things!)
So you can barely get your head off the pillow, blighted as it is with thoughts of your insignificance, as well as combination skin. I was not born with peacock quills cascading daintily from my bustle to my hustle. No, no, what is needed here is Structure and Discipline, and the sooner you learn it, the less time we have to waste with this mollycoddling. You don’t need a mother, she was a useless gin-soaked rag the first time around, tearing up the linoleum and screaming at your uncle. And your feelings, well those can go by the wayside, too. They have gotten puffed up with far too many trips to the walk-in freezer, from the look of it.
We don’t like the cut of your jib, if you can call that a cut. It has gone all wobbly. It is time to wring out the tear stained hanky that is your life and start afresh, with nerves of steel and an unrelenting program of work, fitness, and severely cut trousers. And for god’s sake, acquire a timepiece. You are going to need it.
You are a special star/never marry an icon
Bonjour, my star babies, I sensed through the ethereal veil that my presence was desperately needed (my call waiting beeped). Yes, you have problems. Your cheekbones are practically nonexistent. Your hair is but a sad opossum sitting on your head. You would have no idea how to apply eyebrow crystals if I left you alone in a Swarovski-studded room full of tweezers and glue and absinthe. Your garments are not made of anything endangered, although your ermine socks are nice on cold mornings, I allow.
I know, it’s all bloody tragic. But take it like a man, tee hee, if you dare! We do not traffic in complaints here. We take action. Lots and lots and lots of action. I don’t want to see you snuffling around, plying Steve Strange with questions in a transparent bid for attention. That’s a cheap thrill, a tiny pellet of cocaine wiggling down the chute because you yanked the lever, then, didn’t you? Did you get a shock, or does wire mother (Steeeeeee-eeeeve) love you today?
You forget that life is a glorious mystery, you sodding twits! Black, white, man, woman, animal, vegetable? Why does it matter? If I can get up and have at the day, so can you! Â I have just put out a new single! No lying about all soppy, drowning in a tub of your own tears, waiting for attention to come to you. You shan’t be rescued by a strapping merman. Or even a fireman for that matter. You will have to drive yourself to the ER after your own suicide attempt, and the trauma team will sigh and avert their gaze because your eye makeup is smeared and your patch is flipped round.
So here is the Answer, babies: bootstraps! Preferably from boots with 2-cubit platforms. Come on, they are so shiny and sleek, and they make you look at least a stone lighter. If you wish, you could pull yourself up by someone else’s bootstraps, but you don’t know anyone fabulous enough, to be honest. And that person might consider it sexual harassment, which is sometimes but not always undesirable. You can do this, babies. Tug! Tug!
Ask Steve Strange
You are ever so fond of that randy pirate, Adam Ant. What about me, the Peacock Prince? It’s about time my Visage popped up around here. I am ready to share with you my fabulous hat-pin pearls of wisdom. And darling, I have lived. When I ran the Blitz you could only get in if you had charm beaded on your brow and a copy of Proust in your bedazzled knickers. I have also promoted parties in Ibiza, done more heroin than you have had hamburgers, and got busted shoplifting a tent. And I don’t even like to go camping. So profit from my advice, babies, and remember, the Damned Don’t Cry.
Dear Steve Strange,
A friend of mine was laid off a year ago and she never has any money to go out. At first, I generously offered to cover her. A drink here and there, her share of dinner. Nothing to win me any awards. She is making a solid effort to find a job but after a year, the “Susan tax” has become burdensome. I feel bad about cutting her off, leaving her perpetually at home with want ads and eggs for dinner. But I have my own bills to pay and besides I want to save up to go to the Caribbean this winter.
love, Alex
Dear Alex,
Far be it for me to begrudge anyone their days in the sun. When I was still riding around London in stretch limos, sharpening my fairy boots on Boy George’s insolent bottom and rinsing the cocaine from my teeth with additional cocaine, I would long for periods of sun and frolic. F#$% your friend. Charity begins at home, let it end at foreign shores. Also, your andogyny is intriguing here. I think my schedule is pretty free in February.
love, Steve Strange
Body of Work by Victoria; Dunning-Kruger
Hey, what’s your spirit animal? I am like that bear who can’t follow through! Since I recently spent approximately 25 years not following through, these days my life consists of a Bataan Death March of compensatory follow-through. I am under personal obligation to indulge and present any old crazy idea that occurs, no matter the peril or exhaustion. Â To that end, may I present : Tales for Awful People, a collection of instructive fables.
Five years ago, two little squirrels (they were related) wrote a collection of fables, inspired by daily living and the terrible offenses committed in the name of that topic.
The squirrels got the name of a friend’s literary agent, and they agonized over writing a query, but because they are like The Yak Who Feared Success, they never sent it. These squirrels had A Childhood, you see. One of the squirrels recently said “Sister dear, since we are doing nothing better with the fruits of our labor, let us post installments on the internet.†The other squirrel said “Sure!â€
But then the first squirrel was trolling around Amazon and discovered that David Sedaris just came out with a book of animal fables. “Fuck,†said the squirrel. There is a moral here somewhere.
In other news, we now have a Facebook fan page. Over on the right-ish. LIKE US. YOU REALLY LIKE US. Come on, this book deal goes to 11!
Welcome to my chamber of horrors
It’s no longer makeshift! That’s right, we went outlet shopping. Through some hideous twist of fate, we ended up in the Restoration Hardware outlet. I previously thought I had all the hardware I needed for my chamber of horrors: squeakless hinges, medical grade ganches, you name it. But wait til you see the glorious off-price contents of a Restoration Hardware outlet on a holiday weekend.
I got the most adorable wrought iron letters for spelling out the names of my captives. Then I was over near the lamps, and I saw a positively medieval cage, about the size of TWO breadboxes. It had a hasp and a chain! As I approached the table, some woman in suede driving mocs pursed her thin lips at me. I think my preternatural beauty offended her.
I turned back to Mr. H and called “HONEY! Look, this is just the perfect cage for my monkey skeleton!” He sighed and peered over my shoulder. “I think it’s a wine rack.”
“No, honey, I could totally use this for my monkey skeleton. It’s just what I need.”
The lady was just staring openly by this point, so we continued the banter about where to put the monkey skeleton until she wheeled around and skittered away.
Later, it was revealed that Mr. H didn’t know I was joking.
Mr. H and I went to a wedding, and this involved starting to drink margaritas at 10am. All weddings should be like that. I shot second camera, and that was reasonably fun. They had a tres leches cake! That’s THREE kinds of leche. Congratulations, men! Upon review, you were lacking a glitter cannon, but otherwise I give that a solid 5 thumbs up.
Then we went and test drove Audis. Sobered up and after a mint, of course. It’s fall, and we traditionally get the urge to roll our old car into a lake right around Columbus Day. The Saabaru is making a noise, and getting it fixed seems like it will be a trial. I snapped off the piece that seemed to be the problem months ago, but now it has a new noise. Since that one is Mr. H’s car, he is likely to drive it until it falls apart on the highway without noticing. The situation remains unresolved at this time, mainly because we can’t have nice things.
Then I decided to become a justice of the peace, and would you believe Massachusetts has RULES about this? I assumed it was a take a course, pay a fee deal, but no, each town is allotted a certain number of positions, and you have to apply, including a resume and the signatures of 5 prominent state residents. Uh?? Well, one of my neighbors is on the city council, and one is in the US House of Representatives, and a former state senator gives me a donut every year on Halloween, but I just don’t have anything else going for me. Oh. I once threw up near John Kerry’s house.
It’s easier to be a notary public. There’s no position limit (only your imagination), and you only need 4 signatures for that, although one must be from a practicing lawyer. All the attorneys I know pretend not to know me in public for some reason.
In conclusion,
in fourteen-hundred-ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
Despite all the horrors that did accrue, he still never imagined the likes of you.
Happy Almostiversary
Today marks nine years for me and my fellah. Â Nine years since our misguided, drunken hookup. Â And what did that get us? Â A free strawberry and nutella crepe with our breakfast! Â All week we have been celebrating our “almostiversary”. Â Here is how we have marked the occasion:
1. Wearing fancy socks
2. Seeing Swans (OOF)
3. Texting everyone we know to see if they had any happy pills
4. unmentionable (but also involving fancy socks)
And so our 3,285 night stand rolls on. Â And on. What else does one do to commemorate a favorite mistake? Â Sitting by the East River with some coffees, watchin’ boats roll by, some Assberger dude in a hobo suit and flipflops asked us (or rather shouted at us) if we wanted to see a video of him on fire. Â Most definitely not.
Now my sweetheart is reading aloud to me. Â About chemotherapy. Â That’s how to keep romance alive. Â Maybe we should go to a demolition derby, round things out with a little metaphor. Â There will probably be some dinner. Â If we, dewy-eyed and honey lipped, inform our waitress of the enormity of the occasion, we can probably get another free dessert.
In the nudes
Now that we’re back at the news desk here at Vomitola, propping our feet up and adjusting our green visors, we aim to please! I see from our top searches that all you people have wanted for the past three years is pictures of Adam Ant.
Well, my little libertines, your wish is our command. We aim to please! We are friend, not foe. Anyway, clicky clicky on that fine image above, and you will purchase yourself a fine copy of Mr. Ant’s autobiography from Amazon. From this we will receive approximately 3 cents. A Place in the Country will soon be ours! We’ll call it Hell’s Eight Acres.
This book is a corker, rest assured. The review blurb calls it ‘A whirlwind story of sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, suicide attempts and deranged stalkers.’ We really ought to sue the book for borrowing so liberally from our own life stories, but that’s a bit too long for a good tagline, so we let them live.
Here is Adam Ant holding a baby in 1993:
In Vomitola canon law, Adam and the Ants are a political party, historically in opposition to the Morrissey party. In a final insult back in ought-four, The Ants banished the Morrisseys to Canada. So one might imagine that Morrissey should be properly chagrined to discover Adam Ant’s baby-holding antics predated his by a good 15 years:
Is that the same baby? How is this possible? This baby is not cowed by Morrissey, however. He sees right through Morrissey’s stance. Adam Ant is laughing all the way to the Human Bondage Den.
Frankly, we’re also a little concerned that our readership apparently hasn’t heard of Google Images for your Ant needs. Here, allow me:Â http://lmgtfy.com/?q=adam+ant+pictures
But thanks for stopping in! Next time I’ll put the kettle on.
Vomitola Book Club
Didn’t know we had one, did you? We didn’t either! We thought our only hobbies were glue-sniffing and composing artful insults. Well, we can’t let Oprah have all the fun. Or all the cake. Of course, we thought we would tiptoe gingerly into the world of edification through flapping papery objects by choosing one that was mainly pictures. And pictures of drunken slatterns at that!Â
And so, our very first selection is Lambchop’s own book of paintings:
Heather Morgan, Hardcover/Hardcore Edition
Â
A painter’s painter and a lady’s lady.
Â
“Maybe because I see Vienna in the paintings, I feel like Doctor Freud when I look at them, a bourgeoisie against the power of hysteria…or maybe it’s that Heather Morgan’s painted ladies are so seductively neurotic that they just feel like patients…” (Don Carroll, Foreword)
Â
This book contains a glimpse into the neurotic fray of Ms. Morgan’s paintings of women. It is a world of bordellos and boudoirs, of bared teeth and breasts. Pleasure and terror intertwine like pale and stretched limbs in these paintings. These works invite your gaze, demand it, but they may not call you after.
There is also a softcover version.
Next month we may actually read something. So that you don’t have to.