Futurist, evangelist, chocolate muffin

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Dogs and babies, damn. Always this. I am in Baltimore, and as I walked from my hotel to my sister’s house in Quaintsville, a dog barked at me out of the window of a car. ‘Hi dog,” I said. The barks echoed off some overly modern architecture, and the dog barked even more at the bark blowback. The light changed, and the dog was still barking as the car drove away. “Bye dog.” I always do full pleasantries with dogs. They are so much better than people and other things. I was drinking an iced mocha even though it is somewhat cold out. Sometimes I don’t feel like hot coffee. I do what I feel.

We are ostensibly working on faming, but so far we have been interrupted by a balloon delivery and some art school lesbians. Fame is hard. Fame is a grind. Fame is arm wrestling and wine spectating. Fame is a size 8, the gentleman’s C of dress sizes. It did not even occur to me that our book was so sad. People know someone who know someone who knows Steve Buscemi. Skulk, creep. LOUNGE. Did I mention it’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland here?

State of Our Union

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Yes people, it is time once again, that we follow the trend of our great nation, in taking stock, sizing up matters, glossing over failures and completely manufacturing successes. I feel the first mistake I made today was putting too much pepper in my soup. Now my forehead is dewy with sweat. But let us not be weighted down by the details, they are but stray tears in an ocean of pain. Here is our scorecard:

Jobs:

Licketysplit: blaring Skinny Puppy in her pajamas, making rude gestures at the Speakerphone.

lambchop: has broken the previous employment record of six months by holding a job for a full year and six months. Please send me a loaded gun.

Marriage:

Licketysplit: Married almost as long as I have had a job. Thinks about it pretty much the same way.

lambchop: currently a polygamist. Laws are for suckers!

Kids:

Licketysplit: I think she is hiding some in the root cellar.

lambchop: not on your life.

There have been some small changes- Helen has begun writing her memoirs. She is currently on the chapter wherein she discovers the effectiveness of arrogance as a contraceptive method. I got a fat raise and we have a new roommate. This fine Indian fellow plays the sitar, tabla, and harmonium. He races cars and plans to cook us up some first rate curries. Unlike our last roommate, who made penises out of duct tape. Really huge ones.

I have really been getting a bang out of my deepening friendship with Echo. We draw together, and pretend we are turning into mice under the supper table. There is nothing quite like being loved by a brilliant and charming six year old. It is not like owning a rabbit, or eating pad thai. Even if it is really delicious.

On the flip side, I have an internet stalker. Hi Anonymous! Anonymous leaves its slime trail everywhere. Wherever a feeble coward is facing the dog’s dinner of their life, anonymous rises to shake a puny fist of pale opinions and ill-formed slurs at their betters. We pity you, anonymous, but please don’t stay to dinner.

I am pointing at the map and looking for a place to open my studio. Somewhere with high ceilings, subways, and rambly old neighborhoods. Where I can get paid to doodle on the corner of a pad of paper. Where speaking one’s mind is not an affront. A place where public drunkenness is funded by the state. Where troubles melt like lemondrops away above the chimney tops, that’s where you’ll find me. New York, Barcelona, Belgrade? Where is such manna to be found? Where would one see taste, intelligence and ability, so united in its populace? Well of course there is no such place, but some towns are more artist friendly than others. I am brushing up on my Maltese, just in case.

-xo

Full of grace

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This photo is a rare still from my audition for The Shining II: Back to the Beach. Actually, there is a perfectly logical and innocent reason I am hunkered on the floor in gross disarray, but I will leave that to your imagination. One side effect of Mr. H’s new camera purchase is that one must be prepared to be photographed at any time. Taking out the trash? Expect the paparazzi, using a high ISO setting and telling you about it, then asking you to take out the trash again under different lighting conditions. Now I know how Jennifer Anniston feels, and I am slowly learning the ropes of Extrem-Fame. I had best get knocked up so I don’t get divorced.

Once I was making my way home down Charles Street, when I passed two blond women of a certain age gawking at the window of one of the stores that sells those inexplicable quilted paisley purses. “I just never saw myself as a divorcée,” whimpered one. The other one looked incredulous: “But Boston is a GREAT town for it!”

Boston is indeed a great town, rife with Starbucks and divorce, but I am tearing myself away for a working vacation in…wait for it… East (Bal)Timor. I will be handing out bottled water and charity Christmas CDs to the natives, who will use this manna to cleanse their collective stench and build primitive huts. I am completing a round of vaccinations today, and I expect a call from my financial manager with directions on changing US dollars to Baltimorean currency. Happily, I am also skilled in barter and crude hand gestures.

Hello

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So the replies to our ad in search of an attractive and emotionally competent roommate have been pouring in. My favorite by far is a fellow who is coming over tonight who swears he is “hotter than Lionel’s nut huggin’ panties on an LA night”. The mind chafes!

I am not sure that I will live to make this appointment, however, as satan himself has taken to dumping snow onto Boston. But i am not worried, I believe the Patriot Act defines an excess of weather as “eco-terror”.

In other news, people that aren’t me are still dreadfully tedious. I take care to remind you all that the poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to see himself and others, as he wishes. So thought Baudelaire, anyway. I implore you to employ wit as though your brain were more than just a vegetable capable of computing your taxes. Don’t make small art. And above all, Make Life Beautiful!

-xo

This is not a whammy

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Well, maggots, I can’t get out of the freshly snow-covered driveway. The car wants to go sideways down the hill, which would be a feasible enough way to get out if not for the other cars parked below me.

It’s probably just as well that I am housebound, because I feel a good bout of incoherence coming on. I woke up from a disturbing dream that we had purchased the newest Apple product: a living organism that starts out as a carnivorous plant, and once you re-pot it, you get something like a Tasmanian devil. We quickly found ourselves wondering why the hell we bought this vicious thing, and it ended up running off and living under our neighbor’s house. From time to time, we’d see it in the yard, catching snakes. When it started to bite the neighbor’s children, we decided we had to kill it, so we spent several days sneaking up and luring it with raw steaks and chicken breasts, planning to set it on fire.

It didn’t work, and then next thing you know, I was in a KMart shopping for discount tinsel garlands. I was forced to do the Jumble in the paper to get the full discount. Doing the Jumble in your dream is probably the worst thing that can possibly happen. I hope you never experience this. I actually bored myself awake.

Then I called some senators and left messages about torture. It was easy and fun. Not torture, the calling. Press-a the buttons, hello, hello. They HAVE to be nice to you. You can get more details here: The Biscuit Report.

I am off to shovel, all OCD-like. I don’t actually shovel so much as delicately dust with a spare pastry brush. The house boy has the day off. And this box of Twinkies won’t eat itself.

Blizzard Bazaar

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It was winter over here at my igloo as well.

I don’t have anything else to say about that apart from “Very Strong Rum”.

Today I played hooky from LegalHut and finished a painting. I also shoveled and had a chicken sandwich. Finally, I put on some pants because we were having an Open House at my house, looking for a potential new roommate. And I want them to think I am the sort of person who wears pants. Hoo boy, the parade! My favorite candidate described our living room as “wild”, and one of the others broke a cardinal rule by sporting such as culottes. There was a pretty nice boy who is studying to be a Masseur, and the less I say about that the better. Just to make sure that we find the best possible fit, I have placed a new ad here.

-xo

Hydrogenated States of America

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I spent last week miserably ill, but Mr. H coaxed me out on Saturday with the promise that there would be many fat people at the supermarket. The things people put in their carts! I marvel at this on a normal day, but the day before Storm of the Century AND a playoff game? Unspeakable. We got into the spirit by running up and down the aisles grabbing things we didn’t need. Organic pizza bites! Twinkies! Crab dip!

In the midst of a fever, I must have agreed to let Mr. H get a new camera, because he came home with one later that day, all “Ma,canIkeepit,therewasarebate,pleaseplease.” Thus he was able to document Storm of the Century most handily. At this rate, each photo he took only cost us $43. Here are several.

Going outside in the winter is something I try not to do. I found myself costumed in a jacket from a short-lived stab at snowboarding years ago, with yoga pants tucked into a pair of asymmetrical Camper knee boots and oven mitts on my hands. I started shoveling, but then, as Melvin would say, “J’ai éprouvé un sentiment insupportable d’inutilité.” I gave up and crawled in through the trunk and backed out. The snow just stayed on top of the roof and hood, molded as if Gaudí himself shat it there. Then Mr. Plow came, and I went in for a drink.

Death from above. There is no reason to go outside.

Sunset, tower window. These are secret messages, saying that I should eat a Twinkie.

Quatre ans sans lumière

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En conséquence toute l’expérience a montré, cette humanité sont plus disposée pour souffrir, alors que les maux sont sufferable, que vers la droite elles-mêmes en supprimant les formes auxquelles elles sont accoutumées

(…accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.)

United States of Oblivia

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Happy MLK Day! Mr. H and I have the day off, which means we are going to go spend money. We will probably take the less fuel efficient car, just because.

Yesterday, we went to Andover (where white people were invented) to watch football. The fondue was awesome, and after the game, we all swapped keys. Wink, nudge.

It turns out that there weren’t only white people there. There were folks of the Indian and Latin persuasions in attendance. They won us over with their samosas, but little do they know that we sent them home with smallpox!

It was quite the thrill to watch our founding fathers, the Patriots, defeat some sort of pagan followers of a horse deity. Next week, the blue bloods will no doubt triumph over some blue collar steel workers. The rabble should learn that hope is futile.

Once more into the bleach!