Tag Archives: David Bowie

Nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years

First David Bowie takes our livestock, and now our entitlement programs? Bless him. If he can give the gift of swagger to the world and all its little Timberlakes and Biebers, he is allowed a measly check on the first of the month. I hope he is enjoying a lovely party with lots of “Sexty-five” balloons.

I have had a taxing week, which caused me to completely fail to post every day. How does that work? For some reason, I am now a professional meeting attendee. This would be fine, except I have no time to actually DO work. I just talk about doing work, then tell other people to do the work. Then I listen to wrathful music on my commute home, bolt some food if there is any prepared already, throw as many substances in my body as I can, and then it’s off to dream land, or more likely staring into the dark replaying irrelevant interactions. Like, yeah, I should have told that person to fuck herself, but live and learn. There’s always next time.

Then yesterday was an exhausting maelstrom of salon appointments and trips to Barneys, because who can get everything done in a single go-round? I think I also got Starbucks. And there was a real touch and go moment when I thought I had lost my sunnies, but they were already on! Haha!

Today I had a meltdown at the prospect of trying on bathing suits. Why is life so cruel? I die.

And tomorrow? I will attend work in a physical sense, but likely not a mental one. It will be like the opposite of astral projection.

I will dye the child’s hair raspberry red, as per her request. I will tear into a Zappos order and start a shame spiral and vow to live in nothing but caftans for the rest of my days. I still need to ruthlessly analyze my successes and failures of 2011. I give 10 points to House of Vomitola because I remained alive. But I must subtract 5 because of that whole Ryan Gosling thing. Another 5 for inconsistent skin care regimens. Another 5 down for recovering from anorexia. Oh, I can’t win for losing.

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:

1) 3 days before his death Marc and David Bowie played together on Marc’s BBC series. During this performance the stage turned out to be too small for the two flamboyant performers. Marc got a little too close to the edge and fell over it, perhaps in a final sign that Bowie was destined to become the full legend in life that Marc would sadly never have the chance to be.

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.

Afraid of Americans?

Things are getting pretty crazy here at Morrissey headquarters. The Morrisseys are uniformly UNINTERESTED IN BUSH. Go figure. Adam and the Ants were eventually driven back by handfuls of confetti and a rousing rendition of “Reel Around the Fountain”. We were then favored by a visit from


Mr. Bowie feels that we need more feminine sophistication in this election, and offered to preside. It’s a walk-off, everybody!

All Tomorrow’s Pants

Fall In Love with Someone

David Bowie, the Man of the Pants, gave a stunning performance. This is the creature who invented or renewed everything I like about life in this century. He played Station to Station!!! He wryly requested that the audience not sing along to the chorus of “All the Young Dudes”. The power of that voice, that presence…it’s twitterpating, it’s Pantastic!

In addition, Clammy and I, social scientists that we are, have discovered the secret to a successful date. Only go on a Date with an attractive someone you really like, who also likes you. Thank you Mr. Drinkwater, for being a most charming escort. We scheduled all the major Date Highlights implicit in the Win a Date with Lambchop, from a nervous phone call to an awkward pause beneath the porch light.

As if it could have been any better, Helen did an excellent job of Parking and not killing anyone. Every day should be arranged to be that good!


Win a Date With Lambchop

We here in the 9th circle of Hell are pleased to show you our current favorite for the prized position of being on my arm at tonight’s Bowie concert. It is a difficult decision, as the entries are just pouring in. Thats because everyone knows I am easy. What makes this candidate so special? We like his unabashed appreciation for himself and for Echo and the Bunnymen. We also like his hair. As for his “Natural Cool”, discover for yourselves.

Dear Lambchop,

I am special for many reasons.

For starters, even though I suffer very badly from adult ADD, I am still in the 3rd most popular american synth-pop band of all time.

I like to paint rectangles and I like to read non-fiction, which are categorically stupid things to do, but even with these albatross I am still tattooed on a man’s leg for being as cool as I am. I am also special for having what I like to call a ‘natural cool.’ Even though I am typically surrounded by morons and sycophants I retain an almost ethereal quality which nearly defies description. Is this magic? Possibly. It is this ‘COOL-FACTOR’ which allows me to, say, wear one outfit/hair-do and go to several different parties in several different cities on the same

night. Do *You* Know What I Mean? From a grimy punk-rock venue in Worcester to a fine restaurant in New York City, you will find my coolness special. From a tavern in the deepest reaches of the Maine wilderness to the glamorous stages of London, Miami, Barcelona and Amsterdam, my coolness remains intact and obvious to those around me. I really don’t even have to DO anything, and that is the key. Many people have to DO things to be or at least SEEM special. Not me. My natural charisma and special cool-qualities

are ominpresent, without the need to accomplish or even attempt anything in particular. How was I born like this? Why me? I don’t know….I DON’T. I remain, however, ready to face the challenges or lack thereof that I am confronted with, and I will do so with a smile. If that is not special…well then I’m not really sure what is….

And I know way more about new wave music than you do, suckahs.

How does this relate to dear, dear Lambchop? I am not sure. Sometimes the very concept of taste brings people together, people with say, wildly varying temperaments/tempers. My favorite things about Lambchop? Pure talent in an impure world. Her fondness for pork products, her willingness to let me borrow the first disc of the Echo and the Bunnymen boxset…should I go on? I thought so. Her real color, her fake hair color. The way she almost never wears the same kind of boots my mother would wear. It is a total

package, and any person could appreciate this, especially from a PR standpoint. And really…who better to scream at David Bowie with like two giddy schoolgirls …in…. their…30’s?

Sean T. Drinkwater, Boston, Massachusetts,

June 1, 2004, 12:35pm

****About the photograph (ed- the original photo accompanying this post was lost to the highballs sands of time. The part of Sean Drinkwater will now be played by Sean Drinkwater. In order to see pictures of the Other Sean Drinkwater drinking beverages, please consult the facebook):

I took it upon myself to singlehandedly teach the Dutch about mixed drinks, in this case Orange Juice-based beverages. These were strange and queer to the Dutch, but I have a feeling should I return to Amsterdam this year that will find this kind of thing to be a bit more widespread. I will quietly thank myself for helping the new Europe in this way. A blurry photograph was

chosen to downplay my beauty because I want this contest to be fair.. Shirt: D&G, Jacket: Asics, Outer Jacket: C20 outerwear, Pants: Andrew Christian (this could be inaccurate), Shoes: Camper, Belt: probably Gap.

Ad infinitum PANTS

This is the picture of Mr. Bowie, view Emperor of the Pants, ed that hangs right next to my computer. He is my maestro. The concert was wonderful, apart from the fact that the bulk of the crowd justify the use of the word “bulk”. Oh what an unfashionable lot! There was not an avant-garde brow on display, no Edie Sedgewicks or Candy Darlings. Even a Mandy Moore would have been nice. Well, no.

But the music is of course what transports us, what drives us screaming to our feet, arms flailing, and tears in our eyes when he plays Quicksand or Five Years. Hell, he could play the Alley Cat and with a wave of the hand, I am finished.

We are still sifting through Volumes of entries for the lucky person who gets to come along and see Lambchop have a seizure.


What day is it? Thursday again!

I got to thinking about how good Mr. B manages to look these days. I am sure he has a whole team to work on him, drugs like a NASCAR pit crew. I was racking my brain as to how I could emulate all this good grooming, and it hit me: botox! I already work out, have a more than competent hairstylist, and I’d like to think I’m not a terrible slouch in the fashion department. But I am starting to wrinkle a bit, and that one stubborn wrinkle between my eyes really bugs me.

This idea got my home dermatology juices flowing, so I looked up how to make botox. You really can find anything on the internet. It turns out it’s mostly denatured alcohol, salt, and egg white. You can approximate the paralytic effect of the toxin with pyrethrin, which is a common pesticide ingredient! Thus began the bathroom chemistry. It looked pretty gross, but I dabbed some on with a cotton ball and waited a few minutes. It burned like a sonofabitch for a bit, but eventually the whole area went numb! Unfortunately there was no discernable visual change, so I figured you really do have to inject it, it’s not going to get through to the muscle otherwise.

I have a syringe that I scammed off my diabetic pal. I use it to refill my one nice fountain pen, and I figured “if that moron can inject herself every single day, surely I can master this.” I spent the rest of the afternoon practicing on an orange, with an Allure Magazine spread on botox for reference. Not too hard really. I braced my elbow on the toothbrush holder in the bathroom for steadiness and gave the wrinkle a poke. And… it hurt. A lot. The end result is a giant weeping sore. Bugger. I don’t think I’ll be going out this weekend, unless Mr. H makes me go to a doctor. I am half-tempted to post a picture and get everyone’s best amateur medical evaluations. So far I’ve just been spritzing on tea tree oil, like every fifteen minutes.


Pants descending a staircase

Lamby and I had a delirious time doing the Frug with Mr. Bowie last night. That man is the epitome of “well-preserved.” A work of art. I wish I could say the same for the crowd. Everyone else apparently trucked in from Worcester. It is quite possible that they were expecting a Monster Truck show. It is also quite possible that they were all a bunch of randy bi-sexual drug addicts 30 years ago, as they sat stolidly through newer material but popped up like weebles for “Ziggy Stardust.”

I am adopting a new world view, a real seismic shift for me. It is tentatively titled “What Would David Bowie Do?”


Me: I don’t feel like going to the gym today.

Me: *snaps rubber band on wrist* What Would David Bowie Do?

Me: Houseboy, summon my personal trainer, and my cosmetic dentist, just for the hell of it!

This is sure to work wonders. Let’s try that again.

Me: I don’t have enough money

Me: *snaps rubber band on wrist* What Would David Bowie Do?

Me: I know, I’ll IPO!

To that end, I’m going to start selling Vomitola.net email addresses and premium memberships at $100 a pop. Look for Lambchop and I at the next show in June, waving a glittery pink banner reading “PANTS.” You could join us!


I’ll stop the world and melt with you

My horoscope today says: “Avoid all over-indulgences and questionable areas of town.” That can only mean that I’ll be seeing Lambchop!

And now, YOU, dear reader, can say the same.

PRESENTING…. The First Annual Vomitola.com “Win a Date With Lambchop” Giveaway!

That’s right, gentle swain, you could be a mere email away from a some-expense paid trip to see David Bowie, accompanied by Lambchop, me, and Mr. H.

How, you ask? It’s easy — just send an email to WIN@Vomitola.com with the following information:

• A 3/4 view photo (hint: you should be somewhat attractive)

• A gramatically flawless paragraph listing your favorite things about Lambchop

• A thoughtful run-down of your top five best qualities

• Pick one of the following: Andy Gibb or Jim Rockford

• Since I am doing the judging, preference will be given to supplementary material lauding Bea Arthur

No purchase necessary to enter. All entries must be received by May 1, 2004. All entries become the property of Vomitola.com and may be reproduced as we see fit, including forwarding around in email with the designation “Ha! HAHAHAHAHA!” Winner will be notified by email on or before May 15, 2004.

Actual cash value: One David Bowie ticket for the floor, section D, at the Verizon Wireless Arena in Manchester, NH on June 1, 2004. You must provide your own transportation, but if you are especially comely, we might give you a ride from, say, the Lowell Commuter Rail Station.

Of course one can not possibly put a cash value on the company of Lambchop for an evening, but it is safe to say that it is in excess of $19.95.

Please note also that in the event that you are selected but are not able to attend, you will not receive any actual cash. The ticket itself is not-transferable and becomes property of Vomitola.com if the winner is unable to use it, lest the winner gives it to an ugly person, and we actually have to sit next to him or her in public.

Bowie has the flu and so do You

Of course, in YOUR case, you do not have a nine foot tall african to spoon feed you chicken broth with little dumplings. YOU are sitting and wheezing in a crusty bathrobe, wishing for death. Not so our lovely Licketysplit. She bravely endures countless rubdowns with Vicks and drinks tea with garlic and salt.

In spite of the fact that I have been drinking enough to retard a fetus, not sleeping much, and riding my bike around at night in a blizzard in hot pants, I have not been struck down. This kind of madness is its own reward- the city of Boston is gorgeous on a clear wintry night, sailing (ok, skidding) over the Charles River on the MIT bridge with no other traffic.

The postponement of the Bowie show and perilous hangovers are not my only woes. I have lamps in my room that hang too low. I lived with them without incident until someone pointed out that they were too low. Then I started hitting my head on them every time I came into the room.

It has been very cold and just the other day a friend was describing the nirvana of waking up, laying under six blankets and feeling very warm, but knowing that the world outside is treacherous and bitter and that you can’t stay. And it feels so delicious because you can’t hold on to it for more than a few minutes. To me thats the greatest thing in the world.