I’m back in greater Massachusetts. I saw a lot of dogs in Baltimore. That was great! I love dogs. Every other block, one could say “Look at that dog,” and mean it.
I was not discovered on the shuttle. I can’t understand why not, after all that special treatment in Baltimore, such as the car service being on time. Way to get a girl’s hopes up. It’s just as well, because my hair was a mess.
I am tired of worrying about all the usual things I worry about. This is mindblowing. I no longer make a daily “Or Else” list. If the laundry needs doing, I, you know, do it. If I feel like meeting someone for lunch, it just happens. I’ve also discovered that I don’t suffer from social anxiety. I just don’t like most people. I’m not crazy; I’m stuck-up. What a damn load off.
Friday night’s Boston Common “theater in the park” production of The Furtive Masturbator brought new meaning to the term “ham fisted.” The audience barely noticed as the protagonist, played by a previously unknown Latin actor, entered from stage right. The audience went so far as to continue conversation loudly even after the performance began, but this is understandable owing to the abysmal lighting conditions which failed to illuminate the action.
The acting was clumsy at best, the actor beset by a lumbering physicality that somehow managed to remain wooden. The costuming can only be described as bland and unappealing, shades of beige doing little to flatter the complexion. The audience failed to engage with the subject matter in the least, prefering to natter away incessantly. The actor responded with increasingly breathy vocalizations which demonstrated his total lack of skill in projection, becoming plaintive and insistent.
Finally, completely frustrated by the audience’s utter disregard for his craft, the actor left his position and stormed off into the wings. Audience members examined their fingernails and applied more lip gloss.
That’s right folks, when Lambchop and I clear a room, we really clear a room. First we dispatched tourists trying to read the giant monument where we were perched with a snarling “what are you looking at?” Then it turned out that even a needy pervert is no match for our withering self-involvement. Of course we do owe a debt to Stephin Merritt for writing the lyrics that Lambchop loudly recited to ruin our intrepid friend’s special moment.
On the way home, a woman projectile vomited on the train. Attempted auto-bukkake and actual vomitola all in one night? The universe arranges itself expressly for my amusement!
Hold on to good friends; they are few and far between
Tonight Lambchop and I are going to loiter around the Dog Field. That’s the part of Boston Common along Beacon Street where people take their dogs to exercise as they hit on each other. It’s usually muddy and somewhat filled with feces. That sounded like a Nick Cave song to us, so we wrote “Down in the Dog Field.”
dark dogs blood rising
another tattered strumpet walks alone
i see the crooked right hand of god
O mother i’m close to home
Our tradition is to get pan-fried noodles and grape sodas from the Chinatown Eatery and perch atop the hill, surveying the romping hounds. Sometimes people approach us and ask to buy drugs, so I like to keep a bottle of Tylenol handy to make some quick cash.
Then we’re going to see Bend Over, Baltimore!.