Tag Archives: drugs

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

Subjective units of discomfort

Yes, we’re floating in space. We’ve been off our pills for a while now. We’re on drugs though. We’ve got vitamin sunshine. Thanks, Tom Cruise. Let me know how assassinating the president of Venezuela goes. See, I half pay attention. That’s all you get, current events. Fifty percent of my attention span, dispensed in spotty intervals.

So last weekend? We took a bus to hell? Yes, we did. I am still angry with that bus. To get to our destination, one can either take a ferry from Portland, or park in a satellite parking lot and get shuttled to a dock on Cousins Island, where one is then hauled on a smaller boat. This smaller boat ride only lasts fifteen minutes, versus ninety minutes from Portland. Thinking we were being efficient, we opted to leave from the satellite parking. We do enjoy parking. Turns out the shuttle is actually an old school bus with cloth seats infused with wet dog. People who go on vacation to Maine are all about bringing their large smelly purebred dogs. Oh, this is my Portuguese Water Dog. OK, it is. You got me.

The bus rocketed along narrow pocked roads, and Mr. H and I kept looking at each other, in total disbelief that no one else seemed to be bothered by staring death in the face. When we finally got to the dock, the bus had to turn around and back down a hill on a narrow strip of road for some reason. This strip of road is right next to water, with no guard rail. I contemplated throwing up in a panic, and then the bus lurched forward again because some asshole in a Volvo wagon had gotten off the car ferry and was trying to come up the hill. So we got to back down the hill twice. That’s a lot for your money.

That bus haunted us for the entire weekend, because we knew the only way back would also involve it. We tooled around the island in the fog, and every now and then that bus would loom out of the mist like the clown in It. In this photo, the bus is lurking right below the surface of the water, just waiting.

EDIT: This just in: a new view of the hell bus, courtesy of this man.

I hate you, bus! We did have a nice time, when we weren’t thinking about the bus. “Oh, look at the view. These goat cheese mashed potatoes are divine!” “But the bus!” Incoherent babbling and fist-shaking, like an America’s Funniest Home Videos clip of a toddler who has been tricked by a Slip n’ Slide. It took several scotches to forget about the bus, but I can’t drink scotch all day now, can I?

La Vita è Bella

Norepinephrine, where have you been all my life? YOU are my new favorite neurotransmitter. You are cashmere socks and lollipops, whiskers on kittens and radishes cut like rosebuds, toe separators and expertly placed highlights. You are like that dream I had the other night, the one where I ordered “Canadian” Xanax from an internet pharmacy. When it arrived, it looked like Viagra and baby aspirin, but I took it anyway and spent the rest of the dream riding an old-fashioned velocipede around a tropical city, stoned out of my gourd. I even thought “I wish Lambchop could be in this dream!”

In preparation for flying this weekend, I would like to share my Top Tips for Travel with our dear readers.


2. Wear a sleep shade, ideally as soon as you get into the airport. There are ugly people allowed in those things!

3. If a child is annoying you, take it aside and kindly explain that you will flush it down the toilet, where it will immediately freeze solid as soon as it hits the outside air, followed by a 30,000 foot plummet into someone’s rumpus room.

4. Stockpile your “Canadian” Xanax. I’d reserve this for long-haul flights.

5. Load up your iPod with the soothing sounds of meditation exercises. “I will devastate my enemies….I am adored as a God….I let you live….”

6. Freestyle. This part is really up to you. Whether it’s twitching, pacing, or screaming, you want to make this flight a memorable experience for the other passengers. They are counting on you!

Coming soon: My list of Things I did not like about 2004. Yup, just phoning it in. Go to hell, I still have to assemble gift baskets for people I don’t like.

All We want for Christmas…

Greetings, Vomiketeers! It is almost time for another Crappy Kringle. I hope you are all enjoying navigating the hordes of chancred shoppers in your quests for the perfect inlaid shoehorn for your girlfriend’s mother to wedge her sausagey feet into a new pair of Totes. We will be with you in spirit when you are drunk at an undercooked ham dinner, stuttering to suppress your distaste for your porcine cousin’s support for George Dubya. We loathe your family and your plastic yule log almost as much as you do.

Which brings us to Lambchop’s Annual Xmas Wish List:

1. A warm coat

2. Lots and lots of angsty music

3. more drugs!

4. I said more drugs!

and finally,

5. a little health and happiness for me and my Licketysplit!


Cop Rock

Everyone knows that the best place to find out about drugs is from the police. They sponsor films, comic books, and websites all about our favorite things, bringing us the jolly candy-like buttons in all of their yummy shapes and colors. Why, I got this tasty photo from a police info site. Thanks, coppers!

Just thought I would share that before I retreat back into my haze. If no one hears from me by tuesday morning, please slide a hotdog under my door. And don’t forgot the goddamned relish. You know I love relish! Oh how you toy with me.


Nothing appears to be between the ears of the lazy sunbathers

And it isn't enough/They want more

If it’s Wednesday, it must be Morrissey. Did you see those debates last night? Morrissey. Some people mistake Dick Cheney’s specious gyrations for actual intelligence. I suppose he is intelligent, in that evil-living-in-a-hollowed-out-volcano way. Until the past few weeks, I was under the impression that debates involved answering a question and proving why one’s answer is superior using cogent reasoning and sparkling wit. I am so pleased to be unburdened of this notion. No more making sense for me, Morrissey.

Lambchop is in Berlin today, and she has vowed to never Morrissey anything but British Airways or Air France again. I believe someone munged up her cocktail order. Then, when she accidentally dropped her Valium down the seat, it was snatched and eaten by a greedy infant stowed in the row behind her. She will be bringing you a full dispatch tomorrow, auf Deutsch!

Gliding like a whale

You know we got nuffin when we post pictures of dogs all week. Could it be that Lambchop and I are both happy for once? I feel like I am doing a gentle backstroke in Prozac-infused molasses, and I’m not even *taking* any drugs. When we go out, we spend our time doubled over with laughter, not shaking fists and gnashing teeth. It reminds me of how we used to ooze around Boston in an addled fog lo these many years ago. What’s next, staring for hours at the Amtrak ticketing kiosk in South Station because the music sounds like Peter Murphy? Yes, that exactly! Please join us.

The only thing’s that really bother me these day’s are poor punctuation and the state of the US government. No biggie! I got a call from the Kerry campaign looking for volunteers, so I think I’ll traipse in and shuffle paper at HQ a few days a week. Maybe I can finally master mail merge, for G– and country. I am not sure I am up for door-to-door in New Hampshire, as everyone in that state is issued a gun. This could be just the push I need to finally learn target shooting. There is a range right down the street; I could run over while the laundry is in the dryer.

I love you, man!


Dreaded bliss

The other day I was reminded that it’s nigh on to time for my annual wedding. Those of you who’ve followed this site for a while may remember that I spent last summer adrift on my personal Raft of the Medusa, agonizing over napkin folds and ankle fat. And let’s not forget being tormented by relatives I haven’t seen in years and relatives I see all the time.

We attended a wedding on Saturday that was admittedly inspired by our wedding style (debauched, scroll down til it gets blurry), which was very flattering. Except they got a prop DJ, really, the Carrot Top of DJs. As we hid under the table during “Who Let the Dogs Out,” Mr. H and I realized that our greatest regret is not making our favor tins filled with candy wrapped to look like nuts read “Nuts 4 Each Otha.” Well, that and spending our wedding night vomiting, but it’s not like we hadn’t sampled the goods before.

So we’re doing it all again this year! I am on the fence between a Studio 54 theme and a country barbecue. Pros of the first idea: wearing a white pant suit a la Bianca Jagger, lots of drugs. Pros of the second idea: barbecue and Johnny Cash. Maybe we should just do both, on consecutive days. Or I can finally marry Lambchop, now that Massachusetts has come around on this subject. Every now and then when I’m frothing and flailing about starting UglyBoston.com or the window of this one dress shop downtown, Mr. H will sigh and say “yeah, you probably should have married Heather.” He’s so right.


More Meds, Please

Oh, I have been gritting my teeth all week against the pain of a gland problem that has landed me screaming on a table in the ER many times over the years. For this round, I had to wait several days from the onset of PAIN to have a second try at the surgery that is supposed to correct the problem permanently. Luckily, while I waited I received a prescription of Codeine from Dr. Roommate. Isn’t that where everyone gets their painkillers these days?

The surgery went just fine, for at the helm was a brisk German with a heavy accent and a Van Dyke. Helen was there, to talk trash with me and squeeze my paw while i felt small and tired in a blue gown. But finally the sweet sweet drugs came, and I couldn’t stop laughing and reaching for the lights over the operating table and calling for the Mother Ship. Apparently, the nurses had never heard that one before.

Afterwards, I lay in white hot pain with Helen at my side until they brought me some Percocet. She said my eyes went Anime-wide as soon as it kicked in, and I was able to enjoy the sunny afternoon ride home and sushi on the porch with her and Stu and Mr. H.

On this perky fog, I can enjoy just about anything, like getting stuck in Red Sox traffic on the way home from the hospital or being here at work the next day. To say nothing of the two yards of bloody gauze I had to extract from the surgical incision this morning. It was like that magic trick where you pull scarves out of your pocket in an endless rainbow. Only more disgusting. I bet I could even eat a lima bean or be sympathetic to the ugly and downtrodden today, without feeling put out in the least.

I wish life came with painkillers for every day.


Diese Woche habe ich unter ein sehr schmerzhaftes Druese problem gelitten. Ich wurde gestern operiert und heute geht es mir schon viel besser, besonders wegen dieses tolles Schmerzmittel!

Ich fing letze woche mit einem neuen Bild an, und ich glaube meiner kurze Aufenthalt im Krankenhaus das beeinflussen wird. Das sieht Ihr selber wenn es fertig ist.

Domestic Blitz

I am going to take a moment out of my busy Betty Lunchbucket schedule to tell you how much I hate TV birth shows. Not to mention average Amerikan expectations of birth in general. That should be enough to ensure that most of you stop reading right there. Meow meow meow meow….pushing the limits of Vomitola. First mormon slander, now afterbirth!

As I was busily folding laundry, I flipped to TLC hoping to find someone with bad hair to mock. Instead, a hapless woman was wincing and grunting flat on her back in a hospital bed, pumped up with labor-causing drugs. The doctor came in, inserted an entire arm, and tut-tutted because the woman’s failsafe valve hadn’t managed to open up any further since the last time she was checked, a whole hour before. They’d been at this entire process for about eight hours, since they started the labor induction that morning. So off she went for a c-section! I guess if your child doesn’t fly out of you like a hot buttered football in the first hour, you are just shit out of luck. There was no apparent distress for the baby; it seemed like the doctor just wanted to get the show on the road.

I find my latent hippy dippy side coming out like nobody’s business as I contemplate the terrifying abyss of future parenthood. I’m still not totally sure what I want to do, or when, but I am pretty sure I don’t want “it” as seen on TV. Until recently I always thought I’d want to be drugged out of my gourd if I had the misfortune to whelp anything. That philosophy (of staying drugged out of my gourd) has served me well up until now, so why mess with it? But I remember seeing my mother have my sister, so I know a natural childbirth is possible, with no screaming or flailing even. Of course I flip hurriedly past those photos in the ol’ family album. The first time Mr. H met the parents, we both stared at the first page, puzzled, until I realized what we were observing.

Basically I just don’t like being told what to do. Damn it.