Tag Archives: tunes

Living in the ice age

Who wore it better?

Of course Pete Burns wore it better. If you didn’t know the answer, you have no business reading this site.  Get off our lawn. This is America, where we settle things with incoherent YouTube channels and extended ammo clips. Just to be clear, since we are on a national stage, Vomitola’s position has always been Make Love (with a suitably attractive person), Not War. This position is also known as “ankles aloft.”

I am on a rather trying regimen of regular exercise, no alcohol, and plenty of sleep, and while it does a body good, it still offers ample opportunity for mischief. There I was at the gym, trying to unfreeze my brain, when on comes “Atrocity Exhibition” on the iPod. Meanwhile, cable news flah flahs in the background (some other humanoid thought it was a good idea to attend the gym at the same time as me), and I wonder how relieved the cable news caption writers were that both Tucson and Tragedy start with a T. What if another city were involved? Would they have had to run with Slaughter in the Southwest? It’s no Horror in the Heartland.

So I kept flipping through my iPod looking for something peppier, but it seems I was destined for an extended Joy Division-Leonard Cohen jam, punctuated with zingy captions crawling by on TV. And they say exercise is good for depression? I’m going to go weep in the shower.

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.

Adam Ant Bio

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:
Adam Ant - hmv 150 Oxford Street, London 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:

Morrissey holds a baby

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:  http://lmgtfy.com/?q=adam+ant+pictures

But thanks for stopping in! Next time I’ll put the kettle on.

You must not know about me

I heard a disturbing song on the radio the other day wherein Beyonce throws a dude’s stuff out. That’s fine. I’m all for throwing a dude’s stuff out. He was probably an insolent whelp. Beyonce doesn’t have time for trifling.

Then she tells the dude that “I could have another you in a minute,” cautioning her lover to always remember he can be easily replaced. Yes, but wouldn’t you want to replace the cad who “called up on that chick to see if she is home” with a non-cad? Another him would be an emotional disaster. Has Beyonce not seen Groundhog Day? Apparently not, because she’s on and on telling the dude “I will have another you by tomorrow.” Nooooo, Beyonce. Break the chains!

I made sure to use this teachable moment to remind a baby that the number one rule of a broken relationship is “always trade up.” Just think, I could still be dating a roustabout if I had played my cards right. He was in a very promising local band that, as promised, is still a local band ten years later.

Tomorrow: I bring a baby up to speed on taking stylish victim tribute photos.

This year, I am thankful that Pharrell gave us something to bump to

Pharrell is like the Great Pumpkin, I think.

Secret confession: I am the lady driving around in the Saab wagon with the duct-taped in windshield with the hip hop station blasting. A baby likes it better than all other forms of musical entertainment.

Now, I have an ethical dilemma. Ethicist, a baby went on the Google and found the very embarassing personal ad of the head troll from the condo association Yahoo! group. This troll recently lobbied for the installation of stockades in the lobby for the person who left trash next to the trash chute. This troll makes statements like “Didn’t this yahoo learn anything in kindergarten?”

How did a baby know this person was single? A wretchedly abrasive personality is never a non-starter when it comes to coupling. A baby has a lot to learn. There is some awful person out there for everyone, and the Internet is a uniter, not a divider.

But here’s the problem: a baby thinks I should print out the ad and plaster it liberally about the lobby. I think this is a good idea, but perhaps not environmentally sound. I think I should make a gmail address and email a PDF around instead. You see how we are at odds. A baby offered the compromise that we should do the printing on recycled paper, with vegetable-based inks, and only put the flyers on car windshields in the parking lot instead of all over the lobby. WWYD?

Space: a vast conspiracy

Solar system downsized. Now, I didn’t actually read that whole article. I just skimmed the headlines to make sure the casualty wasn’t Uranus. Science is way boring!

A baby has been tolerating the songs of Kurt Weill this week. I am fresh out of ideas for entertaining a baby. The other day I was singing “Crafty” by the Beastie Boys, and I realized that might be a bit salty for tender ears. But then again, “Mack the Knife” is worse, but she loves it. So now we alternate between finding the way to the next whiskey bar and the “Mr. Belvidere” theme, one of Herr Weill’s lesser works.

Welcome to Stockholm

On Wednesday, my adorable mini captor celebrated two months of breathing. Not to mention pooping and barfing. It takes a village something something. Something indeed! I didn’t particularly care for her (or anything) for most of those two months, but we’re on a roll now.  We’ve had to learn each other. It’s been hard. Calculus hard. Middle East peace hard.


Today she demonstrated her first poor taste when she enjoyed the “Hampster Dance Song.” And since I am a terrible mother, I bought it for her from iTunes. Three minutes of Hampster Dance is soooo much better than 30 seconds. There are nuances. Nuances make a baby giggle and bounce. The liquor bottles on the shelf in the kitchen also make her giggle. So do the Japanese postcards in the bathroom. In a few more days, we’re going to find out how she likes “Snakes on a Plane.” I wonder if it will rate as highly as watching laundry spin?

(Seemingly) Nonstop July

As month two of the summer of typing with one hand draws to a close, it occurred to me that it would be a perfect day to sing A-Ha to a baby. I do this in public while she’s riding in her sling since I have no more shame. I’m already covered in spit-up, so why not go for broke? It’s a sense of normalcy limbo contest: how low can you go?

Walking by strangers
Stranger than me
We talk of the future
Between you and me

Sweet little darling
Where will we be
Sweet little darling
Where will we be

Baby maintenance is an unbelievable process. I can’t convey the magnitude of need and doubt and joy and terror. Either you’ve crossed that bridge or you ain’t. No one can warn you in advance, and you can’t imagine it no matter how hard you try. I tear up when she smiles and hope she doesn’t see and think I’m sad. I’m not sad. It’s just so overwhelming. Each smile is like the first smile all over again. [N.B.: in retrospect, I was actually legally insane while I wrote this]

Inter oves locum praesta, Et ab haedis me sequestra

I’ve had lines from Mozart’s requiem knocking around in my head for the last few days, all sung jovially in the voice of my father. Confutatis maledictis? A mere sunny walk in the park, that man would have us believe. This morning Salon featured a review of a new book about Mozart and mentioned it is the 250th anniversary of Mozart’s death. How could I forget? My father uses 1756 for all possible passwords. It would be his ATM code, if he and my mother trusted ATMs. They feel it is safer to go to the bank and extract large sums of cash every few weeks. Then they conceal these sums of cash around the house to foil any thuggery.

My father used to tell my sister and I stories he made up about Mozart’s life as a child. Instead of the knuckle rapping and poor hygiene that probably went on, his stories involved shenanigans and overturned chicken coops*. Mozart had a friend/nemesis named “Fatsy Patsy Potzengriller.” I will always remember this and no actual facts about Mozart, despite being forced to listen to audio cassettes about the lives of the great composers on car rides. I vaguely remember that Schumann was my favorite subject because he went mad and flung himself into the Rhine. Oh Jesu Christe, anything but Berlioz, please. No follow through!

It’s time for second lunch. Ingemisco tamquam reus.

*It is possible I am actually thinking of Looney Tunes.

Did you ever see “The Fly?”

Goddammit, internets, I’ve picked up a parasite. I am not sure how I acquired it. Maybe at the bus station. Maybe at the Olive Garden. Of course my mother assumes it must be sexually transmitted, and honestly, she’s probably right. But at any rate, I toss and I turn, and the room pitches and yaws, and then I vomitola.

So I have taken to wearing these ridiculous powder blue knitted accupressure wrist bands. I look ready to suit up and join Team Zissou. Retro! Is there a David Bowie song about barfing to add to the soundtrack? “Blackout?” “Ricochet?” “It Ain’t Easy?” “Hang on to Yourself?” “Looking for Water?” Really, I can throw up to any Bowie song. It’s a knack. Like dolphins can swim!

I was searching for “David Bowie barf” on Google, natch, and I came across this:

My little sister Laura, has an irrational fear of David Bowie. This started when she first saw one of the last scenes in Labyrinth, where he has very big hair and is wearing very tight tights.

Being the loving sister that i am, i started playing her bowie songs so she became petrified of his voice as well.

Then i told her David Bowie lived under her bed. before she went to sleep at night, dad had to look under her bed to make sure that David Bowie wasnt there.

That was fun enough, but i had to take it that little bit furthur.

I heard the song ‘Under Pressure’ which is Bowie, but also Freddie Mercury…now laura didnt know who Freddie was, so i showed her lots of pictures of him looking relativly scary…and being about 6 or 7, she was scared. I then made sure she knew the song Under Pressure, and also realised that it was Bowie and Freddie. She became rather scared of the song and would cry every time it was on.

I then told her that Freddie Mercury lived in her wardrobe.

So now we have a young girl who is scared that David Bowie is under her bed and Freddie Mercury is in the wardrobe. Thats scary, thats mean enough…but it wasnt for me.

One night, after reinforcing her belifs about the monsters in the closet, I got up at about 3am. I sat in the hallway outside her room, and plugged in a tape player which had been set so that when i pressed play, it played about 10 seconds of silence, then Under Pressure started. I then opened her door just a crack, enough to be able to slide the tape player in, but no lights on in her room or the hallway.

I then pressed play.

She had nightmares for years.

She hates me telling people this story, but she’s 19 and is still scared of David Bowie to the extent that she will cry if she sees him on tele.

This is all wrong on so many levels! You know, come to think of it, David Bowie made my sister pass out once. The security guard had to lift her over the barrier and revive her. I would have helped, but I would have been insane to leave front row standing room at a Bowie show! I had to hit a Brazillian girl to get us there in the first place. We never did figure out that whole episode. His voice must have the same frequency as Mary Hart’s.