Gentle as ever. Laughed twice as hard as I did
Mike Musto's shotz fur the Voice. Seems we all are going four veg these trying times.
I laughed through my yoga set too. We're working toward right look.
But I can't help to wonder, with a conservative dose of triumph, whether,
while perusing the catalogue of Jules Olitski late works, whether my dressingdown from the Noho Strand's shopgirl upstairs in the art section, provides a liberal dose of triumph. There were knights in shining armor barbs,
along with the usual toss off on the unemployed basement thing. Grody. Employment at the Strand was always the semaphore of indie cred for the freshly minted undergrad New York new arrival (the I-am-smart-but-not-a-yuppie job). It's just interesting.
Sure there might be the Jerry Springer of the blogosphere moments, but it seems a civil enough way to get through. Tough stuff. Everybody but nobody I hope can tell the difference, vaguely put. I mean, I KNOW...
I've cried my twenty-four hundred hours already. The artworld's no place to heal. I suppose that's the challenge. Just like Alfalfa, I'm the Barber of Seville.
Nigel noshes LA Ursa Major typologies while Betty Rubble Smith nurses the watoosie at the Bye-Bye Birdie sockhop. Of course, its ALL a mess. Who can tell. There are a few more steps after, aren't there? London's reached her limit, don't you think?