Memo to myself: buy this record immediately
This happens sometimes: in the office on the weekend to work, but instead I’m just sloughing hours kicking around the moors of the internet, mournfully carrying around an undigested burrito, moaning. Unlike the yearbook editor (see below), I’m not pretending to get anything done. Though I am using up valuable office-sanity points. I should be finding marijuana and going to see a big-budget film, or reading Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland, or Mary Robison’s Why Did I Ever, or Deb Olin Unferth’s Vacation. It’s carnival on Mission St. today. I was trapped at a picnic table at Taqueria Cancun by seven recent high-school graduates. Trying hard to read the newspaper as they discussed Medjool, Burritos, Wikipedia, summer jobs.
Here’s my shopping list:
- diced tomatoes
- peanut butter
- three onions
- garlic [accidentally listed twice — ed]
Thanks so much for “reading this far.” It really means a lot to me that you’re actually/somehow willing to follow me down– and I do mean down — into the horrid/torrid/florid/boréd banalities of this adorable little life I lead!
I hadn’t been to Evany’s blog in a while. It makes me want to be adopted by her and Marco as a pet so I can lie on the carpet and be fed and shit in Marbles’s litterbox. Or maybe it makes me feel like that’s already happened. Note to self: revise this paragraph so I can link to Evany’s blog without sounding so creepy.
Yesterday I went to the San Francisco Birth & Baby Fair with “mcmüller” and “the wifest.” I felt very much like their forthcoming child’s gay uncle, walking three paces behind, destroying awkward eye-contact with a long string of puzzled-seeming vendors. mcm brought a tape recorder to help me feel more gonzo and less my two dads. I conducted a couple awkward interviews. I took a few notes. Gonzo. “Everything I make ends up being cute, so I figured I might as well make stuff for babies,” said a designer of “South Parky” nursery hangings. A midwife at a birthing center: “[mutual acquaintance who just had a baby] said I’m a punk-rock midwife — but that’s the last thing I am.” Later that day back in the Mission I saw that same mutual acquaintance standing on the curb, stooping down to make out with his wife who was seated in the passenger seat of his parked car while breastfeeding their infant daughter. I tried to walk by, smiling an awkward “Ah, that’s probably nice” smile, but he called me over. Turns out the midwife is hiphop, not punk. There’s a sixty percent chance that some baby fair–related multimedia will show up at crude futures in the next few days.
After the Baby Fair we saw the SFAI MFA Graduate Exhibition, also at Fort Mason, a complete surprise and its last day up. All the ridiculous installations were right up front, so you walked in immediately assaulted by haunted house howls and eviscerated bulls and other chattering gorey crap, but the rest of the giant pavillion had some good stuff. A highlight was — well, I can’t find any record of the dude on SFAI’s site. I have a postcard at home. Some fun, derivative paintings. Some disingenuous, funny conceptual art. Some great watercolor self-portraits of a busty MFA in her underwear messily eating sweets.
Lately in my office there has been a person who bears the mien of a stressed out high-school yearbook asst. editor. OMG I AM FREAKING OUT THIS DEADLINE IS BIGGER THAN THE 7-11 BIG GULP I TOTALLY JUST BROUGHT INTO THE OFFICE!!!!! LOOK AT ME!!!!! The main quality of this phenomenon is wasting huge amounts of time while nominally working sew hard but actually just flirting or eating or going for stressed-out walks or farting great ghosts of yesteryear into mine atmosphere. It’s the kind of thing where they’re like “OMG I WAS AT THE OFFICE UNTIL 400,000 A.M. LAST NIGHT” and I wonder to myself in the voice of Peter O’Toole how many of those late-night hours were actually spent accomplishing anything.
also there is a lot of need-/endless collaboration with other people with their heads up their own or each others’ asses. OK OK OK GUYS GUYS I GOT IT. WHAT IF THE…. FIRST PAGE…HAD A BUNCH OF, LIKE “ZAPF DINGBATS…. UM… OH MY GOD THIS DEADLINE IS SO UNREASONABLE AND CRAZY!! I’M SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD!!!!!
More grouchville: if you are a copyeditor and copyediting something for someone for the first time DON’T RIP IT TO SHREDS JUST TO PROVE HOW SMART YOU ARE. This is not helpful at all. This is like bringing a vest to be drycleaned and then getting it back and the lady is like I RIPPED ALL THE POCKETS OUT AND DREW PICTURES OF STING’S DICK ALL OVER IT BECAUSE YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO BE DANCING IN THIS VEST AND HAVING THINGS IN YOUR POCKETS WHILST DANCING IS DANGEROUS PLUS STING IS AWESOME. LOOK LADY IF I WANTED THE POCKETS RIPPED OUT I WOULDA TOLD YOU SO!!! GHOSTFART!!!
other things were pissing me off, too, I can’t remember. Some news item about bacteria in your inner elbows. Seriously, whatever, peanut butter straight from the jar. I have switched to drinking only Racer 5, I no longer muse musingly at the bar. I order my beer and pour it into my giant fucking face. I got one or two of those coming at me in an hour or so. Friday. I also got a tattoo of Sting on my dick, see below for details
These walls have ears, and these ears have eyes. I mean knives. V.S. Naipaul wanted “to do a narrative only out of simple, direct statements.”
Due to unforeseen circumstances, tonight’s screening of Le Lit de la Vierge will be shown in DVD format, rather than 35mm. This screening will continue free of charge…. a minimalist-psychedelic retelling of the Christ story, shot in Brittany, Morocco, and Rome under the influence of LSD.
The new Oneworld Classics edition of Alain Robbe-Grillet’s novel Jealousy is out in June, with an introduction by Tom McCarthy. The introduction is also appearing in the June issue of Artforum, which is reprinting some diagrams he made years ago when trying to understand Robbe-Grillet’s work
A mangled little heartbeat is filled to the brim with soda. A bench in rural N. Ohio sits empty in the sweltering humidity. One ghost wishes for a swimming pool, the other wishes for the opposite. A third ghost makes an impassioned, silent speech against opacity in any form. “Fuck opacity!!!” rages the silent ghost.
Blonde ghost, foodie ghost, Phish ghost.
Fucking comparisons. There are children present: Let the baby carriage act as a shield. In the afternoon, is it cool if the pram becomes riot gear?? The musician’s boner shall be my dowsing rod. The woman’s licked lips are full of protein; they still sting from salt and are wiped down with carbs.
Never heard of these guys before. Takes me back to listening to Superunknown on the discman high on green chiles in southwestern middle-school times. Crunchy righteous post-Zeppelin megariffs with half-time Bonham-esque hi-hat “little hands” going slower than the shredding guitar’s “big hands.” Sweet.