Tore this out of Artforum yesterday and taped it up in my wall-less cubicle. Charles Ray is sort of the David Foster Wallace of artists to me. I saw his retrospective at MoCA in Los Angeles around the same time in high school that I was being centrifuged around and around inside of “E Unibus Pluram” and Infinite Jest. It wasn’t as door-off-hinges blowingly transformative of an experience as reading Wallace was, but it still scraped more than a few barnacles off my teen peepers. The Ray retrospective was one of three seminal art-viewing experiences I had in in high school at MoCA (and at their space down the street, the Geffen Temporary Contemporary). The other two: Richard Serra’s Torqued Ellipses and the Paul McCarthy retrospective.
Join me this month as I take you on a journey filled with countless additional asleep-at-the-wheel end-of-day oblique memory-comments about contemporary art I saw when I was seventeen. To subscribe, just click here to PayPal $90 to BeefWeakness Knee-Life Art Tours, just kidding, talk to you later,
Not to mention: 4 years on, I still haven’t finished high-school pal Rimpletide’s fugging triumphant Charles Ray interview! And I call myself a BeefWheeler!
Get in there!!
I’m lookin at you, rimpletide!!
When visiting Jose Saramago’s blog,
Make sure your speakers are on!
This is devastating news.
I feel filled to the brim with the clichés that sadness brings on.
I am inexpressably grateful to David Foster Wallace for his books, and my heart and condolences go out to those who were close to him, along with the manifold readers whose lives have been changed by his work.
Even in this mournful and appalled state of mind, reading “Up, Simba” today, I laughed out loud again and again.
My new hip hop name is Li’l Pesto. I wear an English driving cap and overalls with no shirt underneath. A full-length mirror is rolled on stage and I lock eyes with myself, crooning and rapping about whatever issues of the day are most pressing. I have a topical bit about how Joe Biden needs to grab the spotlight from Debbie Palin. I mean Sarah Palin. Lots of words rhyme with Palin, y’all–
In other news, Rebecca is on point. I have the mellowest of hangovers today; it’s like a warm cloud, chillaxing over the city. Standing on a crowded Muni train, I once heard a young man in a suit tell his sluttily dressed companion to “chillax” as she felt him up and otherwise inappropriately groped him in the crowded aisle. I whispered “chillax” to myself for the rest of the night, and haven’t really stopped since. It’s been several months.
Last night I went to a bad new-agey lecture with my dad, who is great. I can’t tell if my dad reads this blog or not. Dad??? I was going to go to sleep but instead went to the bar with my roommate. We met our neighbor who I’d seen but never spoken to. In 1984 or whatever he saw Minor Threat at “Grafitti” which was subsequently the Chameleon and is now Amnesia. He had surprising details and context for the recent Hell’s Angel murder. The Mongols are infringing on Northern CA Hell’s Angel territory, and it’s “war”?!
Then I drunkenly celebrated fictional future drunken celebrations on the forthcoming California High-Speed Railway. I have listened to this song about nine times in the last two days.