January 2004 Archives
Ever wonder what happens to the hundreds of artificial Christmas trees that are left unsold in stores everywhere? Yes ... that's right ... they go on sale! Of course! But who buys them? Let's take a look at my parents - a case study of sorts:
My parents had a wee case of post-holiday blues this year. After all the excitement was over and the house was empty once again, they realized one day upon returning to their humble abode that the pesky deer had once again eaten hundreds of dollars of shurbbery (and other non-descript landscaping) that had been planted only a few months before. That night, my mum and my dad discussed over their nightly dinner of cold cereal what to do. They decided to do what any American would do in their situation - head to the mall and shop their troubles away!
Arriving at the mall, they were shocked to find so many artificial trees for sale - and at what prices! It was at this moment that a light bulb went off in my dear mum's head. Dropping a couple of hundred bucks, they loaded up the back of the truck with 6 or 7 artificial (but 'very realistic looking') trees and headed for home. Under cover of darkness, they snuck the trees into the basement - eyeing the neighbors' houses suspiciously - as if they were being watched.
The following weekend, cold as it may have been, my handy parents ventured to the front lawn. My dad had a shovel, and my mum had ... could it be ... yes! ... 6 or 7 artificial Christmas tree bases. (Hold, please, while I die of embarrassment. Ok. Moving on.) After a day of hard work, they had submerged the bases at strategic positions on the front lawn - leaving just the little center hole sticking up a wee bit from the earth. Currently, that's all that has happened. Mum and Dad are waiting for the right moment - when under cover of darkness once again, they can sneak out and screw the artificial trees into the bases (so they don't 'end up on a neighbor's lawn during a storm').
"Let's see those friggs [meaning the deer] eat these trees!" my Mom says proudly as she looks at the fine specimens standing in the basement - ready for deployment.
Me? I just stand there and nod - happy my parent's didn't opt for the fiber-optic trees that turn pretty colors.
My parents had a wee case of post-holiday blues this year. After all the excitement was over and the house was empty once again, they realized one day upon returning to their humble abode that the pesky deer had once again eaten hundreds of dollars of shurbbery (and other non-descript landscaping) that had been planted only a few months before. That night, my mum and my dad discussed over their nightly dinner of cold cereal what to do. They decided to do what any American would do in their situation - head to the mall and shop their troubles away!
Arriving at the mall, they were shocked to find so many artificial trees for sale - and at what prices! It was at this moment that a light bulb went off in my dear mum's head. Dropping a couple of hundred bucks, they loaded up the back of the truck with 6 or 7 artificial (but 'very realistic looking') trees and headed for home. Under cover of darkness, they snuck the trees into the basement - eyeing the neighbors' houses suspiciously - as if they were being watched.
The following weekend, cold as it may have been, my handy parents ventured to the front lawn. My dad had a shovel, and my mum had ... could it be ... yes! ... 6 or 7 artificial Christmas tree bases. (Hold, please, while I die of embarrassment. Ok. Moving on.) After a day of hard work, they had submerged the bases at strategic positions on the front lawn - leaving just the little center hole sticking up a wee bit from the earth. Currently, that's all that has happened. Mum and Dad are waiting for the right moment - when under cover of darkness once again, they can sneak out and screw the artificial trees into the bases (so they don't 'end up on a neighbor's lawn during a storm').
"Let's see those friggs [meaning the deer] eat these trees!" my Mom says proudly as she looks at the fine specimens standing in the basement - ready for deployment.
Me? I just stand there and nod - happy my parent's didn't opt for the fiber-optic trees that turn pretty colors.
I just found out that my birthday is the most common birthday in the world. I feel special.
I should have seen this coming. My bathroom door has been giving me trouble for a couple of weeks - I just never thought it would come to this...
Rewind to:
12:45 - Drink nice cold glass of water to keep hydrated.
12:51 - Close bathroom door to prevent sounds of the leaky farrah faucet from keeping me awake.
12:52 - Apply Chapstick to prevent dry lips.
12:53 - Climb into bed, hit the lights, and ponder insomnia.
12:59 - Oddly enough begin sleeping soundly.
Fast-forward to:
4:15 - Roll over in bed (slightly awake) and realize that I need to go to the bathroom.
4:16 - Ponder the fact that my bathroom is so close that I probably don't even need to leave the bed ... just open the bathroom door, which can be reached from my bed.
4:17 - Realize this is a bad idea.
4:26 - Finally get out of bed and walk to the bathroom door ... I twist the knob, and lo and behold, it comes off in my hand. The door remains closed. The knob remains in my hand. A little piece of plastic that does some little piece of magic inside the door to make it open has fallen mysteriously to the floor. I poke and prod the exposed insides of the door knob mechanism - nothing seems to work.
4:28 - I get my screw driver and begin to disassemble the door knob completely. Halfway through this process, I realize that the other side of the knob will fall onto the tile floor in the bathroom and likely crack the tile. I play with the insides a bit more and realize we are dealing with serious fuckage.
4:30 - I walk to the kitchen and ponder using the kitchen sink.
4:31 - I realize that this is a poor idea at best.
4:32 - I sit on the foot of my bed, staring at the door, thanking my lucky stars that I was not inside the bathroom when the knob decided to twist off into my hand. Realizing I most likely would have been trapped in my tiny (and that's being generous) bathroom for days ... I begin to think what's in my medicine cabinet that is actually edible.
4:35 - Halfway through this exercise, I realize that I really do have to use the bathroom.
4:36 - Grabbing my screwdriver, I change the handy-dandy magnetic head from phillips to flat and have a go at the hinges. I pop them one by one, lift the door away from the frame, and walk into my now-doorless-bathroom. 4:38 - Ah. Relief.
Fast-forward to:
4:45 - Lying in bed. Listening to the water drip into the tub. Wide awake.
4:50 - Drag my tired ass out of bed, pop a nice little pill, and hope that I'm out soon.
5:00 - Insomnia? My ass! The universe is out to get me, I tell you.
Rewind to:
12:45 - Drink nice cold glass of water to keep hydrated.
12:51 - Close bathroom door to prevent sounds of the leaky farrah faucet from keeping me awake.
12:52 - Apply Chapstick to prevent dry lips.
12:53 - Climb into bed, hit the lights, and ponder insomnia.
12:59 - Oddly enough begin sleeping soundly.
Fast-forward to:
4:15 - Roll over in bed (slightly awake) and realize that I need to go to the bathroom.
4:16 - Ponder the fact that my bathroom is so close that I probably don't even need to leave the bed ... just open the bathroom door, which can be reached from my bed.
4:17 - Realize this is a bad idea.
4:26 - Finally get out of bed and walk to the bathroom door ... I twist the knob, and lo and behold, it comes off in my hand. The door remains closed. The knob remains in my hand. A little piece of plastic that does some little piece of magic inside the door to make it open has fallen mysteriously to the floor. I poke and prod the exposed insides of the door knob mechanism - nothing seems to work.
4:28 - I get my screw driver and begin to disassemble the door knob completely. Halfway through this process, I realize that the other side of the knob will fall onto the tile floor in the bathroom and likely crack the tile. I play with the insides a bit more and realize we are dealing with serious fuckage.
4:30 - I walk to the kitchen and ponder using the kitchen sink.
4:31 - I realize that this is a poor idea at best.
4:32 - I sit on the foot of my bed, staring at the door, thanking my lucky stars that I was not inside the bathroom when the knob decided to twist off into my hand. Realizing I most likely would have been trapped in my tiny (and that's being generous) bathroom for days ... I begin to think what's in my medicine cabinet that is actually edible.
4:35 - Halfway through this exercise, I realize that I really do have to use the bathroom.
4:36 - Grabbing my screwdriver, I change the handy-dandy magnetic head from phillips to flat and have a go at the hinges. I pop them one by one, lift the door away from the frame, and walk into my now-doorless-bathroom. 4:38 - Ah. Relief.
Fast-forward to:
4:45 - Lying in bed. Listening to the water drip into the tub. Wide awake.
4:50 - Drag my tired ass out of bed, pop a nice little pill, and hope that I'm out soon.
5:00 - Insomnia? My ass! The universe is out to get me, I tell you.
Family secret #543 (use to remove warts from hands): During a full moon (it must be raining outside), slice a potato in half. Bring both halves outside and splash them in a puddle of rainwater. Rub both pieces of potato over both your hands. Bury the potato back in the ground.
Old Wives Tale? Perhaps - but I've seen it work where prescription drugs have failed - leaving doctors stroking their beards in amazement.
Old Wives Tale? Perhaps - but I've seen it work where prescription drugs have failed - leaving doctors stroking their beards in amazement.
Finally! A class for George W. I'm not holding my breath though - given his academic history, I doubt he'll really learn anything.
In honor of our President, I'm going to head down the street to see the Ontological-Hysteric's production of King Cowboy Rufus Rules the Universe. Gotta love the Foreman.
In honor of our President, I'm going to head down the street to see the Ontological-Hysteric's production of King Cowboy Rufus Rules the Universe. Gotta love the Foreman.
A good way to start the day: Reading about the conservative American Family Association's poll on gay marriage going bust. It seems that the polls didn't quite show what they wanted them to show ... so they are trashing them. I mean, why would the uber-right group send a poll to Congress showing that people actually favor gay marriage??? It gives me hope (even if gays did vote in the poll).
The AFA rep's quote is choice:
Today, I get N. back, btw.
The AFA rep's quote is choice:
It just so happens that homosexual activist groups around the country got a hold of the poll -- it was forwarded to them -- and they decided to have a little fun, and turn their organizations around the country (on to) the poll to try to cause it to represent something other than what we wanted it to. And so far, they succeeded with that.Although the emphasis is mine, that sentence really struck me. It exposes just how twisted statistics can get. Objective truth? Not anymore, honey. Not anymore. Just watch out - cause that 'so far' bit at the end kinda scares me. Sounds like they have something up their bible pushing sleeves.
Today, I get N. back, btw.
Word of the Day: Republigayns.
Definition: [you tell me]
And in DoMA news: the battle is about to begin. We all better be prepared (and that means my straight friends too!).
All I know: I'm going to be married in Massachusetts before they amend the state constitution. There might only be a few years when it's 'legal' ... any takers out there?
Definition: [you tell me]
And in DoMA news: the battle is about to begin. We all better be prepared (and that means my straight friends too!).
All I know: I'm going to be married in Massachusetts before they amend the state constitution. There might only be a few years when it's 'legal' ... any takers out there?
What a miserable S.O.B. we have running the country.
I actually had a phone conversation today with someone whose name is Butch. I almost laughed when he told me his name. Thank GOD I have a modicum of self control.
Boi From Troy's new re-design is not only hot ... but it also makes me feel oh-so-butch. I like to leave it on my computer screen for people to see when they walk by.
I was butch today and installed a new knob on my bathroom door. While I was doing that, there was someone in my shower. Shocking, I know. ... Sadly, it was just the Super fixing the leak.
Hint: Things are funny in threes.
Boi From Troy's new re-design is not only hot ... but it also makes me feel oh-so-butch. I like to leave it on my computer screen for people to see when they walk by.
I was butch today and installed a new knob on my bathroom door. While I was doing that, there was someone in my shower. Shocking, I know. ... Sadly, it was just the Super fixing the leak.
Hint: Things are funny in threes.
Last night, I ate way too much Indian food and had dreams that were just ... well ... unreal. For someone that doesn't dream of people very often, it was quite shocking to wake up in the morning and remember everything. Although the majority of the dream took place in a large library - I clearly remember getting the impression that people were in smaller rooms off to the side (and down dark hallways) having sex - this was obviously supposed to be my college library. Two Xs made brief cameos - one showing up in humorous bondage gear (I quickly closed the door to that room upon passing) and the other remaining mysterious in a dark corner. Matt LeBlanc was also there - pretending to look at books on the shelves. He was apparently being stalked by someone who was either his agent or his lawyer and sitting at the reading-room table ... just watching. He seemed terrified of her. My grandmother made an appearance as well. After dancing a little jig by the copy machine, she removed an empty book from a nearby shelf and proceeded to transcribe music from a song she learned many years ago. Then ... well ... then I woke up.
I had left-over Indian food tonight. Hopefully I'll have another interesting night in dreamland.
Oh, and since when is it acceptable to friendster someone you have neither met nor talked with in order to suggest a threesome? Well?! Well ... I held my head up high and passed on the offer ... this time.
I had left-over Indian food tonight. Hopefully I'll have another interesting night in dreamland.
Oh, and since when is it acceptable to friendster someone you have neither met nor talked with in order to suggest a threesome? Well?! Well ... I held my head up high and passed on the offer ... this time.
Ak. I have to go to the post office tomorrow. I'm scared. Since my experience on Thursday, I've been dreading the day when I would have to return. That day has come.
So far, the Post Office has lost:
• 3 certified letters
• 1 book from amazon
• 1 care package from my mom containing tasty cookies
• 1 good lay ... i mean, a lei flown in from hawaii for my graduation ... which they mysteriously found the day after my graduation ... when it was already dead and dried into a small (albeit colorful) ball.
Just in case you are wondering, the above list sums up every package that has ever been sent to me. All LOST. There's something fishy going on at that place - either that or my theory is correct that the whole world is against me.
So far, the Post Office has lost:
• 3 certified letters
• 1 book from amazon
• 1 care package from my mom containing tasty cookies
• 1 good lay ... i mean, a lei flown in from hawaii for my graduation ... which they mysteriously found the day after my graduation ... when it was already dead and dried into a small (albeit colorful) ball.
Just in case you are wondering, the above list sums up every package that has ever been sent to me. All LOST. There's something fishy going on at that place - either that or my theory is correct that the whole world is against me.
This morning, I experienced something that I never have before. I walked into the Stuyvesant Town Post Office on 14th Street and there was no line. In addition to this welcome site at this notoriously horrible PO, the workers were smiling (they DO have facial muscles!) - there was even one standing outside of the glass enclosed back (among us lowly customers? unheard of!) who was teaching a small girl how to properly affix a return receipt tag onto an envelope. I actually heard the postal employee say (without IRONY), 'See? Wasn't that easy? Now you know for next time!' The little girl skipped out of the PO. With all these open windows, I didn't know which one to choose - so, being me, I went to the closest one (thereby avoiding a waste of energy that I could potentially use for more exciting things later in the day). Once at the window, I was further shocked by the cleanliness of the workspace. There was nothing except the computer screen, the keyboard, and 6 sheets of commemorative stamps displayed neatly across the desktop. Was I on candid camera? Where were the crumpled up tissues? Where was the mess? Where was the attitude?
It was then that I spotted them. A group of individuals standing behind the glassed off area intensely watching the woman serving me. They had clipboards. I think one of them may have been the Postmaster General. He looked at me. I tried to catch his eye. I couldn't figure out how I could tell him what this post office was normally like. I tried Morse Code with my eyes, but before I could spell out, "Lies! Lies! It's not normally like this here! This is the den of evil. E-V-I-L!" I was asked politely if I had something in my eye. Suddenly, I feared for my package. What if this woman currently stamping 'FRAGILE' on my box read Morse Code! She is, after all, the same woman who weeks ago stamped 'FRAGILE' on another package before tossing it EIGHT FEET into a bin behind her in true basketball star form. (Luckily, she had pretty good aim.) I was scared now. What would become of my package if they really knew what I was thinking?
Very quietly, I fed my money under the little glass window, averted my eyes, took my change, for some reason nervously bowed as I said 'Thank You', and backed (yes, backed) out of the post office - avoiding 2 (out of 4) broken doors and the broken handicap lift that hasn't worked for the last year and a half.
It was only then that I looked back and saw the Postmaster General and his team smiling happily, checking off little boxes on their little clipboards, and giving the woman who served me the thumbs-up. It was at this point that I realized these people were not here to make sure the PO was treating its customers correctly ... oh no ... on the contrary! They were there to teach postal employees how to better scare their customers into submission. The new tactics worked quite well ... and to tell the honest truth, I was becoming a little bored with them yelling at me and giving incorrect change. At least they are mixing it up a bit.
It was then that I spotted them. A group of individuals standing behind the glassed off area intensely watching the woman serving me. They had clipboards. I think one of them may have been the Postmaster General. He looked at me. I tried to catch his eye. I couldn't figure out how I could tell him what this post office was normally like. I tried Morse Code with my eyes, but before I could spell out, "Lies! Lies! It's not normally like this here! This is the den of evil. E-V-I-L!" I was asked politely if I had something in my eye. Suddenly, I feared for my package. What if this woman currently stamping 'FRAGILE' on my box read Morse Code! She is, after all, the same woman who weeks ago stamped 'FRAGILE' on another package before tossing it EIGHT FEET into a bin behind her in true basketball star form. (Luckily, she had pretty good aim.) I was scared now. What would become of my package if they really knew what I was thinking?
Very quietly, I fed my money under the little glass window, averted my eyes, took my change, for some reason nervously bowed as I said 'Thank You', and backed (yes, backed) out of the post office - avoiding 2 (out of 4) broken doors and the broken handicap lift that hasn't worked for the last year and a half.
It was only then that I looked back and saw the Postmaster General and his team smiling happily, checking off little boxes on their little clipboards, and giving the woman who served me the thumbs-up. It was at this point that I realized these people were not here to make sure the PO was treating its customers correctly ... oh no ... on the contrary! They were there to teach postal employees how to better scare their customers into submission. The new tactics worked quite well ... and to tell the honest truth, I was becoming a little bored with them yelling at me and giving incorrect change. At least they are mixing it up a bit.
The cold dark night rewarded me with yet another sidewalk find (this makes two for me, one for JCN, and one for N). Sitting there practically waiting for me down the street from my building, I stumbled across this:
Quite a beauty, ain't she! You can tell how fuckin' huge the mother is by comparison to my bottle of Mark sitting on the floor next to her. Scheduled for an appearance come the fall - I still have to find somewhere to store this puppy. After cleaning everything up, I stripped the wires and plugged it right into the back of my stereo ... and lo and behold - beautiful (and loud) music to my ears. Sadly, however, it's not quite as 'tin' sounding as I would have liked. I'm learning that you can't have everything.
Quite a beauty, ain't she! You can tell how fuckin' huge the mother is by comparison to my bottle of Mark sitting on the floor next to her. Scheduled for an appearance come the fall - I still have to find somewhere to store this puppy. After cleaning everything up, I stripped the wires and plugged it right into the back of my stereo ... and lo and behold - beautiful (and loud) music to my ears. Sadly, however, it's not quite as 'tin' sounding as I would have liked. I'm learning that you can't have everything.
The text at the bottom of this receipt is just one of many reasons why I love living in the East Village:
Today, as I was purchasing a green tea at Taralluci e Vino, I opened my wallet - which at first glance appeared to be packed full of my favorite color. I quickly noticed, however, that all the bills inside were mere singles ... and that once again, I had managed to come down with a case of stripper's wallet.
Phrase:
Stripper's Wallet
Meaning:
An overflowing wallet consisting of nothing but one dollar bills.
Origin:
Unclear. Logic tells us that this phrase refers to either an actual stripper's wallet after a night of work or to a patron's wallet after exchanging large bills for small ones in preparation for a night on the town.
Phrase:
Stripper's Wallet
Meaning:
An overflowing wallet consisting of nothing but one dollar bills.
Origin:
Unclear. Logic tells us that this phrase refers to either an actual stripper's wallet after a night of work or to a patron's wallet after exchanging large bills for small ones in preparation for a night on the town.
Just got back from mailing a letter to the Isle of Man. How cool is that!? I also learned that the island's symbol of independence is 'the Three Legs of Man'. Three Legs, huh? The Isle of Man indeed! I know where I'm going on my next vacation.
Last night, I saw Hitchcock's Dial M for Murder at Film Forum ... in all its original polarized 3-D glory! It's pretty incredible what that man can do with a little 3-D ... and the whole experience reminded me just how much I like old movies. They really do quite a lot with very very little. To me, this is the magic of the silver screen.
During the film, I also realized that the polarized lenses only work if your eyes are perfectly horizontal to the ground. Being that I occasionally cock my head to one side if I'm particularly interested in something, I tended to miss some of the rather extraordinary 3-D shots. However, after intermission, I was much better about staying level.
Word of warning: Do not drink before you go see an old 3-D film. It may sound like a good idea (as it did to the people sitting a few rows ahead of us) ... but beer and 3-D do not, apparently, mix.
During the film, I also realized that the polarized lenses only work if your eyes are perfectly horizontal to the ground. Being that I occasionally cock my head to one side if I'm particularly interested in something, I tended to miss some of the rather extraordinary 3-D shots. However, after intermission, I was much better about staying level.
Word of warning: Do not drink before you go see an old 3-D film. It may sound like a good idea (as it did to the people sitting a few rows ahead of us) ... but beer and 3-D do not, apparently, mix.
My 16oz can of Best-Test Paper Cement used to reside on the window ledge above my radiator. However, I recently noticed that when my heat went on, the can would expand - making very funky 'thick-metal-crinkling' noises. When the heat when off, the vapor inside the can would cool, and there would be similar (yet opposite) 'thick-metal-crinkling' noises. This morning, I actually read the side of the can:
When using extinguish all flames and pilot lights, turn off stoves, electric motors and heaters. Avoid sparks, static discharge and other sources of ignition. Avoid skin contact.Excellent! Did I mention that I have practically no ventilation in my apartment and have been using this stuff for years?! It's a wonder I haven't blown myself up yet. And how many times have I rubbed paper cement all over my hands in order to create a hand full of boogers to the joy and amazement of my friends?! The 16oz can of Best-Test Paper Cement no longer resides above my radiator. It is currently stationed on my desk, next to my monitor, where I can keep a constant (and suspicious) eye on it.
Sunday morning, we left rainy NYC behind us and headed up the foggy Hudson to check out the Dia:Beacon. Situated in an old Nabisco factory, the newest member of the Dia:Family houses a collection of large art pieces that are mostly from the 60's and 70's ... quite a lot of minimalist stuff ... and quite a lot of conceptual minimalism. I kept having to remind myself that a lot of this stuff was ground-breaking when it was done - and that it formed building blocks for certain techniques that have become quintisentially American - and not in a good way.
I have a fundamental problem with works that postulate that the art lies in the idea (or concept) and not in the execution. Thank God the museum gave some credit (small as it might have been) to the group of assistants and volunteers that painstakingly drew millions of black pencil lines on 9 walls of a gallery to follow LeWitt's obessive formula for creating Drawing Series ... (and still have not finished, by the way) These 'producers' of the work are responsible for it tangibly existing ... and the artist is responsible for 'thinking' the work. The artist states that "irrational thoughts should be followed absolutely and logically." Yet, he leaves the absolute and logical work to others while taking on the role of the irrational artist thinker. Ah, how noble. Have we reached an equivalent to the industrial revolution in the art world? Content to produce and follow the obsseive nature of a leader's objectives, are we perhaps afraid to think for ourselves and therefore hold up anyone who 'conceptualizes' as an artist?
The museum does an excellent job of making art feel accessible. The extremely large gallery spaces create a feeling of being in space with the art while simultaneously using the works to create that space itself. Some personal highlights included Michael Heizer's North, East, South, West (because I wanted to jump the bottom of North and see how the musem staff would rescue me); Louise Bourgeois's floor (she manages so successfully to create emotional space); On Kawara's simple, elegant, and mysterious paintings (I wanted to cry for no logical reason); Joseph Beuys (it's just flat out cool when artwork neccessitates an increased number of fire extinguishers in the area 'just in case'); and Richard Serra's monumental sculptures.
Although the museum is largely successful in acheiving its goals, it is interesting to note that:
• at least 90% of the visitors appeared to be from NYC (and yes, you can tell)
• the curators used at least 7 words throughout the museum to explain the galleries / artists / works that no one in my group of 3 graduate art academics had ever heard before and couldn't figure out the meaning of ... even using their latin roots (it's no WONDER so many people feel stupid at museums)
• one of the most interesting parts of the visit is the immense building itself and the incredible open spaces ... although I heard very little talk about the art, I heard many comments such as: Can you imagine if this was your house? Where would you put your bedroom?; I wish I had my roller blades ... this place would be cool to skate through.; My, there is a lot of empty space.
I do have to say that I had a very enjoyable time. The collection really challenges you (even in your hate) to think about art - where it's been - where it is now - and what it can inspire. Walking through the huge space ... somewhere in-between stuffy museum and artist studio - I couldn't help but think that the artist's mystique had been lowered a notch. 'They're just like us,' I realized while passing through some of the galleries. It was a realization that I had only had once before when spotting a pencil line peeking out beneath some color on a Lichtenstein hanging in the MoMA ... and it was a realization that I would gladly pay my 10 bucks for again.
I have a fundamental problem with works that postulate that the art lies in the idea (or concept) and not in the execution. Thank God the museum gave some credit (small as it might have been) to the group of assistants and volunteers that painstakingly drew millions of black pencil lines on 9 walls of a gallery to follow LeWitt's obessive formula for creating Drawing Series ... (and still have not finished, by the way) These 'producers' of the work are responsible for it tangibly existing ... and the artist is responsible for 'thinking' the work. The artist states that "irrational thoughts should be followed absolutely and logically." Yet, he leaves the absolute and logical work to others while taking on the role of the irrational artist thinker. Ah, how noble. Have we reached an equivalent to the industrial revolution in the art world? Content to produce and follow the obsseive nature of a leader's objectives, are we perhaps afraid to think for ourselves and therefore hold up anyone who 'conceptualizes' as an artist?
The museum does an excellent job of making art feel accessible. The extremely large gallery spaces create a feeling of being in space with the art while simultaneously using the works to create that space itself. Some personal highlights included Michael Heizer's North, East, South, West (because I wanted to jump the bottom of North and see how the musem staff would rescue me); Louise Bourgeois's floor (she manages so successfully to create emotional space); On Kawara's simple, elegant, and mysterious paintings (I wanted to cry for no logical reason); Joseph Beuys (it's just flat out cool when artwork neccessitates an increased number of fire extinguishers in the area 'just in case'); and Richard Serra's monumental sculptures.
Although the museum is largely successful in acheiving its goals, it is interesting to note that:
• at least 90% of the visitors appeared to be from NYC (and yes, you can tell)
• the curators used at least 7 words throughout the museum to explain the galleries / artists / works that no one in my group of 3 graduate art academics had ever heard before and couldn't figure out the meaning of ... even using their latin roots (it's no WONDER so many people feel stupid at museums)
• one of the most interesting parts of the visit is the immense building itself and the incredible open spaces ... although I heard very little talk about the art, I heard many comments such as: Can you imagine if this was your house? Where would you put your bedroom?; I wish I had my roller blades ... this place would be cool to skate through.; My, there is a lot of empty space.
I do have to say that I had a very enjoyable time. The collection really challenges you (even in your hate) to think about art - where it's been - where it is now - and what it can inspire. Walking through the huge space ... somewhere in-between stuffy museum and artist studio - I couldn't help but think that the artist's mystique had been lowered a notch. 'They're just like us,' I realized while passing through some of the galleries. It was a realization that I had only had once before when spotting a pencil line peeking out beneath some color on a Lichtenstein hanging in the MoMA ... and it was a realization that I would gladly pay my 10 bucks for again.
It's just like Christmas all over again! I finally got my accidentally abandoned presents returned to me - including some much needed sexy underwear. Ah, I can put off laundry for a few more days now. Lov-er-ly.
It's going to be a good year. Ah well, I guess my sense of humor hasn't changed in 2004 (much to the horror of my friends).
Last night's festivities kicked off with a nearly gourmet meal prepared by N. and J.Logic that was topped only by a truly scrumptious desert. There's just something about Mochi that makes my teeth feel so damn good. Boys, listen up, the way to a man's heart is through his ...
From there, it was off to JCN's where the only thing trumping the amazing veggie meatballs was a certain someone's pants. Although the party was hopping, M. and I decided to rush off to the big B (after promising to return) so that I could experience what was, perhaps, the best martini I have ever had. Strike that. The best two martinis ... Strike that. The best three ... (get the picture?). The night just got better and better as it went on. Good conversations - excellent spirits (both in people and glasses) - and a positive vibe that I haven't felt all across the board in quite a long time. Although it was late ... although the sun was coming up ... although I was a wee bit drunk ... I could still appreciate the fact that it felt damn good to fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Last night's festivities kicked off with a nearly gourmet meal prepared by N. and J.Logic that was topped only by a truly scrumptious desert. There's just something about Mochi that makes my teeth feel so damn good. Boys, listen up, the way to a man's heart is through his ...
From there, it was off to JCN's where the only thing trumping the amazing veggie meatballs was a certain someone's pants. Although the party was hopping, M. and I decided to rush off to the big B (after promising to return) so that I could experience what was, perhaps, the best martini I have ever had. Strike that. The best two martinis ... Strike that. The best three ... (get the picture?). The night just got better and better as it went on. Good conversations - excellent spirits (both in people and glasses) - and a positive vibe that I haven't felt all across the board in quite a long time. Although it was late ... although the sun was coming up ... although I was a wee bit drunk ... I could still appreciate the fact that it felt damn good to fall asleep with a smile on my face.
