1:49 ...
I walk the streets of Park Slope like Aqualung.
dah dah dah dah daaah duh
(shikity shikity shikity shikity)
dah dah dah dah daaah duh
Snot is running down my nose.
Small children throw stones and used paper cups at me. The call me Stinky McGee, then run away. One kid actually picks up a turd (please, people--curb your dog!) and throws it at me. The urge to grab the turd, then the kid, and then, while ramming the shit down his throat, explain to him in calm tones and age-appropriate language that there's a high probability he's doomed to spend his professional life as a mid-level apparatchik in some massive company so he might as well get used to eating shit at an early age, is palpable.
Me? I don't see what all the fuss is about. I finished my shower at 12:29 and couldn't look or smell any nicer. Like a cheerleader on her way to the big game--only manlier.
But it is worth noting that we are all, no matter how obvious the self-congratulatory smirk on our faces, perilously close to something life-changingly bad. Homelessness...destitution...a seven and nine Jets season.
Whatever scares you the most might be just around the corner.
Dah dah dah dah daaah duh.
Tonight I attend the opening of my boy Andy Freeberg's photo show at the Danziger Gallery in Chelsea. You can read about him in The Times today. I'd offer the link, but his article isn't online. Odd.
He's done a series of photographs of the front desks of Chelsea art galleries. These front desks are a part, as Danziger himself notes, of the "architecture of intimidation." Lovely thought.
This, of course, is an example from the show:
The word you are searching for is, by the way, "rectilinear."
The subject is the front desk of the Sonnabend gallery--perhaps the least friendly major art space in Chelsea. Which, I guess, is part of the idea of the photo. Next time I'm at Sonnabend, I'm going to try to remember to go to the supermarket first and buy a quarter pound of sea scallops. Then, while walking about the place, I'll toss individual scallops in as many out-of-sight corners as I can, on the sly. Then come back in two days and see how we're doing with all that attitude.
Anyway, the whole lot can be seen at andyfreeberg.com --go to "portfolio", then look under the "sentry" heading.
Under the Truth in Blogging law, I also have to tell you he's not really my boy. I've never met him. He's my boy Eric's boy. I'm just trying to get famous by hanging nearby.
I believe the phrase is--or might be, were there one--proximal celebrity. My strategy is to wait until Andy decides to say a few words and then shout, repeatedly, at the top of my lungs, "Freeberg!", which is both his last name and a reference to the way people at Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts used to request the phonetically similar song.
This, I feel certain, will cause many, if not all, the people in the room to stare at me, thus generating a degree of proximal celebrity.
dah dah dah dah daaah duh
(shikity shikity shikity shikity)
dah dah dah dah daaah duh
Snot is running down my nose.
Small children throw stones and used paper cups at me. The call me Stinky McGee, then run away. One kid actually picks up a turd (please, people--curb your dog!) and throws it at me. The urge to grab the turd, then the kid, and then, while ramming the shit down his throat, explain to him in calm tones and age-appropriate language that there's a high probability he's doomed to spend his professional life as a mid-level apparatchik in some massive company so he might as well get used to eating shit at an early age, is palpable.
Me? I don't see what all the fuss is about. I finished my shower at 12:29 and couldn't look or smell any nicer. Like a cheerleader on her way to the big game--only manlier.
But it is worth noting that we are all, no matter how obvious the self-congratulatory smirk on our faces, perilously close to something life-changingly bad. Homelessness...destitution...a seven and nine Jets season.
Whatever scares you the most might be just around the corner.
Dah dah dah dah daaah duh.
Tonight I attend the opening of my boy Andy Freeberg's photo show at the Danziger Gallery in Chelsea. You can read about him in The Times today. I'd offer the link, but his article isn't online. Odd.
He's done a series of photographs of the front desks of Chelsea art galleries. These front desks are a part, as Danziger himself notes, of the "architecture of intimidation." Lovely thought.
This, of course, is an example from the show:
The word you are searching for is, by the way, "rectilinear."
The subject is the front desk of the Sonnabend gallery--perhaps the least friendly major art space in Chelsea. Which, I guess, is part of the idea of the photo. Next time I'm at Sonnabend, I'm going to try to remember to go to the supermarket first and buy a quarter pound of sea scallops. Then, while walking about the place, I'll toss individual scallops in as many out-of-sight corners as I can, on the sly. Then come back in two days and see how we're doing with all that attitude.
Anyway, the whole lot can be seen at andyfreeberg.com --go to "portfolio", then look under the "sentry" heading.
Under the Truth in Blogging law, I also have to tell you he's not really my boy. I've never met him. He's my boy Eric's boy. I'm just trying to get famous by hanging nearby.
I believe the phrase is--or might be, were there one--proximal celebrity. My strategy is to wait until Andy decides to say a few words and then shout, repeatedly, at the top of my lungs, "Freeberg!", which is both his last name and a reference to the way people at Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts used to request the phonetically similar song.
This, I feel certain, will cause many, if not all, the people in the room to stare at me, thus generating a degree of proximal celebrity.
posted by Geoffrey at 10:22 AM
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