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2:40 pm | 16 November 2004 | long-short-long-short-long-short

This semantic moment
I find recently that many of my new friends have been calling me out on overusing "confusing" as a characterization of any intense or dramatic or exciting situation/thing (even though it took, like, cross-questioning to boil the issue down that far; they were more like "Dude, you must really get easily confused by simple things"). In return: Dudes: No. Complexity implies a certain amount of possible confusion (or I guess potential to confuse), but I'm not confused by it. I may shout "Holy crap, that girl's pants are confusing" in any number of situations, and each time I could be meaning: too tight, visually arresting, sartorial abortions, inexplicable, made of industrial plastic, you name it. "Confusing" is just another way of saying "Too lazy to search for an appropriate adjective."

Claude? Lazy when it comes to words?
Dudes yes TOTALLY lazy. It's confusing.

Richard?
Conceptual artist, I want to say within the last 20 years (if not the last 10), American, I think; I want to say brown-bearded and I also want to name him Richard, but that might just be craziness. ANYHOW the piece I am thinking of, he went to a museum, had a shaman or witch-doctor curse the air three feet above the top of the display plinth, and then added a sign alerting visitors to that fact. It's great, it's a sucker-punch, like you walk in and there's this plinth and you're all "Oh big deal, another fucking nihilist" and then you read the plaque and it becomes Oh shit, like you have to really evaluate your own ideas about the validity and veracity of a curse. It's like a little miniature you're-in-a-crashing-aeroplane-so-do-you-pray scenario. Why can't I think of his name? I love that piece, but I am worried about it, and I need to ask him questions. Like, Did you tell the preparators about the curse so they wouldn't inadvertently get cursed? Jeremy: "Did they carry the plinth out of the space sideways?" Me: "Yes, like a....curse sabre?" Jer: "Was the packing crate built to include the curse's airspace?" These are pressing concerns. If anyone knows what the fuck I am thinking about, let me know.

On the other hand
If I just imagined that whole piece/scenario, then I hereby copyright the idea and will effect it shortly, as it is rad. So dibs motherfuckers!

And a purple 1970s inexplicable disco-Roman dress thing
Why am I so irresistibly goddamned chic? I don't know--not for sure--but I do know that items of near-penultimate radness gather under my thrifting fingers like iron filings to Magneto, and that's just at the Salvation Army's moonlight madness sale, where I got tan sailor pants for a dollar--a dollar!--and where I also found the three missing hand-painted bird glasses from my old set of four (I get sloppy with the dishwashing), and it was, dudes, so flawless, so mint. My incredibly spry jumble-sale luck notwithstanding, though, I must announce that I have been looking particularly AT ALL TIMES AWESOME this month, despite the fry-ness of the blonde, which does allow my hair to assume hilarious society-wife bouffant action with no work, kittens, at all.

Incurable paranoiac. Hysterical depression. X, XX, Alex I'm your only friend.
Who's going to Blonde Redhead on Friday? Why: ME. Who is excited? Dear Lord, I am. They are one of the best ever, after our band, who will be the most #1 of all. TEAMLIFT! clm.


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