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11:20 am | 30 July 2004 | circular logic

Gay-love child

One of the many Art Project Ideas I Have Had That Will Never, For Practicality or Fiduciary Reasons, Be Brought to Fruition, is this: I wanted to get a whole bunch of really high-end shopping bags with purchases still in them, and then fill them with resin. So, you'd have like a Tiffany bag, and inside is the blue box and sort of drifting out of that is the velvet case which is open to show the ring, all drifting in clear resin. Or you'd have a Prada bag with some crazy-expensive silk jersey dress languidly pluming out of its tissue like an anemone. It would be really beautiful and sensual and say something about the inaccessibility of luxury goods for most people, and how they are iconic and locked in time all at once, and i would also look like the crazy genius gay-love child of Tom Sachs and Damien Hirst, but obviously i can't make this art because i don't have forty grand to drop on materials. But if i can have ideas like that while walking down the street, then i must be on the verge of something super-great. So, uh, keep me in mind, Turner Prize committee. I'm coming for you.

Another thing about Sachs

At a local gallery in Long Beach, Koo's, which is usually very cool and hipster and has all-ages shows and whatnot, there are two pieces currently in the front window that I really like--a rifle done in the classic brown-and-gold Louis Vuitton print, and a wheelchair upholstered in the pink-and-brown newer Vuitton--but the craftsmanship is not only a little shoddy, but I wonder if the artist knows that reinterpreting-luxury-good-insignias-as-class-signifier-and-funny-visual-joke is Sach's schtick. Should I tell him/her, or no? I once unintentionally did an installation with a friend that had already been done, and when I found out, I felt stooooopid. At least I knew, though, and it was only in one show. At least we weren't braying our shit all over town, like "Looky us, we crocheted fluffy pretty cozy-covers for tombstones and called it Rest In Pastel!" while someone came up all, "Uh, dude, I saw that in Bust Magazine."

About Rest In Pastel

That sucked especially because I wrote a really good, solid paper on our reasoning behind it, and really didn't know it had been done before. Uuuuugh.

Prodding

I was actually walking past Koo's when it sprung forcibly into my mind that it really makes me insane when people waiting to cross streets jab repeatedly at the crossing-light button like deranged carpal woodpeckers, as though they believed that might make the light change faster. Listen, Pokey Jones: The button controls the light after it's changed, allowing the little white walky-man to stay lit long enough for the crippled insane homeless grandmas that live in your town* to scraggle themselves across the street. YOU ARE DUMB. QUIT PRODDING THE BUTTON.

Shirelled out

I'm a little bit out of my London Suede phase, mostly because I don't feel stompy and glittery right now, but more mope-addled, so I'm heavily in a Verve phase (w/r/t which, see my new hangover theory), but I am also getting waaaay into 1960s girl Motown groups, which leads me to this, circularly: I can my parents not understand sad music? My folks, especially It's 1954 Daddy**, have always been all "What is wrong with you, why do you like this, why (this in 1994, with regards to the Smashing Pumpkins' "Disarm") do you listen to lyrics about killing?***" Dudes: The music you grew up with, and that I did too and love although anachronistically? Tell Laura I fucking LOVE HER? Leader of the Pack? Are you kidding me with this shit? And anyway, the reason I am all Shirelled out lately is because there is that special brand of gentle sad they can express so subtly--with a sort of class that spleen-bleeders like this "Dashboard" "Confessional" band would know nothing about. You know that they were onstage in matching seafoam green and incredible aerodynamic hair, bopping en masse, and yet there's stuff like "I'm lost in a world made for you and me" and "Then suddenly/Your lips are touching mine/A feeling so divine/But can I leave my past behind?" There is a terrible beautiful thrilling ominous wonder to it, 'least to my ears, which sounds so perfect right now. I guess that right now, like so many times before, Le Monde's got Les Bleus. clm.

*If you don't have any destroyed nutso indigent Nanas in your town, it's because they all moved here.
**To be read in same manner as the phrase "Astronaut Barbie."
***Ah, uh. First off, the lyrics, rendered in Billy Corgan's palate-splitting whinge, are "The killer in me is the killer in you"--typical grunge-era pre-emo drama--but it's not all "I'ma kill you." Secondly, this statement came out of my stepmother's mouth with the same extreme horrified disbelief as "Sometimes I doubt your commitment to SparkleMotion!" in Donnie Darko.


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