art in the age of mechanical refridgeration

i met a queer jack nicholson. oh, he's already queer? well this one likes feather boas, and prince, and walks like he desperately wants a drink.he is staright out of truegaystories  he's totally intimidating, he sits all coiled up in his armchair, and you know he'd attack you, but then he says, "When i hear the words renaissance fair, i get my revolver," and gestures to a graph in the republic about the projected use of phone cameras in 2005, with his half-sucked away lollipop.

but i learned some new things. can i just tell you how fun and refreshing it was to be in an art studio workshop? with the smell of spraypaint and cut wood, and the whir of projectors, and the dust and chalky walls that seem so pure. i felt like i could say whatever i want, and i knew i was being evaluated for my comments, being a representative of my program. but i still allowed myself to feel like a kid.

a girl invited me. we have a lot in common, except she makes a lot of stuff, and it's all very cool, books and installations and photographs and performances. she ice skates, too -- she even ice skates on concrete. but she already wants to IM me, and i don't IM. (am i missing out on some sort of cyber sex here?) the point is i'm not interested in her in that way, and i don't want her to fall for me. this is when a mythical long distance girlfriend would come in handy.

anyway. this is why i can't, like, spread the word about my blog. i am such a jerk. god. why must i write like this is a gossipy journal. i hate that. but i guess i get excited and want to tell the news. my lens is emotion, intuition. i don't want to hurt anyone. my best readers forgive me for all my flaws, and understand this is often a place for first, miguided, impressions. so i guess i don't trust others to be good, forgiving readers of me.