Ayn Rand loves a good architect joke

fig. 239) The kitchen, the bath, and all of the people hate your painting too.

"Mike, Mike do something."

From somewhere far off an alarm, a klaxxon and several bells can be heard bouncing around. The big firehouse was constructed in the teens. A mule team and 6 drunk ignorants voted to do the job right but it still took three bricklayers a month apiece to even try. Finally after a couple of years they finished up and then the market crashed, "The masons never explain anything."
"No they never do."
"What," John Lurie is eating his own ghost again. There's some confusion and the waiter returns. CB and MB are next to him. They're talking about the kids when they look and see the smoke. Of course the server arrives with water. He's confused too, "Lemons?"
CB say's, "Mike, Mike do something now."
The kitchen is hot. The swinging door lets out great white puffs along with the occasional yelp from a frustrated busser but the dining room is getting even louder.
"I remember this," We slide down the pole and I look over at Elyse. She's small in her heavy boots but the axe is safely secured to its harness. Jennifer was a handful but Elyse bounced right back, she got better quick. "The punchline is, our son is dating Rambo right?"
"Stephen!"
There's a bright flash from the walkin cooler. The produce and the kegs full of house pilsner are back there. A woman with a pot roast is walking in circles saying, "Sam, I don't think Sam ever got out." Then CB tries to comfort her.
"Tomorrow morning the paper will almost certainly speak of his virtues," she tells the pot roast woman. "His simple ways, and the tidy shop he kept are important now. Art should never have to die, that's just unconscious knowledge. Alright, so that's a riff on Janes Addiction. Mike will do something about these boys," CB sobs.
Just then, Elyse bursts into the dining room, Stephen has a steel hook on a long pole then the wall falls over and Republicans are everywhere. The kitchen staff stands agog over a pile of stones and broken plumbing. There's a table covered with plucked friers collecting dust from the settling plaster. There's a silver door and a mop handle, "That one is hiding the pregnant lady, don't."
Stephen looks around, "Did you see who said that, Elyse?"
"No, it's just like that time we were arrested on Thanksgiving at a nuclear proliferation rally with students and members of our PBS affiliate. Then Ned surprised us with a visit, but we found out he was running from the FBI for embezzling millions of dollars and I was trying to raise money for an immigrant education program. Alex tried helping that little Vietnamese boy but we never saw Ming again and after that the house was broke into but we couldn't decide on a gun to protect our family. It's like Mallory swimming. It's like Alex learning camera. I'm looking at ten pounds of confusion and a three pound sack for my empty bucket of salty tears, Stephen."

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

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