Tag Archives: complaining

The Good, the Bad, and the Actually Quite Nice

Why is it that *I* am not accorded painkillers like so many candy dots?  I would make just as much use of them as Mary would!  I know, it is because she has that thin veneer of responsibility, like the shell on a four minute egg.  Give me a silver spoon and I will scoop out its precious, buttery insides.  I have been in near constant pain for the last month or so, but the old truism is truly true, “those that do not complain are never pitied.”

Speaking of COMPLAINING, I was just talking with a friend about one of the greater crimes of humanity, when people complain about being busy with all the good things they have going on.  This is an indirect boast, and an infuriating one, as it seems to ask your consideration and solace, for a condition of abundance.  “Ohhhhh dear, I am soooo sorry to hear you have several performances lined up and you have many dinners to attend.  And answering email besides???  Please allow me to flog myself for your pleasure that you might have an instant of entertainment to alleviate such misery.”  The good life is terribly hard to bear.

Not that I would know.

For my part I am mounting a solo show at Dacia Galeria on the Lower East Side, January 18-Feb 4.  There will be a delightful collection of paintings, and I hope you will come and see it.  The opening reception is January 19.  I may wear a hat.

On Friday night I was feeling totally beset.  I found out that something ghastly will be have to be performed on my shoulder under general anesthesia, and my dentist surprised me with a root canal.  Even though he knows I hate them!  I gummed my rice porridge with preserved egg, rather inattentive to my two lovely friends as I steeped in woe.  I also told them the wrong date for the opening I wanted to attend, so after dinner we were met with a closed gate where a party might have been.  At this moment, I could not have been more low, and thought only of a blanket to chew on with some percocet.

We wandered aimlessly down the street, about to call it a night, when we came upon a man dancing in front on a camera, wearing a sequined jacket, a t-shirt that said “fight for your right to party” and a cat mask.  We stopped to take his picture and he invited us “on an adventure”.  We blinked at each other and said, why not?  Why not accompany this seeming crazy person to his kill room?  Or whatever.  He led us down the street, filming all the while, and instructed us to take turns walking romantically for the camera, in front of a house that may have been used in a Woody Allen film.  Then he asked us if we would be willing to kiss a rabbit.  We were all game for this, but he announced that we would have to run, as we were late!  Really. Late for a date?  With a rabbit?  Indeed, he led us on a spirited jog down the street, through traffic, the camera rolling, until we reach the Cooper Union Cube, where more masked people with cameras awaited us.  Suddenly a man in a pink tuxedo and rabbit mask, the hero of the night, arrived and swept me off my feet.  I kissed the rabbit.  He then tore away his costume, handing it over to me and we embraced.  It was truly a special moment.

Much to our astonishment, we were then led into a theater, where a very large crowd were assembled, roaring with applause as the actors ran into the theater, cameras still running.  Apparently, the audience made their appearance at the end of this film, Super Night Shot, in which we became accidental stars.  The film was very funny and made up of lovely moments.  And then we three show up, the sequence totally unedited.  A swell of Sigur Ros amid rabbit kiss.  Beautiful!  The actors lead me onstage to take a bow.  And that is how I went from crying into my congee, to receiving boisterous applause on the stage of the Public Theater, within the space of an hour.  When you need something, I suppose it is often delivered.

Kelsey, Admiral and I had some champagne to celebrate the night’s strangeness.  And Kelsey realized, we had done this before.

Along comes reality, goodbye to space

Our nascent year is proving very eventful.  Why, I have received 12 text messages in the last 3 minutes alone!  Sometimes you just wish people would stop communicating with you. Up until the moment they actually do.  

I got a half dozen separate emails today from some lady with questions about the available studio (do emails have twitter-style word limits now?) and I patiently provided the information, before she asks me if it is ok if she has a dog in there.  UH.  I picture a little, sausage-shaped body waggling and sniffling around AROO AROO AROO, its chubby nose on the edge of my pallette, rose madder paw prints.  I don’t know if that is ok, because no sane human being has ever asked. 

But there is more going on than doggy applicants to my studio.  I have a new roommate.  She is a hairdresser, so maybe we can turn our place into the Beauty Bar, home edition.  I showed up to be an extra in a music video by someone I befriended through my roommate ad.  I have 2 shows upcoming, which I am very excited about, but do not yet have details.  I also have a headache.  My “to-do list” has gone from an inky scrap, to a lengthy scroll.  

I know it is obnoxious to complain about being busy.  But I want to be busy doing what I love- smearing paint around, writing fake Morrissey tunes (“The Last One In Is the First One Down”), being “extra”, gluing things to other things for humorous effect.  Not fielding inquiries from Ms. Thick and her hellhound. Or staring at my pager, hoping that it will not go off so that I have to work this weekend. Certainly not working.

But I soldier on in inspired fashion, just having learned that the Jersey’s Shore’s mannish whorelet JWOWW actually studied art in college.  And, laugh till your milk comes out of your nose if you will, but her work was entirely competent.  I certainly never produced any still life that orderly while I was in school.  She must also be clairvoyant, having the forethought to throw a pink elephant in there.

(Photo totally cribbed from Gawker, my source in all things Jersey Shore)