for Dasha
And at the record company party, on their hands a dead star . . .
What do you produce. Like what do, do you, you actually, like produce, Colby.
What, what DO I?!! HOW, WHAT DO YOU EVEN . . .
But this space, this quote unquote is is . . . what is this even? . . . your gonna be selling, what only blanks, ulumph, white . . . your selling only . . .
Arato chimes in, Well, yeah, I mean, this this whatever, the whole, this whole deal, is, is, or gonna be just three—not even stacks, just like one of each, blood??, on just like the . . .
Oh, you mean the consule Bickerton permanent loan from MoMA, the one that you accidentally prematurely uncrated, like that same story maybe??
A darkened foothill of un-resolution lingers on the floor of the showroom that's still hopelessly under construction, which is set to open in just four New York minute days(!). The smell of toxic caulk from the buildout burns blisters in our noses. Only pragmatic Mishka is quietly (but smugly) wearing a mask, because of the pragmatism that resides as the prominent social feature of Mishka, which isn't as tiring as it would normally be with others, or like sounds, and also, it's also, or what it is, is kinda because she's an academic, academic background, and there's something about her, her like validation that's currently being sought by I, so that will probably always most likely give Mishka an EZ pass, but no one else on MY team dares wear a mask now, because it will only yield great-never-going-to-forgive-you offense to it. Miska though, is squatting on gesso streaked floor in her tasteful stock black 501's, in a city otherwise riven with provincial normies who can't even get a pair of black jeans right, Mishka needlessly taking copious notes, which is kind of appreciated.
Lonnie indignant, moves in to break the silence, But there's not even XL.
What?!! Recoiling, seething like viper on hot mic.
XL.
What, what like the magazine??!
No, like XL. The size.
The size of what?!! What are you even yammering on about now Lonnie!
But you no no—
But you no, no, no—can you even hear yourself right now MANN!??
In what really just predictably sounds like the usual Sartrean critique of bad faith now—the others do sense this, but certainly (and sadly) don't know exactly how to identify it . . .
You think I don't!? You think I?! Don't . . . Know . . . That?!!
We just find it a bit odd, a bit peculiar really, you don't, won't be carrying—
The structure of the representational objects is profoundly affected by the external conditions of display and the reception to frame it. I'm not here to mollycoddle and like spell it out for civilians, or you all, exactly what time it is. I'm sorry—not here to babysitter. Just can't, won't do that, babe.
Lonnie stands stunned, lost his tongue.
Is, is that, is that what you must think. That I'm, I'm some dilettante like Schnabel's son for Christsakes? You hear that guys, Lonnie fancies me, and that as to—or like, just like, considering, or let alone, um, something, um unto, to which the dogeared moss sodden public must . . . or like, umm no less.
No, I just—
No, your just nothing.
Well, I don't have time to entertain the object of your intrigue right now Lonnie. I'm sorry we just don't. Because, A.), we're kinda, like kinda real busy now Lonnie, we're real busy here right now and B.)— DAKOTA!
Dakota right from the back, surprises from behind.
I'm right here, Colby.
Jesus Dakota, you really want to see me off on an early grave now don't you. Won't you. Well, not just yet my darling, and, and you'll just have to wait now shall you—before the shop opens because Heaven can wait! No—will wait! You got that. Ya get that, now babe? No— DO YOU get what I'm saying Dakota!??
What's this?! Swiftly on New York peso, changing the subject and trudging forward, reminds me what that the wise player knows it's a marathon and it's actually all a marathon, when against the everyone else's in NYork predictable sprint.
What's what.
Thissss.
That's a column.
Oh, I thought it was the Twig of Shellelagh. Yes, Dakota, I can see that. I can very well . . . see that. Thank you Dakota, so glad I'm paying you sixty seven hundred dollars an hour for such, such illuminating detail towards such cursory, yet essential observation.
Well, so . . .
Well, so what what, then? What it doing.
This column is, well it functions as, is is isa structural support.
Well how, how like important is that??
How important is structural support for the building?
No, no, no, I know that. What about—but about that, this one.
What about this one what?
Ground control to Major Dakota! Are you there? Are you there? We can't read you. Did you forget to take your like protein pills today??
Dakota presses his index finger against gnashed teeth, steps back visibly buck broken, humiliated in front of the team, my team.
You know what Dakota? You know what. You know what I'm gonna do. No, you got what you wanted. No, no, no, I'll give you just what you asked for, no, demanded. Okay?? I'll just spell it out for you, since you have failed to achieve or understand even but the modest task to which you have been so handsomely paid. I got two words that sounds like three and is actually a name: Claus Oldenberg, okay?? Do you know who that isss???Like, The Store? That, this, look!—what I'm trying to do, what like I'm doing, trying to-do, is caterwauling the slippery line between like, you know, practice and um commerce à la Bickerton, Bickerton, Stienbach, Stienbach, Don Judd, but with a, but with a—gangsta twist??! You can't Chinati in Cincinnati, but you can DIA do it in NY and this column 'MO BETTAH gotta go.
I'm sorry Colby, I'm sorry—it's just.
No, it's just. No it's not it's just. Youa speaka any ingles?? Like, donde esta las preguntas amigasosos??? Lonnie can someone get me a damn translator for our architect!! My architect!
Christ my cotton mouth is hothing, can somebody get me a diet iced apricot Clearly Canadian in a can and not a bottle with black mojito straw and sprig of mint over here already??
Miska finishes writing down what I just said and gets up off the floor.
Look—what I'm, what I'm, wait—what I'm—trying—like the next teleological leap and all, in ummm, since like, Sean Stüssy Stüssied his first Stüssy, no, since Kim Gordon X'd her first X-girl, no scratch that, since, since Gus Bowers Bowered his global flagship empire from Hong Kong all the way to you in Honolulu! BUT WITH A GANGSTA TWIST! Well, mine, definitely in line with historical precedent!
Trialing out in an inappropriate in the work place coked up on one self élan of putzing whirling dervish.
From like say, starting from, beginning from New York School activity from mid nineteen forties to mid nineteen fifties! Or, no, no Jutta Koether! Jutta! The transitive strategies in which the external conditions have, this, this is the just like where the Western, um, canon has, was, has been like headed all along and you are all witness and part of this, baby!
Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. LOOK. Everybody be cool . . . The column, the column goes, but at nine thirty tonite skirt permits. I don't care if knocking this down causes the whole entire goddamed Flatiron to tumble—WE ARE DOING THIS OKAY?? Fur down the cieling by day after mañana latest. Lighting design will be working all day tomorrow too. Now come on now children!
Conklin!
Yea.
Get over here you little Dickens.
Yeah, man.
What we lookin' with RSVP'S hoy.
Conklin gave out a great sigh. A terse expression lit up a menthol, blew blue smoke through his nose finally.
Leo Romero, Leo Fitzgerald, John Fitzgerald, John Sonner, Keith Sonnier.
Todd Jordan, Oscar Jordan, Oscar Murillo.
Russ Howell, Andy Howell, Andy Scott, Scott Pazelt.
Conklin was done reading the mercilessly short short-list. Whatever reaction I'm fumbling to muster in feigning in the this-is-live-life-right-now immediate moment, is all but impossible against my subconscious rattle banging and flinching itself out now right in front of Conklin, and he can for sure now tell. Still I must hold together—this is the GAME, even in these small intimate moments, no, especially in these small intimate moments.
Chris Carter, Colby Carter . . .
Oh, me next to Chris Carter, I see what you tried to achieve, you little Mo, not exactly laughing about the jape Conklin lovingly entertains, because there's other things surely looming on the mind.
Okay, okay, ok. Don't worry Conklin, just don't worry—re-read me again the RSVPS from yesterday and the day before and the day before that, those who already RSVP'D from the other day again also.
What.
Just . . . humor me, pleaze.
Okayyyy, Ivan Perez confirmed, Kevin Candella confirmed . . .
No, no, darling, your doing it wrong—with the plus ones.
Ivan Perez plus one. Kevin Candella plus one.
For Christ. No, no, no, with the confirmed still in it also.
Ivan Perez confirmed plus one
Kevin Candella confirmed plus one
Fiona Duncan confirmed plus one
Fiona Alison Duncan confirmed plus one
Mindy Seu confirmed plus one
Jason Farago confirmed plus one
Lauren O' Neill-Butler confirmed plus one
Sean Tatol confirmed plus one
Nora N. Khan confirmed plus one
Sharon Lockhart confirmed plus one
Thomas Crow confirmed plus one
Anna Kats confirmed plus one
Jeffrey Kaster confirmed plus one
Tatiana Flores confirmed plus one
Vicky Richardson confirmed plus one
Malik Gaines confirmed plus one
Wyatt Allgeier confirmed plus one
Tom Mcglynn confirmed plus one
Johanna Fateman confirmed plus one
Richard Calvocoressi confirmed plus one
Seth Price confirmed plus one
Mike Figgis confirmed plus one
Aria Dean confirmed plus one
David Salle confirmed Plus one—maybe
Salle? I thought that quite curious a maybe. David would come to the opening of a transom—that lush. Ok, go go on.
Jamie Story confirmed plus one
Benjamin Moser confirmed plus one
Audrey Wollen confirmed plus one
Jeff Henrickson confirmed plus one
Joey Frank confirmed plus one
Luellen Jacobs confirmed plus one
Karen Pinkus confirmed plus one
Pippa Garner confirmed plus one
Barry Schwabsky confirmed plus one
Eileen Tabios confirmed plus one
Venita Blackburn confirmed plus one
Tony Cokes confirmed plus one
Gio Estevez confirmed plus one
Lee Renaldo confirmed plus one
Maribel Marden confirmed plus one
Billy Valdez confirmed plus one
Joey Alvarez confirmed plus one
Julian Rose confirmed plus one
Anna Khachiyan confirmed plus one
Lisa Turvey confirmed plus one
Molly Warnock confirmed plus one
Mark Roller confirmed plus one
Gaby Cepeda confirmed plus one
Dorothy Lichtenstein confirmed plus one
Chloe Wyma confirmed plus one
Solomon "Zully" Adler confirmed plus one
Lisa Liebman confirmed plus one
Eileen Tabios confirmed plus one
Tim Griffin confirmed plus one
Julia Robinson confirmed plus one
Hannah Baer confirmed plus one
Piper Marshall confirmed plus one
Antwaun Sargent confirmed plus one
Antwan Dixon confirmed plus one
Edmund de Wall confirmed plus one
Steve Locke confirmed plus one
Yuki Higashino confirmed plus one
Rahel Aima confirmed plus one
Jan Avgikos confirmed plus one
Colby Chamberlain confirmed plus one
Robert Slifkin confirmed plus one
Charles M. Schultz confirmed plus one
Catherine Damman confirmed plus one
Sam McKinnis confirmed plus one
Michael R. Jackson confirmed plus one
Derek Blasberg confirmed plus one
Wendy Jeffers confirmed plus one
Rocket Caleshu confirmed plus one
Cy Gavin confirmed plus one
Donald Kuspit confirmed plus one
You know what Conklin?
What?
That didn't make me feel better like I thought it would :(
Right then the line from Rock N' Roll Suicide rings, something something, religiously unkind. Now, did Bowie mean one is religious at being unkind, or one is unkind in a way very characteristic of the church—probably both. It's quite easy to suspect one would be surprised how much perhaps, maybe, I don't know, I and David would actually have a lot in common.
Acting preparation and skills must come crucially to head now, where one must somehow make it appear one has not perhaps given power away, to pull off next question as if simply a logical conversational happenstance progression leading to hopefully its casual Hey-I-honestly-wasn't-even-thinking-about-it-until-now-but -just-asking-now-but-what-about—
Okay, okay, okay, okay, what about, ok, but what about . . . . . . Chelsea Twins.
The Chelsea Twins.
Yeah, what up with them now.
Well, there's nothing up with them now—they have very characteristically not responded.
No, I know, I know—I mean, yeah. But maybe, you could, I don't know perhaps, maybe, perhaps, just try to reach out like again?? I mean your such an ace at that, that kinda thing, you know?? I know you. I mean if anyone can—
Colby, they know about you—well, as much as someone knows about a speck on a single frame on projected film leader.
No, I know, yeah. Hey, I—know man, but I'm just saying. Listen, just hear me out, brother.
Conklin innocently dabs spit at the end of cig to save for later, visibly assimilated in the harmless non-threatening pull of his personality, comfortable in the rattling hum of city behind him.
We got to be optimistic. Don't fret Conklin. There's still time, I mean let me, get me. Look—I would just love to be on their little pirate radio show. I would just love that. I mean how cool would that be?? Do you know how happy that would make—I mean, I think it would be kinda fun to do or do that. That's all, that's all I'm saying! I can even come down and broadcast with it—them, tonite even. I can come down to the hotel, the like Chelsea just blocks away!
Colby, that's not how it works.
Blinkered into sobering state (my least favorite word in the English language: Sobering), feels like having an out of body experience because about how it's not going down how I had from my head. Trying to play it off, trying to play it off to oneself, that that entire tirade earlier on my end in the showroom was not an actual, sublimating out of aggression in shivering pre-anticipation to eventually asking Conklin about the Chelsea Twins all along, a feeling anything but kinky.
You just can't invite yourself onto their show.
Okay, okay, okay,
Redoubling, but the shop, my shop, it's like, it's like Michael, Michael fucking Asher! Daniel Buren—a post studio critique of institutional architectural interventions and like, like how that fin de siècle morphology of artistic practice builds, no flourishes, into a unlikely du Champian like activity of skate, rider as author! (despite the current population explosion in skateboarding now avalanches into death of author) and like shop even as expanded site, or an expanded field as Ross Krauss was loath —
Colby you don't have to pitch me.
I'm not pitching you, no ones' pitching anybody.
. . . . . . . .
Hey! Why don't, why don't you put together two flow package boxes. Phat flackering ones. Two phat ones then. Load it, them up, with like everything. I just think getting on their little pirate radio show would be just grand, a great supplement before, for the opening, that's all.
Yeah, right Colby. You and everyone else, but that's not exactly, not exactly how it goes down. That's not how it works,
Grasping for cheap forced ernest New York second,
Oh, Conklin old mule, but I'm sure much stranger things have gone done north of Gramercy, surely . . .
No, no, actually nothing like that has ever happened in the history of the island.
Conklin notices something one may not necessarily be aware of.
Hey man, are you okay. Your twitching more than usual. Hey dude, hey dude, it's all good, it's all good man.
I'm . . . alright, I'm alright, no, no, no . . . I'm cooool . . . Comment dis-tu que je t'aime à en mourir—Christ, do you think, Conklin, do you like think, think when Warhol like got shot by Valerie . . . Solanas it felt—like this bad???
The clittering, glittering Frank Sinatra old Buick New York sparkling pavements blinked stupidly like New Caprisun beach, as leaving the disarray of construction of the store behind (which the store right now, looks more like a Jason Rhode's installation that the Cheyney Thompson kinda feel we're actually aiming for). One needs to catch a breath of air from the spectre of frazzled thinking, from wondering exactly who one would have to embellish to next, wondering precisely what exactly that embellishment would have to be. Remembering Sarah Thorton said something about pre notoriety Kenny Scharf in 80's—if you came upon him on the street, you got to see his automatic robo elevator pitch practiced and tested on you right on the corner. Those must have been the days— God I miss the Old New York, the real New York, that is.
All the way to midtown to walk off the tizzy, started with the same skeptical disbelief at all the babbling ultra economic no man's land of the multiply like virus blighting godless printed signs of cell phone accessories, useless and senseless calling card adverts, faded gyro falafel signs, cheap baby gear and insipid off brand toys, impractical electronic gadgets, unofficial sports memorabilia, disposable scarves with generic NYC patches, inappropriately placed African American grooming product advertisements, a rack of hairnets on the sidewalk in front of the tourist shop, fourth rate pop culture adverts catered directly for immigrants using dumb awkward models, and all the detritus slated instantly to become dated and slated obsolete. Not only was it perplexing the lowest common denominator of late capitalist production found its way here in a city so ostensibly so advanced, there was also the newest, burgeoning insta flim flam also set against it, emerging here also now to compete against for tokens. New low economic emerging shoe brands unrecognizable, twelfth rate Bollywood actors photos that ruin and contaminate now even the idea of anything possessing any merit or integrity. And I wonder now what would the soul of an insect born bourne in war torn region have to say or comment on about such existence on this plane of reality in general?
Just another rock n' roll suicide, I sing to myself sentimentally.
The Eastside buildings way off in the distance were crunched krunched together but each one still looked so lonely.
A dropped girder somewhere off in the distance rumbles.
A horse whinnies.
Cars honking against each other echo through the buildings but it sounds reassuring, confirming a feeling of being nestled safe in the cradle of modernity, despite that historically, people make the decision all on their own to come here only to get murdered by the city.
Reggaeton babbles out of a passing car, vanishing off in its own ludicrous spirit.
An ambulance sounds too loud on a dry run.
A chubby Puerto Rican kid in middle school with smug authority lords onto younger innocent kids.
A man walks on the sidewalk self importantly fussing on cell phone, unaware of shielding his interiority in a tactlessness that projects its own petty spare change insignificance onto the looming center of sun city.
An 80's looking punk girl on the subway projects herself easily available to virtually anybody who comes across her, but is actually one of the most impossible creatures south of 14th Street. Wait, is is that, no but for a second it looked like—
The Chelsea Twins. The Chelsea Twins. And you can tell it's a black widow's nest when you touch it and the web crackles. Christ what was I thinking. Belinda Mulgrave and Maren Cage, tout court hell on wheels tout court, trail of tears—two menacing cawing death rooks, and ever so crafty like ice is cold. Oh, and what hath wrought such the virulent gaze of such venomous pair. Certainly the least sentimental of thr English tuppers, Belinda Mulgrave had resting face scowl and scoldering stare, smile like lathe of languid landed gentry contempt, perfected and bioengineered by descending from British uppercrust family landowner lords for the last 400 hundred years or so. Satanic panic Maren Cage, who could make Anita Pallenberg look like Connie Chung, was the niece of John Cage, but that certainly didn't ever stop her from constantly talking shit about Black Mountain, or disparaging her brain drain uncle. Their show, their pirate radio show, that which, that what, they somehow were able to miraculously engineer in the yellow soup light of some yet to be known room above the reeling foyer of the Chelsea Hotel (as they somehow were also able to deftly alude the FCC), and their pirate radio show may have well just been simply called Set It Up + Shoot It Down, as how Maren would rifle any casual cruel observation right to the edge of resolution, which Belinda would so effortlessly volly in a pitch tossed from Maren to snooker it down so, with surprising accuracy of too ferocious, of too devastating a punch line of some penultimate conclusion and death sentence final nail verdict. As many a man who would be smitten by the charms of the spinster, and such was the moxie, such was the influence they had had with a certain diplomatic political set too—they intuition bash stock punchlines that would make everyone they talked about look simply just as preposterous and as insipid as they all well really all were, and how so so eloquently they mocked in a way no one else could quite characterize quite so well. Such gorgon squackings, such school girl cracked laughter that you want to, wish to hang out with—the Chelsea Twins shooting spree shrapnel casting out and falling down from the radio waves on a not so innocent Gotham. They quoted Malraux—they put the MAL in Malraux, they quoted T.S. Elliot, Churchill, de Man, Edward Said, Hubert Damisch. A lot of blood has streamed under the bridge, and very well to have effected their think-they-are-also-in-the-know little those who dutifully tuned in, as any broadcast could very well easily, and very well did make most feel the ever so intelligent as if in on the quips also. Belinda and Mauren's rent-a-quote devotee army of simp simply just so seduced by the laughing pale wavyvy exacerbated postmodern doom kitsch of the skull and cross bones jester Chelsea Twins logo of it all. Their monstrous reputation was never not mired in controversy—sallow Serbian UN dignitaries, who so pompously advertised themselves as unabashed rabbid fans of Chelsea Twins Show, later, and strangely enough, engineering some very real and very massive besiege of Sarajevo, in what maybe was seemingly conspicuously echoing somehow what C Twins may or may not have had said, as if almost actively signaling and reifying the girl's same wicked weekly broadcasted attitudes, as if diplomatic emissary ambassadors who previously only knew tenth rate foreigner media personalities, were now encouraged by those same recent, pithy comments Maren and Belinda may or may not have made right spot on air. But the attack in Sarajevo had certainly not been the first curious looming doom connection—the confounding and bewildering moves to identify coincidence of whatever geopolitical views the girls may have on a Hornbill or Plover, expressed and then to what paramilitary besiegement of operations in say Baghdad, Kabul, Manila had directly followed, seemingly seeming quite chillingly engineered in response, perhaps, maybe, perhaps maybe not, by the intrigue of overzealous diplomat fan boy Chazs and Tims. The Terror Twins' loose lips bomb ships of Betty's leash influence they reluctantly yielded, undermined crucial stoppages and checkpoints of neoliberal order diplomacy—making all but a mockery of the US foreign services department. To confound matters, the Chelsea Twins would even openly spray poison darts back at those most conspicuous of their emissary of poor fans stans, even after the fact of the diplomat's showed demonstrated fealty, inspired by Maren's and Belinda's horny dark charm ops. Think: not only innocent civilians slaughtered in purportedly Chelsea Twins inspired guilt by association of media over analyzation to the point of their culpability to tactical operations on unstable regions, but then also the double indemnity stuttering of the spurned acting you will always lose ambassadors when alone humiliation, that caused the fan boys to rock back and fourth shell shocked off, when later basically open air dissed by our untamable girls, especially even after their diplomat fans' conspicuous catastrophic show of over solidarity with bruise muse Maren and Belinda. Punishers, punishers is what they referred to their army of cloying clueless diplomat fan boys, not because innocent civilians caught up in their war games were punished, but because of the tediousness and annoyances of fandom, with which was brought to bare on poor Maren and dear Belinda. The Chlelsea Twins still always seemed to come up ahead and more though, and ever the more so powerful in the intrigue of their influence, and it was relentless. More people hated and hated Maren and Belinda, and the ever so more such that their cachet grew to such dizzying amplification. Women despise them, men wanted to be inside them. It's not he who laughs last, it's those who laugh always, their sign off, the mantra of the Chelsea Twins pirate radio show.
The famous, catastrophically taken out of context soundbite of Chelsea Twins, searing them into unprecedented infamy that could make Guy Debord look like Don Delouise, as new type of upenders of political order of influence, as firebombers of hierarchies of media dissemination. That penultimate, catastrophically misappropriated preposterously taken out of context soundbite, featured on network news broadcasts around the world, used as inflammatory Exhibit A against our girls.
Belinda: I heard, didja hear? Apparently a world war had been announced, but it was days ago, I think.
Maren: Ah, tish tosh, sounds like all an incredible bore if you ask me. Linda, can you find me a razor that's not actually so gummed up from chop, my lovely, dear.
Because the Terror Twins were both inheritors of superior genes, superior land grabbing, globe owning patrilineage, both Maren and Belinda had inhabited multiple continents by the time they were both teens, and certainly well versed in the subtle intricacies and Byzantine vicissitudes of geopolitiks, comparative governments, foreign affairs and histories (secret and otherwise) in Europe, the Middle East, Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia, et. al, as so to use to off the cuff bandy about and combine with their advanced Zenith of in-the-now, peak Westernized informed feminine intuition, that no stale donut and office coffee newspaper, or bought for peanuts magazine or little pitiful television network could even so scurry to find acceptable anyone to even but rival to Linda and Ren.
Linda: Any toddy fool knows the end of Modernism, i.e. end of Liberalism came to its puttering end with the Hitler Stalin pact in '26.
Ren: Yes, but the proles, all the quarry are less than so—so no one does know that. And that's why they deserve no money, or no real money at least. Though I must say, I always quite found Stalin a tad knicker dampening, I should say. I'd sure let him shake me around before a good rogering.
Linda: Well, that's the dreadful problem with AMERI-CAN women hun, (inaudible) really do need a good deal skaking from time to time.
The scrolling chyron on Times Square advertised: On Thursday the sun will turn blue, In this unholy matrimony you yourself will perish, Winning fixes everything. The 118,000 square feet screen of out in plain sight Illuminati ad of debutante the size of the side of a building in looped and glitching Bladerunner pt. I slow motion, holds in her hand a tiny man in tuxedo with top hat, torturing him with a giant pearl needle for the public to see.
It's like the eerie dark phaser like sound of portending animated generic studio logo of movie production company that comes on in the theatre right before the movie commences, was bracing, and bewildered me as a kid—there was something sinister and deferred about it's chilling dim scrim graphic authorial absence, and how it was mechanically dispatched out now, in all its bizarre dark clinicality—and I'd be scared to be in the movie theatre alone. If something so frightening could be so clunkily, yet forcibly dispatched before a movie, then what other cold electronic anaconda like chirping horror could be let loose by production mechanization onto the caught off guard fraught public?
Right on the edge of where Times Square ends, feels like the end of time vaguely, or like the foreclosure of something, and this is like right where it ends, a vision, a hallucination of thought, comes to me of like a theatre, or a dilapidated pirate ship stage that had been abandoned and left derelict but still existed with the ghosts of all it's now prostate past performances. The first time I went to NY as a teenager, in this very same area, I saw a page wheat pasted of Jenny Holzer truism sentences (I had no idea who she was at the time), but I was perplexed about the seeming randomness, even futility of the sign bill gesture—as if some obscure person who resided somewhere near around had hopelessly posted the page of trawling sentences dripping in their impossible posterity.
As Joyce went blind as a result of his body revolting against his over obsessive compulsive working methods, blinking endlessly and ceaselessly at page. And when book was done, he went back and self masochistically added commas chiseled into Finnegan's Wake and it's no wonder his eyes eventually refused to see. James Joyce worked like lotus addict, so much to unintended effect of erasing himself.
I mean, I mean, is that what's like happening to me in the Bermuda Triangle void moment where the aura of atmosphere of time travel becomes activated, when you feel passing through the an historical past in New York for a moment, and then it is over and you probably forget about it. As there are moments that come and pass as seemingly experiencing the temporality of a Victorian New York historical Time.
But now and now, I am as hopeless as unvetted formalism, as offbrand as big city parochialism, and happenings can only be good when it's used to pre-game or if you need somewhere to hide while wigging on drugs, and poetry should only be read in a room where the audience in attendance are more concerned with being seen, and zines look better with advertisements, and graffiti is too naked no matter what is ever done with it (or in it), like all electric guitar players without drummers are homeless, and being a sculptor isn't art because there's too many tools, and love songs written never win over the intended as love songs are squalid when sung to the already won over.
And Patty Smith became famous right when, like right when and because of cutting her hair herself. And Bob Dylan was the first great greatest postmodern miracle. And Warhol had the love of the very best looking boy in New York, who in the end wasn't enough, like the Garden of Eden wasn't enough. And Rap is the crack cocaine of music, Rock N' Roll needed practice to flourish but was killed by practice and/or killed by flourishing. Nobody wanted to see a band played by stable couples in a relationship, because it went against the heart of what the songs were supposed to be doing, just like pretty girls strumming solo are never even remotely believable.
Like the feeling of being at the end of Times Square, or the feeling of being in Galveston, the edges of the center of the universe may be sites of ruptured glitched time, in a way that is immeasurable and imperceptible to most. This is a true story. The first time I visited New York as a teenager, when we first arrived, we went straight to our hotel suite at The Mayflower. For a reason that makes no sense at all, the first thing I did was take a midday nap, which makes absolutely no sense, as to why would I be compelled to sleep upon just getting in a city so immediately beckoning it's own exploration. But during spell of sleep I was stricken with, I had an extreme sleep paralysis half awake moment, that was extremely traumatic and disturbing, as if retarded into glitched limbo, where I was hovering just slightly over my body, feeling like I was disembodied in a gasping handicapped stalled purgatorial wail, that I desperately begged to be freed from immediately. What also makes no sense, but seems indicative of the times, was my mom and I then left the hotel to see a movie of all things—quite a prosperous and lame thing for first arriving tourists to do, in what is such a real life cinematic city. The movie we saw was newly released Forrest Gump and with that movie, I really had no idea what to expect. I was catastrophically in love with my school mate named Jenny (who later in my thirties I would make great pains to court and marry, but to no avail)—I didn't have the intellectual capacity to consciously read or interpret Tom Hanks being a sort of symbolic secular son of God everyman center of the Western world at the time. The movie ends in the resolution that perpetually spurned by Jenny, friend zoned Gump would never have her, which caused me to intuit my ultimate fate with my friend who I was convinced was my soulmate which really, I could never connect with her in that essential way, partly out of my own teenage stupidity, that I can barely even now forgive myself for (actually, I cannot forgive myself), though I was not conscious of the actual direct correlation of the futility of Jenny with my personal life then, as I was by that time just otherwise so innocently sucked into the story, But something inside of me, my subconscious knew it correlated with my school mate, and I would end up convulsing in a never before, never since, fit of violently restrained and held back the energy trying to escape my chest holding bracing back cries, as I was physically buckling in the seat next to anonymous stranger (the theatre was to mid day capacity and my mom and I had to sit apart)—the energy inside me, plunging pavlovian, from the stirred stimulation of my response from the phatic image story projected in such Plato's cave, as I was fighting my body, gripping the armrest in holding back crys (which again, has never happened before or since), in trying to be discrete next to the stranger I was sitting next to, as if it was a different kind of pornography.
And the only thing I ever remember in church was chanting:
(Tom Hanks)
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the earth, have mercy on us
Lamb of God (Tom Hanks), you take away the sins of the earth, have mercy on us
Lamb of God (Tom Hanks), you take away the sins of the earth, have mercy on us
And such this hokey story, hokey center of universe everyman Tom Hanks, was somehow a pre-purging of some ultimate defeat that I would yet still have to contend against, try to resolve much later as an adult, but very well fail, now living as supralapsarianism spectre of my own short comings and defeat, as fate is fated, it would all end the same. And if Jesus came back, what form would he take? Tom Hanks cleansed my sins, by in advance articulating and sublimating a personal similar dynamic in my life, and finding me some resolve and if but not just some relief through my watching of Forrest Gump.
And as a kid, I was easily charmed by retail space—it was in the spare, flattened, mediation these neutral commerce zones evoked, and how they were universally accessible as some commons. The material production, though virtually anything other than what I saw at face value which I knew nothing about, I found reassuring. As a kid, tagging along with parents, I would go to the absolute limits past the artifice of the constructed displays, as if seeking the edge of the universe—which could involve going behind displays, standing on slightly elevated mannequin displays, going into the middle of circular clothes racks. The closest to behind the scenes, were in the dressing room sections, where you would see the stored, otherwise concealed retail supplies, unused display signs, bins of rectangular-ish plastic anti-theft badges, clothes hangers, tested sticker gun shot labels against formica consoles like target practice. Sometimes I would catch glimpses of the hard reality of the banged and scuff dented service hallways leading to the docks, but would not think about it once it was out of view. In the children’s shoe section there was an elaborate constructed for-play pirate ship built against the expanse of back wall that I appreciated. It was that adults went out of their way to make the fort or fortress, that made no other sense other than for entertaining the kids with parents out shopping. Now it makes me think of du Champ’s proclamation, its posterity that makes the masterpiece and in some way, as I as child appreciated and was reassured by such gesture, though I had no way of verbalizing or thinking about it in concrete sentence of thoughts.
As AA meetings were just a logical grown up progression of these for-child retail spaces, the characteristic limits and flatness I appreciated in retail zones as a kid, in AA I found so boring and unappealing. Even the AA big book just seemed like a dummy prop, and the stories in the back fake—psychoanalysis was never addressed, compulsive libidinal drives predicting behavior was never explored (sometimes that was the function of the habit of drinking) and there was complete absence of art and poetry (despite the lies AA members shared in every meeting). Once, I went to an a AA meeting stoned earlier from the day, and I forgot I had somehow previously agreed to lead a meeting, and I led the meeting like an a AA mannequin surrogate. I was now like the pirate ship in the children’s shoe section of the department store.
Mamamia! I completely totally forgot about the Interview Magazine interview at Washington Square was precisely today and precisely now. That was forty five New York minutes ago (in NY, as regular minutes are twice as fast—late NY minutes are sixteen times longer) and I can feel them packing up their camera gear now, breaking down the light stands. A subway, a subway, I need to find the nearest express subway depot!
The line from Paul's Boutique, Jump the turnstiles, never pay the toll, rings to myself as I do just that—and then I realize for the very first time, the shoppe had been organized subconsciously all in the same spirit, in tandem, in connection of the non-existing dummy prop Paul's Boutique.
Just be coool compadre, you was supposed to, supposed to rehearse, you didn't even rehearse your answers, because of fucking Dakota, and then you just had to walk it off and you fell waking sleep into the ghost world Bermuda Triangle slumber of the vectors of commerce at the junction of center of universe, Time Square, in a poststructural postmodern oblivion.
The monstrosity intestine of tunnels is calming. The crumbling of the infrastructure takes on an historic dimension—like real life overused Disneyland River Styx land of dead for grown ups. Jogging my head for Fluxus bullet points I see—Its Maren! Oh. my god, it's Maren god is dead Cage of all people right now standing hostile alone in the waving subway car ride!! Maren Cage riding the wind tunnels with us mere mortals now!
It's known she's purportedly psychic, you know. And why is she here?? She's probably going—downtown. Wait, is that Maren, no, that's totally, Maren, unmistakably Maren—more Maren then Maren, as if real life here, she is hyper really more Maren than Maren to the now banal seeming media images of her I've, we've been inundated with.
Maren coup de foudre Cage, naked in the wild! Characteristically elegantly tousled, and without her usual munitioned Dominican bodyguards. She's probably going to the lower east side to cop dope, or no, she probably has an assistant run errands for like that. Maybe she's meeting with her agent—no, no, that's not right, because her agent's office is midtown. No, she's coming back from meeting her agent. It's curious, or it makes me think, she's not with her malformed/deformed freak cartoon mutant pitbull/bulldog mix with head bigger than human and sociopathically relaxed baby eyes, Chutney. It's certainly hard to imagine Chutney ever being a service dog on the subway here.
Look dude, now is the perfect moment to just go up to her, to just say like what's up, just tell her about the shoppe thats all! and—hey! invite her to the opening! This is it. The universe, god, has lain it right out for you, and all you have to do is just walk a few pence feet and have, spark, penny a conversation to ask god herself to come.
No big deal. Don't be such a retard, as Maren would say.
Do it, cum-on baby, just do it pussy. It hammertime.
Dude-miester, your are at the height of you're ascendence in you're arrival onto like the world stage—'the show' as they would seem to call it. And just look at you, you look, you are, are, your peak Colby Carter. Look at your're peak phase coiffed vesture—English seaside port Susan George inspired Strawdogs peacoat (a veritable costume piece to go with your apartment at the Dakota), basic white white horny horn jeans, and although you'd prefer to be wearing your Brooks Brothers penny loafers that look seductively like toy plastic (your third pair in a row), you are ironically wearing a pair of Air Jordan 6's that you didn't even want (but works somehow) because of the construction of the shoppe site, as it also embodies the city common spirit home in NY peak economy EZ sensible street chic proletariat notion of celebrity everyman walker culture.
Sidling towards Maren, Maren looks right at me and then her eyes bullit back down like this is something she's quite used to—not a good sign. Despite bravura egging on and needling international elected officials to willy nilly wage war operations on vulnerable, unstable regions, and all depending on the flux of second to second battlefield field waging erratic flights of fancy change of her moods belted over public airwaves—maybe she's just really just shy irl. Maybe she would want to talk to me, if she knew, like knew me : /
Maren, I say softly.
Maren the jinx looks away sideways out the black window stricken with absolutely purposeless illegible carved graffiti window scratchings and scrawlings, a claustrophobic look on Ren's mask.
I had to force myself this far, now my will has become misdirected, and instead of giving up, like I shoulda done, I'm now forcing my will onto her, abandoning prior forbearance which was, is, exactly what I did not want to be doing seconds ago. Civilians minimized the successful by discounting it just amounts to who they knew, yes indeed that is how it works, but little do they realize, it's in the Russian roulette of striving the treacherous gulf in making such essential connections, is where the real art work, or should I say real art suffer really occurs—surely, it is not practicing plonking bass lines to accompany along some Pat Metheny record, while safely stoned and warm in their haven of one's own mother's basement.
Maren,
Nothing.
Maren, Doll,
Marred Maren looks right at me with Kostonic scourn now, that's right off a movie screen.
Go fluff yourself Peewee, now sod off!
Maren proceeds away to the next car and vanishes, just like, exactly like, a movie in 70's police procedural New York.
Hey angel, consider your position
Framed to be consumed
Savory
Savoring your sympathy
Hey angel, fly over and bless me
See you feign surprise
That I'm all eyes
And you're all you need to be
Hey angel, whatever position
We consider fit to put you in
You'll protest your complicity
Walking up and out of the subway stop and feeling peak low—I repair myself with clinging to the yearning of song. Surely, I'm the first person to exit a subway this obliterated, this, fucked beyond recognition, I feel as hacked and displaced as the Ghent Altarpiece.
An hour and fifteen minutes late and those losers from Interview Magazine are still at Washington Square. They're still here! Ah, ha, ha, ha. So pathetic. It's exactly like the scene in Kids, but the square is desolate. It's just like the scene in When Harry Met Sally, except there is no Harry getting out of road trip car and saying goodby to Sally, who he won't see again for many years.
Hey Colby! You made it!
Yeah, yeah it's cool.
Was there a mix up in times scheduling? Our apologies—but, no, we're really thrilled you could make it.
Yeah, whatever okay, let's just get this . . . over with.
No, no, sure, we're ready to go whenever you are.
A photographer starts shooting impromptu photos unannounced, which is actually a sign that it's a good photographer, but I stop him and tell him, if they want a photo for the feature, to get one selected by my archivist.
Okay, well, your opening you're shoppe this weekend—a shop where nothing is for sale, an objectless wunderkammer permanent site specific installation, which recalls Molly Nesbit's idea of 'the mastery of the tyranny of the shop window' in her social history, Their Common Sense from 2000, by Black Dog Publishing. This shoppe space is organized in coordination with Dia Foundation Chelsea, and will exist a lot like Smithson's Earth Room. It's curious Earth Room with it's multifarity of dirt, and you're shoppe with it's conspicuous lack of product.
I don't want to talk about the shoppe.
Okay. Well, you are the first serious practitioner to but emerge who understands the minutiae of and have grown up inside of skateboarding culture tout court, the real crack cocaine skateboarding as you put it, while other contemporary artists have only just been able to appropriate skateboarding, you have embodied it, taken on a Richard Serra like post studio working methodology, reframing a working suffusion of full submersion of rigourous serial operations, and also you're (your) lyrical and delightful meditations on the phenomenology of the act itself. Maurice Merleau-Ponty's Phenomenology of Perception obviously comes to mind, how it's identical to Sartre's existentialism, and by your extension, your transitive post minimalist expression of the transformative dimension of riding out a trick changed by never before done roll away, articulated in such unexpected, compelling way, as you have also now found affinities with precedents, with which to reframe and make vital connections to this otherwise outsider subcultural activity, and, as you are able to sufficiently re-frame it, ground it and articulate within a broader an historical art context Western teleology.
Yeah, yeah, next question.
Is there anything wrong, Colby? You seem a bit disgruntled.
I'm not disgruntled. I'm in a real good mood, actually.
Oh, okay. Sure. Good. Well. Well, you've recently moved to New York, and you live in the Dakota with novelist Zooey Donavan. How has—
I'm not talking about Zooey. Next question.
They say a poem written is a poem found, and it certainly seems that way in your writing. Is there—
Poems, I don't write poems. I'm not a poet.
Well, wouldn't you agree that the lyrical quality and the connections you make, typify classic conventions of poetic form.
No, no, not at all. I just put down what I see right there.
But as a writer—
Writer? I'm not a writer, who said I was a writer?
Well, you have been published in peer reviewed journals, so . . .
Yeah, but that doesn't make me a writer necessarily.
Then what does it make you.
I don't know, a scribe maybe.
Interesting. I like that.
They call you du Champ's heir apparent. How do you feel about this designation.
I'm fine with it, it doesn't bother me. I think he would have appreciated skateboarding, how it exists autonomously, where the art sphere cannot, will not accept anything unless it's gone through or been through the handicap ramp wringer of institutionalized, or like, the everyone has access to vacation resort of the academy institutionalization. Not that I like bumkin art sold on the street market or outside Central Park either, no, but still. I do feel art must be somewhat academic though. But in America, or especially in America today, and you can quote me on this: THERE IS NO AVANT-GARDE.
What about Richard Serra?
He's not avant-garde anymore. He's old hat I'm afraid, he's from sixties. A long, long time ago.
Okay, what about Matthew Barney.
I like him, I like Matthew. But he's too tethered to academia also. Too too oblique. He's Yale expired, larping as avant-garde, he's always been. His entire career is having to play along with his avant-garde cos play. I mean appropriating Norman Mailer for christsakes, implying guilt by association, was never once ever convincing to me. To like him, you have to just make the conscious conversional leap to just accept him on his very bombastic terms. And some people, a lot of people, quite frankly, just don't wanna. There is no just casually liking him, I mean, maybe there is, but actually–I like him though, I like him a lot.
You'rre detractors, you're critics say you are just shoe horning skateboarding, that it's similar to the self negation graffiti artists vying so desperately to be something they're not, in contradicting the very essence of their practice to enter into the machinations of galleries in the early eighties. But because graffiti lacks the formal philosophical buttressing, or even some essential allegorical bent that serious American Art has been established on and demands.
My detractors? Who's saying that??
Well, T.J. Clark for one.
T.J. Clark. T.J. Clark. T.J. Clark couldn't get lain in a mattress factory.
Well, he is—
Yeah, yeah, I know. I know. Well, maybe I'm not cooking noodles for the public like Rirkrit Tiravanija. But he [Clark] uses his incredible art history expertise to brow beat with his educational shopkeeper almost parodic male 'literal' instincts of what he thinks modernism is or was or should be, that I find quite frankly, unimaginative—artless, dare I say. He's like one of those reactionary working knowledge political pundits, who lives in the field of politics and know the day to day so thoroughly, so you just have to then go with their otherwise ill-formed instincts, because they will so ruthlessly prove you wrong on some technicality that they use like card of spade. Things are more complicated and require a lot more than just experience and knowledge. The world requires a whole lot more.
But his criticism lobbed at you was, 'hobbyist'.
When did he say that?? Hobbyist—yeah so what. Yeah, right, exactly! That's what he can't see past and that's precisely where he's wrong. Yeah, I am a hobbyist! So was du Champ! Du Champ's roto reliefs displayed at vulgar inventor's conventions, away from the vulgarities of the galleries? Away form the Alexandrianism of the Armory! Was not his final masterpiece, Étant donnés, just one long surreptitious private hobby?? Du Champ wasn't even a surrealist technically, he walked all alone brotherless really, just like me. So here's my contribution. Here's my contribution to the Western Canon! Okay? I'll just go spell it out in Interview Magazine of all places, Christ. Look at the Fluxus Art - Amusement dictum. So what about that? To establish artist's nonprofessional standing in society. Skateboarding. Must demonstrate artist's dispensability and inclusiveness. That's skateboarding. To demonstrate the self sufficiency of the artist. Skateboarders. To demonstrate anything can be art and that anybody can do it. For better and worse, that's skateboarding. It says, it says, art-amusement must be simple, amusing, unpretentious, concerned with insignificances, require no skill or countless rehearsals. That sure as hell sounds like skateboarding, right there. Have no commodity or institutional value. Riding a skateboard alone on the boulevard. The value of art-amusement must be lowered by making it unlimited, mass produced, obtainable by all and eventually produced by all. So there it is.
Yeah, but one would say those qualifiers are not exactly in line with—
Doesn't matter. I'm not saying Fluxus wasn't a total bore. But Fluxus, I'm pretty sure the last time I checked, is still considered art qua art. So T.J.'s little opinion doesn't really matter, now does it? I just proved it right there. That's ultimately my contribution to the field. Hopefully I can crack it further open, for but new voices to finally emerge.
When Zooey and I moved to the city, we met with a woman who wanted us to, who practically insisted upon us moving into an apartment complex, some apartment complex called the Dakota—different from my architect Dakota. When we arrived and met the brass-hat therapist aunt New Yonker realtor out front, the first thing she pointed to mention was, we were standing right on the invisible spot on the pavement right where, like right on, right where John Lennon was murdered, and you know how much I hate the Beatles, so that sold me right there sign unseen—I took it as a sign from the universe.
Ah, first marital bliss, what a change it makes in a gent, what a magnificent revealed secret seed it manifests from, that which one previously carried with them around privately. Zooey, she was uncategorizable, as there is very little doubt she displays mortal notion of some uncanny zaum figurine. She loves as a skylark sings, or as rose blows from meadow lock.
One could be safe to bet Zoe, a noble woman of condition, was crafty, as she certainly knew all the moves, as the night when I had first met her, I was playing records and how so she demonstrated in fitted peak, how indeed she knew all the grooves. She existed in a way that defied all practical logic. Art arhat Zooey Donovan by name, was some living pin prick in the cosmos size god sun portal, reflecting, radiating, projecting all potential possible good, unto which some multiplicity of testament to what a universe can infinitely conjure all on its very own, as if she may be direct answer to some forgotten, rarely now ever asked eternal question—and if you think about it, curtains laced with diamonds dear for you Zooey was just bright as hell.
Once every six weeks, upon Zooey's own administering, we would great re-set ourselves and snort juicy spreckled sharded golden heroin in our palatial apartment—but only once every six weeks by Zooey's own characteristic organized and very strict enforcing. And by these wonderful circumstances, because Zooey was terribly organized, her forbearance allowed our pilant feels like kissing god weaving of eloquence of domain of pastures that otherwise would seem impossible to otherwise experience in this dimension without the gold powdered gale.
After throwing up, I absolutely feel like the reedy saw dust throat of the carved welding sparrow off the hearth in our parlour room, feeling quite surreal into the loan words we now share and claques erasure in which we now find solace. And with Zooey and I's now private insular world here, in an historic apartment that annexes up anyone who enters, even the ghosts wanted to stick around. The appointed interiors were the product of hundreds of thousands of transhistorical human peasant hand hours, that it could make even Selena Gomez or Jennifer Lopez look bourgeois, well, actually, maybe the interior of our apartment could never be so nice.
Zooey plucked with ivory hand the small antique hot metal box over candle, if you were able to heat the dust just so, in a way that neither blanches nor tarnishes it, with no vapurization escape, snorting hot dust makes it considerably more effective—similar to eating hot food, but much, much better. And when she prepared the dust, no one else but Zooey, was allowed to smoke while she was in the room.
I'm sure it's going to all come together in the eleventh hour. Zooey rotating the handle carefully, as if winding a music box.
You know, I always wondered why exactly they called it the eleventh hour. The eleventh hour? Shouldn't it be like the twenty third hour?
Your such a retard.
I mean no one gets it, no one is going to get it, the entire enterprise is marred under the veil of connoisseurship.
Connoisseurship only sounds tawdry to the uninitiated, I always say, Zooey optimistically inspecting the grains.
But, no one is going to exactly—
Well imagine if Viking Eggeling, hell, Walter Ruttmann had said the same thing? Then where then would we be? Look—not everyone can exactly see form is particularly inseparable from content, or that sometimes form even effects content, and that's okay. You quite knew that going in.
Those proles, they don't even read the journal, October—they think October is a month of the year where the little kiddies go trick or treating. Those idiots.
No, totally.
And Dakota that panty sniffer, today you know what he, you know what he tried to pull—
Colby, your a panty sniffer,
Hey, that's not—you know what I mean . . .
No, I know your mien . . . cass sniffer.
Well, he said or, no, get this, get this, he was trying to tell me, to like tell me, that he couldn't run line for the front desk because of shiplap, which I know is a big fat lie.
Zooey making sure the dust doesn't get baked and caked, pours it over delicate onto the opium tray.
I was seething, they confronted me in hostility, as if this was the first day they even pondered what the shoppe is—or how, and, or were skeptical even about how it indeed traverses the usual conventions of most artists.
Well, the closest thing most artists have to a body of work these days is stretched earlobes . . .
I was in my office trying to fix a broken guitar string, while Zooey was far off on the other side of the wing.
Colby, Colby,
Running to the west wing furthest side from Central Park.
Zooey is innocently listening to Chelsea Girls in the kitchen on the radio in the 7pm Victorian baker's kitchen, dicing celery with her glass of Chards.
What
Did you say, or didn't you say you wanted Conks to send Belinda and Maren a flow pack,
What. I mean I told him, but I didn't' think, or think that—
It sounds as if they're de boxing something on air.
What!
It sounds like the Chelsea Terrors got the package, are taking it, ripping it apart live on air!
Oh, Jesus, Peter, Paul and Mary! Turn it off! Turn it off!
Zooey fixed the dial in a way that said no way Jose— she was not not going to hear this ephemeral heard one time only broadcast.
Ah, what's this, Jerkin' Jordan, brilliant one, spud.
Not only was too-good-of-a-job-Conklin able to get the box to them today (he actually had an end in with C Twins, which I well knew about when I hired him), he picked one of the most rare decks, from storage we were temporarily using, in the back at Supreme on Lafayette—the vintage collector item Fucked Up Blind Kids Jerkin' Jordan Richter OG Blind original, which was completely unnecessary (When Prime Wood did a reissue of the Fucked Up Blind Kids series later, they did not produce but even one Richter because he went all Cat Stevens, when he retired himself and did not, no longer wanted to have such luridly groundbreaking effigy of representation.)
Just what am I ever supposed to use this this for,
Maybe a television tray for you're brekkie perhaps, dear
I suppose I can give it away as door prize when I have some homeless person or tourist I pick up right off Upper Broadway or from the San Remo to spend the night, give it to a prisoner fresh leaving Rikers I have over . . .
Goodmorning sunshine. Here, take this. Now leave. Immediately.
No, or maybe you could give it to one of your Johns.
Have ten have-a-goes with me, and on the tenth, I shall grant you a coupon for raffle for a naked skateboard without the wheels that can't be ridden, kinda like me.
Did ya hear that, she said she's gonna snuff it! And what have we here? Socks more socks. Spitfire wheels branded socks, oh, lovely, just what I wanted, though, personally I must say I prefer a swallow . . .
Big enough for a dead baby kitten, I hope.
You hear she said? If you wanna send us gifts, we need more body bags.
Clearly Belinda and Meren were operating at top pro forma, able to virtually adlib on the spot and use the box Conklin sent, as occasion to go into their classic incendiary Linda and Ren schtick, and it's actually quite hilarious and remarkable as usual, how they are able to react in such fashion of their usual swaggering airs. But one is still left catastrophically horrified. Mortified, frankly. Chastened from earlier today on the subway, as the tarnished brass-mortarboards in the parlour room are too far gone, I as well cannot now see past my own self inflicted firsthand secondhand embarrassment. Even being juiced and sluced to the gull temples off the now waining of the finest Isfahan heroin this side of the Central Park West, which sadly, can offer sorry very little solace now—I need a mega bump, mega pint.
That was real cute, don't you think that was cute, Zooey frugally putting the bits of celery into the colander.
No, not madly,
Oh, what's wrong now, you . . .
I didn't tell you, but I was running late to the Interview interview and I had to take an express elevator to get their, and guess what, chance operations Maren was in the elevator car, my elevator car . . .
I knew something was aloft ever since you got home . . .
So what happened.
I mustered all I could, I mean I did, I went up to her, actually went up to her . . .
And she was a total snot I take it?
She told me in very certain terms to go eat my own batch practically.
That's awesome.
No, it's not that's awesome, the madness of her gaze absolutely shattered me, was shattering . . .
Well, that's New York for ya, wake up and smell the espresso babe . . .
Well, but, I used the negative energy for the Interview interview, which actually went quite well . . .
Oh, yeah you didn't say how it went. How did it go?
Nevermind that. It's just . . . isn't it funny, it's just real funny . . .
What is . . .
The funny part is is all day I walk around with people blubbering and flubbering around me, vying in currying for my favor, and the one person, the only one person here who's like approval I so desperately seek, invites me to perform on myself.
Hey, what about my approval.
Well, I should say, you certainly don't count.
Well, I . . .
Oh, stop it with the histrionics, you very well know what I mean. You know your my Muse, I cannot make work, simply refuse to live without you.
No, I know, I'm just giving you shit . . .
Swoop, swoop, baby rock, rock
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