before.yesterday.then.back then.earlier.previously.prior to. formerly.

My favorite musicians. Gabe Evens, now in Miami and Todd Baker near Boston. Before the recession. Before. Before. Before.

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The Game

Don’t they disgust you? The fakes? Those people who mess with your head and then, when you call them on it, plead innocent? “Gee, what are you talking about? You’re projecting. You’re over-sensitive. You’re neurotic. You’re paranoid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Par example: local editor of rag newspaper takes me to lunch to discuss a possible column. Asks that I prepare a few columns for review. I write the columns. He says they aren’t right for the newspaper. I write more columns, later, and e-mail the columns to him. He doesn’t respond. I e-mail him again and ask why he didn’t respond. A curt reply:
I receive over 100 e mails a day and can’t respond to all of them, anyway, I am not the one who makes the decisions about articles. That is so and so.” This is the kind of bullshit that we all deal with every day of our lives. I could email the guy back and say, “well, maybe you get 100 emails a day, but you don’t get 100 emails a day from a broad that you took to lunch and discussed a possible column with. — As though the lunch never took place. As though the slob never insinuated that I was “special” and my writing was “good” — You might say this is an insignifigant example, but it isn’t. It is the kind of mind warping passive-aggressive crap that causes stress because there will never be an honest, valid response to our good instincts- – just denial cloaked in a saccharine smile. It’s not that I take it personally. I know better. Who cares, anyway? Well, I don’t actually care that much. I just wanted to call attention to that which is subversively annoying – The Fakes. The funny thing is, they think we don’t get it. They think they’re home free- and they’re home free in that they ARE getting away with it — because they don’t really care if we know the truth or not. They’ve got clout. They feel safe and secure in their bullshit arena. The artist’s responsibility is to hold a mirror to these uglies although they really ARE safe because there is no valid proof of guilt beyond our own intuition. The fakes rule the world, they think, but they do not understand that to the rest of us they are laughable and pathetic. But we will continue to e-mail, because we strive for the goodies they can provide. They know it and that is The Game.  

Where are my sunglasses?

Not these. These are from the dollar store. A year ago I had a pair of 500 dollar sunglasses, bi-focals, tortoise shell, green tinted. I lost them two weeks later. I wear dollar store sunglasses that warp my perception of reality as though I were watching life through a glass of rum. I punish myself with these dollar store glasses because I lost the good glasses. I am going to force myself to wear dollar store sunglasses for the rest of my life. I am going to wear them at night, in bed, swimming, washing my face. I will be seeking enlightenment through these glasses, slightly unbalanced, off-put, squinting until slowly blinded by the white light everybody talks about when they get cancer or divorced. Brazenly I will feel my way forward, on hands and knees, clawing the dirt, upwards to the cliffs, and over the rainbow.  will not be crawling into New York again because I do not have a shoe rack. I can only pray that AS220 accepts my application for an artists living space in Providence. People in Providence have, on average, only three pairs of shoes.

Where is my LIFE???

It seemed natural. Paris. Chocolate. Cabaret. Red lipstick. good bread. cheap wine. flea markets. suade jackets. berets. smelly cheese. Easy as pie. Simple as 1-2-3. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED??????????????????????????????????????????//