Archive for August, 2010

More On Patti Smith

August 29, 2010

I have adopted a new style icon as a result of reading Just Kids.  Smith writes:

“Possibly the most influential person we met at the Chelsea was Sandy Daley.  She was a warm and somewhat reclusive artist who lived next to us in room 1019.  It was a completely white room; even the floors were white.  We had to take off our shoes before we entered.  Silver helium pillows from the original Factory drifted and suspended above us.  I had never seen such a place.  We sat barefoot on the white floor and drank coffee and looked at her photography books.  Sandy sometimes seemed a dark captive in her white room.  She often wore a long black dress and I liked to walk behind her so as to observe her hem trailing the hallway and the staircase.

Sandy had spent much time working in England, the London of Mary Quant, plastic raincoats and Syd Barrett.  She had long nails and I marveled at her technique of lifting the arm of the record player so as not to damage her manicure.”

Sunday Poem!

August 29, 2010

On Reading Patti Smith’s Memoir Just Kids

It’s a shame that advances in technology

have done so much to destroy the romantic art

of kleptomania.

Consider the Source

August 24, 2010

“God help us all when your progeny hits this earth.”  ~ my BOYFRIEND

Operative Word is “Craving”

August 24, 2010



August 22, 2010

This is going to be a new category!  Thank you, Annie Dillard, for this title!

Everyone loves talking about/thinking about their dreams (there’s a whole industry) but no one really likes hearing about them.  So, seeing as I don’t think anyone reads my blog (and if you do and don’t care to hear about my dreams, then fucking SKIP THIS ENTRY!) I’ll just post ’em up here when they bug me out a little.  See also: my burqa dream from eight months ago or so.

Last night:

I married my boyfriend’s friend, who himself is engaged.  He gave me a ring that looks like a cheap-o version of the one I currently wear and never take off, and I felt a little chagrined by the lack of originality on his part.

Completely and horrendously broke, I found some machine that gave me sixty-six dollars when I inserted my passport into it, and once the ones were finished being spit out of the slot, the live Indian woman inside shook her head at me, “No.”

I decided to reorganize my sundries drawer, which was full of tiny little buttons, jewelry boxes, and socks.

Finally, for a split second I was an alter-self, a Manson girl, contemplating how to leave the cult without getting killed.  I succeeded by fleeing to a Starbucks in the rain.

It Could Be Worse

August 20, 2010

You could be so broke you’re considering answering those foot fetish party ads on Craigslist.


Beginning the Campaign to Attend Art Basel, 2010

August 19, 2010

Shortly to be sent to PR people at all major, fancy Miami hotels.

To Whom It May Concern:

Greetings!  We are the Well Dressed Refugees, a tribe of breathtakingly beautiful youths with biting wits, fantastic hair-dos and fierce spirits who act as a collective art cooperative devoted to upstaging the simulated “real” with the real real .  We had our debut late this past year at Miami’s Art Basel, during which our highly acclaimed piece “Untitled #76” was in the Convention Center.  Since then, we have exhibited at the Palace Gallery in Brooklyn, New York, ____ in Los Angeles, and Gallerie de Osgood in Miami, published a small ‘zine and begun plans for massive theater pieces that will span numerous countries, socio-economic milieus and spheres of consciousness.
As a hotel employee or manager, you may or may not be aware of the contemporary meta-art world and its focus, which is imbuing everything with a joyous abandon and sense of deep yet whimsical spiritual purpose.  This announcement is made completely devoid of condescension; in fact, we thought that considering you yourself are an artist, creating constantly and prolifically, it might be beneficial for you to be made aware of the glory of your own accomplishments, as well as those of your colleagues (everyone.)  As a group, the WDR has met with unparalleled success in spreading exhilaration and orgasmic confusion wherever we go, and therefore we would like to offer our services as Meta-Artists-in-Residence to you.
The marketing concept of the pretty, mischievous hotel dweller(s) is not a new one.  What would the venerable Plaza Hotel be without plucky little Eloise?  (We have an exact doppelganger, F to the YI.)  Or the Algonquin without the drunkards at the Round Table?  (Repeat last parenthetical.)  The Chelsea without Andy Warhol’s meth head starlets?  (You get the picture.)  BORING, that’s what they’d be.  There is a long tradition of the libertine-in-residence, and with us, you can get five for the price of one!  We can pour drinks, drink drinks, and play bongos.  Plus we can guarantee you some really fantastic and entertaining activities, including but not limited to spontaneous meditation sessions, organizing hotel guests for giant games of Manhunt, and, if you have a pool, synchronized swimming routines complete with flowered caps and old lady nose plugs.  We can also assure a guest appearance by none other than actor-turned-pretentious-performance-art-champion James Franco, a dear friend, and Mickey Rourke, who always bring the ladeez. No assembly required.
A small anecdote, by way of parting: during the weekend of our grand premiere, we saw a pretty though dull-looking girl lapping in the pool at a hotel to remain nameless.  She removed half her bathing suit, exposed her breasts unenthusiastically and sat beneath a small fountain of water looking rather listless and unhappy.  Later on, she confessed to one of us that the hotel “sometimes paid” her to swim around.  Our collective response is: come on, guys, you can do better than that!  Treat your guests like intelligent, post modern beings; bait them with Baudrillard, not boobs!  Not that we’re against a titty flash now and then, but we just want to be upfront about the fact that we set the bar high, and will inevitably attract people just like us: glamorous, immortal, highly cultured and, as our title indicates, blindingly fashionable.
To discuss rates, references and programs in production, please contact ID at

Wishing you filthy dreams and a million cupcakes,


End of the Summer Bluez

August 17, 2010

So I have no money left, have applied for a million jobs in the past month with no responses, and am saddled with a non-paying assignment to review the work of a very established and prolific poet whose work I’ve never really read before and I fear is over my head.  FML!  White Girl Problems!  All other funny blogs!  And now I’m watching Jesus Camp, so I must be a glutton for punishment.  Here’s one person who can always make me giggle:

A stroke of genius.  I decide to be Degas for a day.  Edgar Degas.  Why Degas? says a pesky at the back of my head.  Well, why not Degas?  Pourquoi pas Degas?  Maybe the prismatic bars of color on my ceiling have inspired me.  Maybe the creamy white light spreading on my walls has moved me.  Maybe it’s all this cheap French wine I been drinking.  Anyway I don’t have to explain myself.  Yes!  Today, I will be Edgar Degas! –– Is it Edgar or Edouard?  Okay, so I don’t know much about Degas.  Let’s see.  Dead, French, impressionist painter of, what, jockeys, ballerinas, flowers, that kinda thing.  And okay granted, I’m not French, dead or a painter of any kind.  Not a lotta ground.  And yet, and yet –– are Degas and I not united by our shared humanity?  By our common need for love, coffee, and deodorant? … (We hear the sound of a shower.)  In the shower, it feels strange, lathering an immortal.  What’s even stranger, the immortal is lathering back.  How did I become such a genius?  I, who flunked wood shop in high school!  Was it my traumatic childhood?  There was Uncle Stosh’s unfortunate party trick with the parakeet.  Ouch. Well something must’ve happened.  Because now I’m great.  I’m brilliant.  My name will live forever!  (He considers this for a second.)  Whoo. Wow.  This is too big for even me to contemplate.  I go out into the world with dry cleaning.

~ from “Degas, C’est Moi” by David Ives

Tomorrow I will be Joan Didion!

The Mystery of Glitter

August 16, 2010

“I used to ask people ‘Where’s the local glitter factory?’ and no one could ever tell me because, in
fact, very few people knew where glitter comes from. Subsequently I found out it was invented on
a cattle farm in New Jersey in 1934 where you can still buy it today. At one point I found out that
glitter, kilo for kilo, is a drug-like commodity. You can go to Vienna, buy two kilos of glitter for the
same price as a tiny vial in Stockholm. It has a very under-exploited commodity status. Part of
this is to do with the fact that very few people could ever tell me if glitter was made by Chinese
children or was a by-product of the arms trade. Maybe it was an innocent material made by well-
paid artisans. To this day, I’ve still never been to a glitter factory. I can’t tell you if people are
happy in glitter factories, whether glitter factories are organised collectively or a “Glitter Board”
regulates them.”

Artist Liam Gillick on one of his favorite materials


For Realz?

August 13, 2010

Something about this whole thing smells fishy to me…


JF: hey how’s it going?

me: hi
meh ok
JF: just meh ok?
11:25 AM i feel like a hundred bucks but i don’t want to rub it in
me: ha!
yeah i’m in baltimore, and i’m kind of sick
and i just got back from argentina
so i miss red meat
JF: hah
me: tell me about your hundred buck feeling
JF: are you sure?
me: yeah yeah
11:26 AM JF: i met this girl a couple days ago on a dating site
actually emailed a couple times months ago but i forgot
msg’d her a couple days ago and nothing happened
me: ok
JF: then i get a txt saying she just had the worst date of her life and wanted another one
11:27 AM so i went and met her
she is stunning
georgia accent, atheist, liberal, nerdy engineer who is in law school
she’s also an absolute blonde bombshell
11:28 AM me: where is she in law school?
that’s amazing!
JF: idunno
but then i go home and start thinking… she’s probably a con artist or an axe murderer
this is too good to be true
so i google her
she’s a playboy playmate
me: what?!
shut uuuuuuuup
11:29 AM JF: yea…. so the next day (yesterday) i’m out having a beer after work
and she calls me again and says what’s your address i’ll be there in 10 minutes
she had a girls night for her friend who broke up with her ex… friend ended up getting drunk and bootycalling that ex
11:30 AM me: noooo
JF: so my playmate is pissed and comes over and then is less pissed
and now we have dates planned for sunday and wednesday
and i am dating a playmate
and what the fuck is going on in the world
me: ha!
what’s her name?
i gotta google
Jordan: Ashley Smith
me: sorry, you opened this door
Jordan: i’ll just get you the pics hang on
11:31 AM me: ok
11:32 AM Jordan: here’s a few from 1 of her photoshoots
11:33 AM most of page 1 here are her:
ID…. my angel is a centerfold