Pointed, Poignant Sightings

OK, I know this is petty, but I was on the 610 loop today, and I saw a minivan-vertisement for Hooters, and there was a pink breast cancer awareness ribbon plastered onto the back. I'm still freaking out about it. Sorry. Had to get it off my, um, groan, chest.

There's Only Thing Wrong With These Excursions

I flew into L.A. this past weekend, got to rent a swwweeeet convertible Mustang, visited with my friend Maya. Then I drove up PCH to Ojai (fictional home of TV's Six Million Dollar Man) to drop in on a show at Nathan Larramendy Gallery. I'm in the show, and since I'll do just about anything to get out of town, I decided that would be a good excuse to go. Well, let me assure anyone who wants to drop in on a group show just to hang out that, unless you're into standing around awkwardly, you're making a huge mistake. What was I thinking? Not that the people who showed at the opening weren't pleasant; I'm seriously considering moving in with Steve and Celeste, parents of Allison, the new gallery intern. But, since I wasn't into standing in front of my own work as if on a lecture circuit, I spent most of the time either a) whining on the phone to Maya, pleading with her to let me come back and stay with her; or b) sit behind the desk counter trying to stay out of peoples' ways.

Let me make this plain: this is not to cast any aspersions on Nathan Larramendy and/or his gallery. It's actually a great space, and Senor Larramendy is a prince. After the opening I was invited up to Casa Larramendy, an amazing ranch in the Ojai mountains, where Brad served us a delicious meal and I got to meet/hang out with Brian Storts, curator/director of Queen's Nails Annex in San Francisco (and his cool lovely wife Rachelle). I don't run into many people with such crazy, intense energy as Brian; subsequently, it's not very often that I get all excited talking about art.

But there I was, all havin' a time talking, looking up at the stars in the crisp, black Ojai night. The next day, I took a different route, down through the mountains, hair blowing in the wind from my rented Mustang, listening to Engelbert Humperdinck at full blast...

It was all perfect, except for one thing. That damned art opening. It made me recall another recent trip, that to Marfa. That was a great trip, too, except for one thing. The art. Gotta remember to cut that stuff out of an otherwise good trip...

Oh, Me and My Trenchant Keyboard

The other night I ran into my friend Paula Newton, who's the education coordinator at the Contemporary Arts Museum here in Houston, told me that she and a few other folks at the CAM had read my rather caustic review of the Kelly Nipper show, and that they were all cracking up. Then she mentioned that Toby Kamps, the new curator at the CAM and the curator of the Nipper show, had read it as well. She didn't mention that he was laughing, too. And darnit, I forgot to ask.

As the neurotic, insecure, but still latently ambitious ass that I am, I had the impulse to run up to Kamps when I saw him and say, "I'm so sorry! I'm so very sorry!", but I refrained from doing so, as I wasn't really all that sorry. Oh, perhaps I'm a bit sorry that he read it. I always go around thinking that nobody reads this thing, and then I'm always unpleasantly surprised by someone who walks up and snarls, "So...you thought my installation of bat guano was shit? Well, fuck you!"

And there is that latent nice girl in me who sort of believes that if you don't have anything nice to say, you should simply keep it to yourself. But then where would that leave me? What would I say? I hate just about everything!

Ah, well. I'm doomed to be the kid at the back of the class flipping paper footballs and making snide remarks, only to regret my actions in Principal Dresler's office.

Well, normally when stuff like this happens--like when I find out I've offended someone, or if my mother reads my blog and gets upset, I go back and delete the post. Sometimes I even delete my whole blog. Look at how far I've come! I can snigger in public with only a smidgeon of remorse! Now all I have to do is worry that I've offended a curator and wonder if I should stop polishing my "SuperBestSuccessfulArtistInHouston--Maybe Even the World!" trophy...

A Bunch of Stuff That Irritates the Shit Out of Me

I was going to write about a bunch of stuff that irritates the shit out of me, but then my computer got really fucked up and i almost lost everything that I'd been working on for 2 weeks, and, frankly, the ordeal took all the starch out of me and the whole idea of writing about A Bunch of Stuff That Irritates the Shit Out of Me seemed kind of petty.

Hopefully all of my rancour will be saved for the next art exhibition I see. One can only hope.