Billy Sullivan @ Texas Gallery

I'll admit that I'm a bit too biased to be looking at art like this. Karen Kilimnik, Elizabeth Peyton, Alex Katz, Billy Sullivan. I mean, who really cares about artists who portray their friends while they lounge around the living room or on the patio furniture? I guess I do. This collection of acrylic and oil pastels on paper is pretty cool. From the near-psychedelic pig to the rather creepy-lewd portrayal of a couple of fellows with too much swarthy body hair and gay man mustaches squiggled in. It's nice stuff. And the Joel Shapiro work in the main gallery isn't bad, either. But who can get excited about that when you've got a portrait of somebody (man? woman?) with a weird helmet of black hair?

2008, year of the crank

There. I've done it. I've removed myself from both MySpace and Facebook. I've decided that I'm just too old and crotchety to be involved in things that are hip and network-y. Even blogging is starting to make me feel like a pederast.

I realize that doing this may well rob me of an opportunity to find out about a cool band, hook up with a gallery that will certainly transform my lackluster career into that of an international superstar, or meet the hipster of my dreams. No matter; what's done is done.

I assume that most people who know me know where to reach me. If Karen Kilimnik, John Waters, Gloria Steinem, the Coen brothers, David Bowie, Christian Bale, Jane Campion, Jon Stewart and/or Stephen Colbert, Judy Davis, Will Ferrell, Reese Witherspoon, Harry Shearer, or that little fat kid from Bad Santa go wondering about where I've gone and want to find me, I'd appreciate it if one of you would direct them to the 'contact' section of my website.

Happy New Year!

i think she died of boredom, lenny

i've been pretty depressed lately. it could be the holidays.

but i'm probably just depressed because i haven't worked in such a long time. i had to have carpal tunnel surgery on my right arm on the 20th, and i've just been sitting around. at first i thought it would be no big deal, so i got up and started doing a bunch of things, but then i fell down and landed the way one does when one breaks a fall--palms forward, and i fucked it all up. then i waited a while, and decided that it would be ok to do stuff with my fingers, but then i really strained my hand, so i just gave up and devoted myself to a solid 12 hours of TV a day. ah, the law & order marathon...yes, at any time of the day, in some part of the world, there is a law & order rerun being televised. i find myself saying things like, 'well, let's run down his LUDS and see who he's been calling in the last 48 hours' or 'let's check with the ME; i think she said that it's a subdural hematoma, and that the entrance wounds were caused by a 6 inch serrated blade.' i think i've said that before. forgive me for recycling schtick.

you would think that'd be a gold mine for some kind of art project, but my instincts tell me no, it's just a gold mine for dead brain cells.

i've also become an expert at the infomercial: would you like to hear about the virtues of the 'bender ball' or 'mighty putty'? i've got the lo-down on all of 'em. it's a damned good thing that i'm too lazy to get up off the couch and get my credit card. and even though i have absolutely no problem with my weight, i'm now thinking that i should start taking the alli fat blocker, eat frozen lean cuisine meals, drink special k diet water, and get a case of slim-fast.

i'm also pretty sure that my life has no glamour, since it's nothing like a bailey's irish cream or amaretto di saronno commercial. those people look like they're having such fun! and i want to hang out with that black british spokesman for tanqueray, tony sinclair. (this is how bored i am: i googled tony sinclair because i kept thinking, 'am i supposed to know who he is?' and found out that he's a fictional socialite created by the company ad folk) everybody in those ads is laughing with his or her head thrown back as if he or she is having the time or his or her life! my life looks nothing like that, dammit. i want to drink some island rum and find myself on the streets of manhattan wearing a business suit and flip-flops. bacardi, take me away.

as you can see, my arm's finally healed up enough so that i can type with both hands, even though i look like i have a big teddy bear paw. i think that from now on, i'm going to do public service announcements for artists: 'kids, you may think that all of that intricate detail and those nervous lines made with excessive force are cute and original, but you'll pay later! stick with expressionism! or maybe a lazy-man's pollock (you don't want to be bending down as much as jackson did--a real recipe for back strain). come to think of it, just hire somebody else--someone with a strong constitution--to do the work for you. save that arm!

this message has been brought to you by the disgruntled and regretful artists coalition.