Water everywhere but not a drop to drink


May 16, 1991

Laura’s sister visited from Cleveland. The two of them are fresh, Midwest, corn-fed beauties. I’d like to take both of them and…never mind. Laura has never had a cavity. Sometimes, after we’ve had a few drinks, I make her open her mouth and show me her pearly perfection.

Blue Man Group opened a show last month in some dingy space across from The Public. I saw them open for Annie Sprinkle’s Post Porn Modernist at the Cleveland Performance Art Festival last year. I thought the girlies would have fun but they hated it, thought it was strange and said the show won’t last through the summer.

Beforehand we had dinner at Lucky Strike. The waitress clearly thought Laura and I were a couple and Laura played like we were. She was wearing a low-cut, skin-tight top and bent over low when reciting the specials. Then she gave me a secret wink. The two of them thought it was hilarious but I wasn’t amused. This shit only happens to me when I’m with a girl. Girls like to steal boyfriends. It’s a fact! If Klinger had been with me she’d have looked right through me. She was delightful. A little chicken lost in New York.

Over appetizers, Laura said Lynn had to see a doctor because of a bladder infection from too much sex. In the same conversation she complained of not having enough sex. Lynn is the beautiful cheerleader in high school that everyone wanted but no one could have. Her perfect, soft face belongs on the bow of a ship. This oversexed work of art, complaining about being undersexed.

One evening the three of us went to El Teddy’s. Lynn took my arm while crossing West Broadway and I felt a sudden surge of lust. She likes me well enough, as does Laura, but they have expensive needs. You have to know your lane. Jessica was asked out by a junior investment banker at work. Her boyfriend is a personal trainer and Chippendales dancer. A massive brick wall of a man who could take that banker’s head in the crook of his arm and crack it like a walnut. The sight of that white shirt and tie trying to stir desire in Jessica was kind of sweet and sad.

I entered a contest to win a trip to The Mirage in Las Vegas. It’s a tie-in for some dumb Billy Crystal movie. City Slickers. I have no idea what it’s about nor do I care. I do, however, want to stay at the Mirage for free. It’s only two years old and I love new hotels.


I took my daughter and her pal to see Richard Serra’s big oxidized walls at the Gagosian Gallery last October. Happier times.


My poor city. I don’t want to get all Oprah on you guys but my heart is broken.

Come into the light. All are welcome.

Chelsea Gallery hop with my daughter. Doug Wheeler’s light installation at David Zwirner. I might go back by myself but this time smoke a big fatty beforehand.

Roy Colmer’s Doors at Lisson Gallery. Black and white images of Manhattan taken from November of 1975 to September of 1976. Thousands of them.



November 1, 1994

Cindy wanted to smoke some weed and go the Village Halloween parade. Sounds like fun but I’ve got the flu and can barely move.

Ellis, Oswaldo and I had tickets to see Simpatico at The Public. Written and directed by Sam Shepard. Great cast. Ed Harris, Beverly D’Angelo, Fred Ward, Marcia Gay Harden. We met at Acme on Lafayette and lollygagged around. Got there right at 8:00 and it turns out curtains on Saturdays are 7:30 and 10:00. They wouldn’t let us in. The run is sold out (of course it is) so that’s that. We walked over to 2nd Avenue to see Interview with a Vampire but it’s opening weekend so THAT was sold out, too. So we went to Pizzeria Uno. We had a lot of laughs. The three of us sat there and laughed for hours.

Cindy and I went to Sweet Basil’s last Friday. I don’t see a lot of live jazz and didn’t think I’d like it but we had a great time. We sat right under the musician’s noses. I like being so close I can see their fingers move across their instruments. We were on the Blue Note guest list. The cover charge and drinks were paid for. I felt important. When the checks arrived everyone around us started fumbling for their wallets but I just signed it and handed it back. People stopped for a beat and looked at us. Lots of Japanese tourists. The Eurotrash maître d treated us like shit.

My phone rang and when I picked it up and said hello they hung up. Sometimes I’ll call Laura’s number just to hear her answering machine greeting.

Went to the Met with Ann. She’s irritating in regular life but she’s a different person in a museum. It’s her element. She’s brilliant. We went to the Asian galleries and she told me about the Buddha statues. She explained what the hand positions mean and about the dance they’re frozen in. She was equally knowledgeable in the Egyptian galleries. I wanted to throw her to the floor in front of Kharushere’s mummy and have my dirty way with her. Smart is sexy. We sat in Central Park and watched the leaves float down. We saw a terrible sci-fi movie. Stargate. I didn’t want to see it but I’m a bad negotiator. Whenever I see a movie with someone I always defer to them. If there’s something I really want to see, I go alone.

I’m on a temp assignment. I sit in a cubicle and do my boring work and nobody talks to me. I’m lonely. A bunch of them went out after work Friday but I wasn’t invited. The women are all sad Catholic virgins who listen to Barry Manilow albums.

What Instagram has taught me so far

I’ve been on Instagram for about nine weeks and here are a few things I’ve learned:

  1. Everyone is having a better life than I am.
  2. No, they’re not. It just seems that way. It’s the place where people put on their best face.
  3. Real photographers use a proper camera. They don’t muck about with a mobile phone. Technologically speaking, mobile phones can’t touch a real camera. Yet.
  4. The trend in photography is to saturate photos with so much color and gleam they look like ads for LSD. Why does that feel like an appropriate reflection of our times?
  5. People are too lazy to write a pithy word or two in comment sections. Emojis are the last refuge for the verse-challenged.
  6. Instagram has revealed that I might have a latent addictive personality disorder. I check it far too often. I’m hoping the newness wears off soon.
  7. I’m disappointed over my desire for more followers. It’s not dissimilar to when I first started blogging. I got over it here. I’m sure I’ll move on there as well


My bride and I went out Saturday night to see comedians John Mulaney and Pete Davidson. I enjoyed Mulaney but found Davidson vulgar and unfunny. In all fairness, we are not Davidson’s target audience. The same people who find him funny are the same folks who’d attend Coachella, which is something I’d never do.

They announced that cell phones would be locked in a Yonder pouch so the show couldn’t be recorded. The pouches are unlocked on your way out. We didn’t want to deal with all that so we left our phones at home. We sat at the dinner table and tried to remember the last time we left the house for a night out (or ANYWHERE) without our phones and we couldn’t. Initially, I was concerned that not having my phone might give me an anxiety attack but do you know what? Dinner + show – phone = emancipation. We didn’t miss it one bit. An uninterrupted dinner was a genuine pleasure.


After all these years, having kids finally pays off. I waited a long time for this day to come.

Oliver and Alice say hello. They want you to know they’re fine. Send treats.

Hop hop hop

I took my 12-year old on a Chelsea gallery hop. The 17-year old is out of the game. She has a Saturday gig and a boyfriend now. There’s no room for gallery hops with Dad. Eventually, I’ll lose 12-year old too and be back to wandering around these galleries alone. I’m not hurt or insulted. It’s the nature of how things work.

I think she was a bit bored. I occasionally caught her standing in a corner staring at her phone instead of the art. I think she enjoyed the time spent with Dear Aul Da but I’m not sure how she feels about art. I either opened a world for them or turned them off to art permanently. It could go either way. But you have to make the introduction. What happens after that is out of my control.

This is Anthony McCall’s fetching light installation Split Second at the Sean Kelly Gallery.

I’m like a parrot. I like shiny objects and light is my favorite medium. Light + mist is even better.

A young child ran into the light and I couldn’t resist a pic.

James Turrell is the grandmaster for me but this is a very fine example of McCall’s ‘solid light’ works.

This room of shoe oddities tucked in the back of the Marlborough Gallery is Towards An End to Biological Perception by Genesis P-Orridge. Animal lovers beware.

My daughter didn’t spend any time looking at these. She found them disturbing, spun around on her heels and walked straight out, which I understand. But *I* liked them.

The larger part of the gallery is filled with Davina Semo’s large scale sculptures in All The World. Along the floor are heavy cubic bales that anchor chains linked to bells cast from bronze.

I didn’t want to get thrown out so I asked permission to ring the bells and they said it was OKAY. So you can imagine what that lead to.

Brightly colored reflective acrylic sheets studded with ball bearings hang on the walls throughout.

I was reading a review in ARTnews, which is something I rarely do. ARTnews sucks all the joy out of art. The reviewer said of the piece in question:

For an oeuvre that is so self-consciously synthetic, the overall experience offers a surprisingly potent meditation on attention, lifespans and mortality itself.

What does that even MEAN? I have a very base, visceral reaction to art. I look at it. Does it make me have a proper laugh (in the good or bad way)? Is it beautiful to behold? These are my criteria. It’s why I hate political art.