Reasons I Totally Suck Vol. 1

Okay, so I know that I'm a complete douchebag for not even writing once this whole time I've been away. No arguement there. But here is a short and totally incomplete list of other reasons I should be thrown down a well...

After all that drunken, "No seriously, man, what do you want me to buy you from India?" I haven't purchased ANY souvenier-style gifts. I bought my mom a pashmina shawl. that's it. Everything else was for myself. I bought three pair of shoes. I'm selfish. So no one is getting anything. Except some aawesome stories and pictures.

I can't spell.

I plan on being that really annoying guy who says things like, "You know, while I was in India, they did it like this..." I hate those guys. Therefore, I am a hypocrite.

I only write blogs about myself and how awesome I am. Even the self-depreciating blogs are quasi-ego filled. Only I could make "Reasons why I suck" mkae me sound awesome.

I can't spell and I have no shame.

I only called four people. My mom. My dad. My brother. My sister. --- I didn't even call my other brother. It's been over three weeks, and I'm completely within reach of a phone like 24hours a day, but I'm such a chotch that havne't called ANY of my friends. And these are people who would LOVE a drunken phone call at 9am. You know who you are.

I totally farted in the World Temple for Krishna Conscienceness. Loud. And it smelled R E A L L Y bad. there were people that hadn't showered in like eight years that were giving me dirty looks and wrinkling thier noses.

Oh, I wore leather in a Jain monument. that was on accident, so I can't really be blamed for it, but I don't regret it at all, so I'm going to Jainist hell, which I think is the Super Smokers in Maryland Heights.

to be continued.

I'm flying home in approx. 13 hours. For 15 hours. whoever sits next to me on the plane is going to hate being alive for 15 hours. Or maybe they'll just hate their olfactory system. I know I hate their olfactory system already. With its scrunchiness and hating the player not the game. Party at my house this weekend. Please call or post with availability and theme ideas.

Art is Money, Money is Art

So I usually listen to NPR while driving to and from work. tonight, while driving home, the BBC had some program on about Art as Investiture (or some other made-up-British word). Something the commentator said has stuck in my head and I've been thinking about it for a while now. I thought I'd share.

Andy Warhol, at some point during his career, made numerous paintings and screenprints of a single dollar sign:

Apparently, one of these paintings is now worth $3milllion. The BBC World Serivce went so far as so speculate on its origins. (I'm paraphrasing here.. has anyone ever tried to navigate their transcripts site?? eugh!!) Anyway, he might have painted a single dollar wondering how many dollars it would be worth. This is irony at it's most ironical.

What a crap blog, today guys. Sorry. But it really got me thinking about art for arts sake and whether or not artists think about value/worth in a business sense or in a sense (also explained by a interview during the BBC show) of owning a unique snapshot... a poem.

Well just to throw and wrench in the works and make this the single most incoherent piece of writing ever concieved, take this quote from, yet another BBC interview of Andy Warhol himself:

Warhol claimed that the commercialism he appeared to mock was also a form
of art. "Making money is art," he wrote, "and working is art, and good business
is the best art".

So I'd really like to dicuss this with a few people who are willing to explore it a little more. Especially if you have a view of art or money that could help me understand or fix a point of view for me. Thanks for putting up with my late night ramblings.

Warning: Unintelligible babbling.

You know those days when you wish you could shoot lasers out of your eyes and burn buildings by point point pointing your finger really hard like Lewis Black and you could flip peoples car over because they drive slow but make sure that had their seatbelts on and no one gets hurt, just that slow fucking neon?

AND you know how on those days, when you're already really mad and you are revelling in your anger and you LOVE the fact that everyone is avoiding you and you tell them by yelling, "Don't fucking IGNORE me!" You know how on those days, you always manage to bump your head really hard, or slam your finger or pinch your skin on something painfully banal and dull and you or anyone else has NEVER hurt themselves on this spigot/curb/doorknob before. Have you any idea why that happens? I do.

And its not some weird cosmic shit like karma or "The Secret" or genies or fucking anything involving mental powers or Hinduism. Its the world fighting back! You're out here, stomping around, blowing noxious fucking gases out of your ears, creating noise pollution with the amount of times you drop the F bomb, grinding on the gears of the world by just existing in the state that you're in. I think its God or mother nature or whatever pinching you in the ass and telling you to chill out.

Or possibly the genie thing.

The funny part about that whole little tirade is that at the beginning, I was mad. You could tell, I know. But just by writing it, I cooled off, losing speed and momentum until my sudden burst of angry creativity completely fell out of the sky, like some Hindenburg-esque blimp with EUREKA! spelled out on the side, instead of GOODYEAR and banged-crashed-collided-was muffled and then completely absorbed into my little city of boredom.

The darkness that is my job ate my mean little inventive wit. I'm so pissed.