This happens sometimes: in the office on the weekend to work, but instead I’m just sloughing hours kicking around the moors of the internet, mournfully carrying around an undigested burrito, moaning. Unlike the yearbook editor (see below), I’m not pretending to get anything done. Though I am using up valuable office-sanity points. I should be finding marijuana and going to see a big-budget film, or reading Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland, or Mary Robison’s Why Did I Ever, or Deb Olin Unferth’s Vacation. It’s carnival on Mission St. today. I was trapped at a picnic table at Taqueria Cancun by seven recent high-school graduates. Trying hard to read the newspaper as they discussed Medjool, Burritos, Wikipedia, summer jobs.
Here’s my shopping list:
- diced tomatoes
- peanut butter
- three onions
- garlic [accidentally listed twice — ed]
Thanks so much for “reading this far.” It really means a lot to me that you’re actually/somehow willing to follow me down– and I do mean down — into the horrid/torrid/florid/boréd banalities of this adorable little life I lead!
I hadn’t been to Evany’s blog in a while. It makes me want to be adopted by her and Marco as a pet so I can lie on the carpet and be fed and shit in Marbles’s litterbox. Or maybe it makes me feel like that’s already happened. Note to self: revise this paragraph so I can link to Evany’s blog without sounding so creepy.
Yesterday I went to the San Francisco Birth & Baby Fair with “mcmüller” and “the wifest.” I felt very much like their forthcoming child’s gay uncle, walking three paces behind, destroying awkward eye-contact with a long string of puzzled-seeming vendors. mcm brought a tape recorder to help me feel more gonzo and less my two dads. I conducted a couple awkward interviews. I took a few notes. Gonzo. “Everything I make ends up being cute, so I figured I might as well make stuff for babies,” said a designer of “South Parky” nursery hangings. A midwife at a birthing center: “[mutual acquaintance who just had a baby] said I’m a punk-rock midwife — but that’s the last thing I am.” Later that day back in the Mission I saw that same mutual acquaintance standing on the curb, stooping down to make out with his wife who was seated in the passenger seat of his parked car while breastfeeding their infant daughter. I tried to walk by, smiling an awkward “Ah, that’s probably nice” smile, but he called me over. Turns out the midwife is hiphop, not punk. There’s a sixty percent chance that some baby fair–related multimedia will show up at crude futures in the next few days.
After the Baby Fair we saw the SFAI MFA Graduate Exhibition, also at Fort Mason, a complete surprise and its last day up. All the ridiculous installations were right up front, so you walked in immediately assaulted by haunted house howls and eviscerated bulls and other chattering gorey crap, but the rest of the giant pavillion had some good stuff. A highlight was — well, I can’t find any record of the dude on SFAI’s site. I have a postcard at home. Some fun, derivative paintings. Some disingenuous, funny conceptual art. Some great watercolor self-portraits of a busty MFA in her underwear messily eating sweets.