Uch

Ego Not Ergo

I just discovered that the wonderful Jill Soloway was kind enough to have inserted me into her links (double entendre, anyone?). If the hottest & coolest SFU writer is acknowledging my existence, I'm certainly not dead. Yet. (Yes, I recognize the irony.)

As payback (and because it's true), go buy Three Kinds of Asking For It, the three novella collection edited by Susie Bright (yeah, the very same Susie Bright from 'The Rainbow of Her Reasons'), which includes Jodi K., Jill's excellent "fictional diaryish thing of a 14-year-old-girl." It's a perfect quick semi-dirty summer read. And given how much I generally dig Jill's writing and the simple fact that she actually makes me laugh, I'm looking forward to the publication of her upcoming book, "Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants: Based on a True Story".

Sunburn

Talk about coming up in the world: One year ago, I featured Ms. Klein in a post. Today, she's a Sunday Styles covergirl. Good for her. Seriously.

And as I lie here on the couch in a bit of muted agony, with skin approaching the hue of SK's hair, my only other thought is that some people made much better use of the past year than others. Fuck, that's depressing.

JMB

Just returned from the annual KCRW Angel party, held this year at MOCA. Although there were a decent number of reasonably hot, well-to-do L.A.-edition hipster women, the real attraction was Basquiat.

I swear by the flick and was dying to see the assemblage of over 100 pieces in the flesh.

Was not disappointed. The pieces need to be viewed in person to truly be appreciated for their texture, complexity and composition. Sure, not all of them are significant (or even remarkable), however the handful of mindblowing masterpieces are must sees.

The one depressing, although essential, aspect of the exhibition is its chronolgogical organization of Basquiat's works. While we are able to see JM burn white hot in '82 & '83, as he reached the pinnacle of both his productivity and creativity, we are also forced to see his slow decline into '86 and the subsequent freefall of chaotic hoplessness that characterized the limited output of '87 (the year Warhol died) up through his death in August '88. Frankly, the haphazard, un-Basquiat like quality of the works in the penultimate gallery (thankfully the exhibition ends on a retrospective high note) made me think he was incoherently throwing some paint at a canvas in order to trade for some smack. What a fucking waste.

Incidentally, it feels as if half of the exhibition comes from Peter Brant's collection. Not only does the man own dozens of outstanding works, he gets to fuck Stephanie Seymour (albeit not what she used to be, but still...). My friends, that is what we call Livin'.

Despite

what some may say, I am

Not.Dead.Yet.

Not by a long shot.

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To whet the general appetite:

Although you may go to "Wedding Crashers" to be thoroughly entertained by Owen, Vince and a fantastic titty montage (and to stare longingly at Rachel McAdams), Isla Fisher (the future Mrs. Ali G) is really the star of the show. She's a remarkable physical comedienne, with great timing and a neverending supply of hysterical facial expressions. I don't normally dig FCs, but I'd let her "abuse me" at the dining room table any time.

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Sanctimony, thy name is Page Six

For those who inquired:

I have never had my boots licked or back stabbed by Jessica: When she calls me an "idiot" it's right to my face.