Terrible metaphor, didn’t think it had the legs to go on that long. Bet Boehner knows what’s got legs.
“Stick a cocktail umbrella in that,” they say, as they slap the paper-wrapped flesh onto the counter in front of you.
“Haha, and a cherry on top?” you ask, sheepishly.
“Don’t fuck with me,” they growl, pointing at the little bag of maraschinos they push at you as you pay.
The trick is to turn every hotel room into a Twin Peaks set. If the carpet’s not quite right, then Barton Fink. Sometimes, they do the work for you.
It didn’t work with the laptop and the Times, go figure.
The DC outtakes, just for fun:
John Sayles signing his newest book, A Moment in the Sun (coming out on McSweeney’s).
On the left, the excellent Katharine Greider whose The Archaeology of Home I’m reading, and yes, it’s about urban studies and so much more.
I got your ways and means committee right here.
Ain’t no mall unless there’s a food court.
No trip to D.C. is complete without a visit to that historic edifice, that mouth of madness: the #1 Church of Scientology.
In case you were wondering why the “Church” was more successful in the West with the actors, here’s a bit of afternoon reading for you.
Even in winter, the field is set with cones for a scrimmage between the House and Senate.
The idea was the make foreign dignitaries feel small and insignificant, and/or to produce pain in visitor’s inappropriately shod feet.
Self-Portrait with Hiroshi Sugimoto “North Pacific Ocean, Stinson Beach” 1999, 2011.
To be performed with a whole-hearted explanation of minimalist work, preferably directed at strangers who politely listen to you talk about the horizon line in Sugimoto’s sea pictures.
“See it? Keep looking!”
Bananas.
With Calder, definitely a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
With Barnett Newman, you don’t know if you should hug him, or just offer up a firm handshake. Both, I guess.
The others thought Motherwell was a talky ass of a painter, over-educated son of a Wells Fargo bank president. The others, of course, being circumspect, under-educated, or just painters’ painters. The trick of it being that you called yourself a painter, not an artist. A verb not a noun.
Motherwell, I think, was both. It took a piece longer for me to come around to him, in the way that I thought he stole from Kline, but you know what? Wary as I am of the idiom, this comes close to religion. It takes faith. You look up at it as you’d look up at a crucifix, a beatific gaze. And you get a little dizzy, and yet you feel it all.
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