Roughed up an artist, Tom Holt, last night. Actually, to my recollection, it was a friendly conversation about me buying his wondrous painting of a "creature" who ingests stars and other geometric shapes and has a stream of them shooting out of his posterior region. Suddenly, to be ridiculous, I had him by the lapels and was shaking him, in Mark and Polly's kitchen. Now, I wonder, does Holt, in his fury and humiliated condition, want the stinkin' painting back. He willn't. It hangs, most perfectly, alongside Dorota's landscape I received post (Doug Lavere's suggestion) concussion after I wakt the shit out of my head on a metal eye-beam in her studio offa the Bowery.
One man's horizon is another creatures poo stream.
Streams of Love.

And this, just in.
Wi-o-wi does a high-powered corporate attorney, dear JW,Esq., get to traipse off to Coachella and witness the complete magic of the reformed Pixies (my heart races with envy) et al et al et al while Perfect Me, an artist, a grad student, (!), has to suffer through legal mumbo-jumbo when I should be the one jetting to infamed rock shows and he, with mind chock full of caselaw, should be sequestered in a room with tomes and mold and dust and words and flourescent lights. He finds role reversal "sexy." I find it objectionable, Yer Honour.