Sent words most imploring to Parsons School of Dilly-dallying this fine evening basically outlining ways I might get myself into her primo graces and glean an A or B to boot. I can be your personal chef for a while, I can shine all your shoes in your closet and out, I can walk your dog(s), I can write a book that you can sign your name to, etc.
Have no shred of guilt or shame or regret that I basically parked my ass at Kennedy's dining room table for what seemed weeks to make 20 digvids. And some, as I wrote somewhere, some time, are fucking Whitney Biennial-worthy. But we'll see what JR Art Mentor/Personal Art Designer, thinks and says about that. Talked to thee Elliott Caplan who will be watching some of my work with me this upcoming week. And then coffee and I said So what, you'll either tell me Keep up the GOOD WORK or What the fuck were you thinking. He said Oh, I never say the former, usually it's the latter. One conversation with him had my head on fire.
Speaking of fire, delivered a wedding today to one social worker type, in a building with the Middling City's elevator elder statesman. It creaked, it moaned and finally got me to floor number three. She opened the door after I buzzed (here begins Fake Plastic Trees and I'm catapulted back into my usual strong mem associated with this little, perfect tune) and there's a buzzer as the pitiful decrepit building is visited by the MC's crackheads and psychotics, to stare wondrously sans speaking at the Pentecostal-like flame arching over my forehead. I then, after said delivery, delivered myself to the doors of Jon's salon where I am always guaranteed to feel some love. Some coffee, some smokes, some laughs, some rock and roll banter and, all buoyed up, I made my way back into the chilly MC streets.

Streets Paved with Love.