September 2003 Archives

Today I went to a grocery store and bought baby shampoo and arthritis pain reliever - both for myself. I then went to the thrift store and bought a computer monitor and a purple wig. The monitor cost only twice as much as the wig. I wore the purple wig on my head sticking out of a funny winter hat with a pom pom home.

I parked my car and walked to Penelope's coffee shop, still wearing the wig and hat. I must be in love with her. After she finally recognized me in my disguise, she made me free coffee and the other barista gave me a plastic bag full of brussle sprouts. We talked about an acupuncturist that can heal food allergies who lives somewhere in the mountains. I asked for his number.

Walking home, I really wanted some macaroni and cheese but I bought lasagna instead at the store across the street of my apartmnet. The deli guy labeled it for half of what it was selling for and gave it to me. The whole time I was in the store, I was scared that someone was going to arrest me because they may have thought that the brussel sprouts in my pocket were from this store. I went home and ate the lasagna.

(unfinished...)

I finally went to the doctor about my eyes. They have both become extremely red, is if I've smoked cannabis for the last few -

weeks. I didn't know if I had an infection, or if I had gotten some dangerous chemical into my eyes. I usually call these particular dangerous chemicals, "Art Supplies".

Tuesday, I had finally called. They told me I needed $100 up front, since I am a new patient. I don't have $100, but I made the appointment anyways. I had a fear that I may go blind if I didn't check this out. I thought in the way I think, that if they deny me admittance to see the doctor, I'd give them a sob story and offer to paint a portrait or two. I mean, that's what starving artists do, right? We trade for everything. We're cool that way. I bet I could get a car traded to me for a painting. Maybe that'll be a goal of mine next year.

Tuesday night had me with my left eye red, dilated, enlarged and generally feeling very very dry. I couldn't really concentrate on anything. After school, I went to a burrito shop on Colorado Blvd to buy some dinner. I paid with a credit card, but it wasn't accepted. I told them to wait and I went to the 7-11 across the street. I took out the last $20 I had and paid. The burrito girl didn't register that I would be back and threw out the burrito she had made for me, so she made it again. I wish she would have just given me the last one for free, before or after she chucked it into the trash. I hate food being wasted and I'm always possessive over food that was deemed mine.

I sat at the shop eating my burrito, reading the Westword. They had an article about Interpol who were playing that very night. I had forgotten all about the show, even though I went with Claudia to pick up her ticket a good month ago. The article touched upon how their sound is similar to Joy Division, of which allegations they denied. The show seemed to a good way to waste a night and that's exactly what I wanted to do. Call it running away from your problems, but stress doth needs to be relieved. I hadn't the money for the show, one of my credit cards was over its limit and I didn't know where the other one was.

I decided that when I got home, I would clean and look for the card. If I could find it, I would go to the show. If I couldn't, I would beg and plead to Claudia to lend me the money. If that didn't work, I'd just miss it. I've been going to too many shows as of late. I should become recluse and cry much more than I have. This socialite part of my life is only good in small doses. da Vinci would say something like, you can only be whole alone. Then again, the only thing we really know about him is his journals.

I was really on Colorado Blvd, because I needed to send a fax. PayPal decided that they didn't think I was really who I said I was and wanted me to fax my driver's license over, which I did a week ago. They emailed me back saying they couldn't read the license and could I please fax it again. Regardless of how gelastic it is for a web-based company asking me to fax anything where I could just upload/email them the picture and keep the $3.50, but it's really caustic when I have to fax something twice.

Kinkos was crawling around like a nest of Taratulas at a sideshow. I got to the fax machine after a few minutes of waiting. I wrote on the cover sheet something to the affect that the money that they're not allowing me to transfer to my bank account was slowly facilitating my death and I didn't want to die, so they should allow me to transfer my funds, which were quite a few Benjamins, post hast.

That must of worked since I received a "thank you for cooperating" email the next day. More like - "we're happy we didn't kill you, now get a real job".

Getting home, I cleaned a bit but couldn't find my credit card in the obvious places: I looked in all the pants' pockets, on the kitchen counter, the bathroom. But, As luck would have it, I remember I had a scratch lottery ticket that I hadn't turned in, worth $20; almost exactly what I needed for the show.

I got dressed in all black and started walking to the Ogden, which is much too close for me to rethink such acts as going to a show when I should be doing something about being flat broke. It took me awhile to realize I lived blocks away from downtown, instead of miles and I missed a few events that I really wanted to check out.

Waiting in the long line to purchase tickets, someone was yelling out if anyone needed tickets, so of course I yelled back, "hey!". After a bit of self confusion on their part, I nabbed the tickets for exactly the amount the lottery ticket was for.

Moving to the "OK, I have my ticket, I want in", line I met up with Claudia, dressed ravenously in all black as well. I met a few of her friends. Learning about an after-party, I parted and moved to the pit. I never go to shows without being right in the performers face. I had being part of an audience.

It took about 30 seconds for someone I knew to spot me. A sensationally looking but short girl approached me to give me a hug. I hugged back, having absolutely no idea who it was. This happens to me all the time. Last Sunday I talked to another girl over the phone for a good half hour before I realized who it was and that I had slept with this person a few weeks ago.

Realizing it was Cat, I begged to hug her back. She escorted me to the middle of the pit, where Evan, her boyfriend was. "Here," she said, "Have a flyer, it has my picture on it.". It was for some local band at a local venue. "We're going to try to push to the front, wanna join?" This was not unheard of territory for me. Catherine and Evan had the whole, "We're a cute couple, so we'll just cutely push our way to the front. I did not. Slowly they went forward, as I figured my plan of attack.

I saw Cat give out more flyers at the front and I acted as if I didn't receive one yet, and solicited another copy. I reached out my right hand, lunched forward and ended up right with Cat and Evan, three people back, right in the center. My show crowd skills are second to none.

Interpol's performance was fairly good, very moody and I'm happy to find out, not very Joy Divisiony at all.

I met up with Claudia at Gabors afterwards, "I got bored. We left early.", was her comment on Interpol. Granted, she was probably pilling to the fucking skly, but Claudia usually has a opinion as plastic as silly putty on these types of things. It wouldn't be Claudia without that. We did come to the conclusion that Interpol was good make out music or perhaps good Getting Ready music but they don't hard clearly hard enough. "Where's the after party?", I asked. "James's house. We left directions for the opening band and Interpol to come, but we wrote the wrong directions for the opening band by mistake. It's doesn't matter though,

it's just The Stills."

The after party was fun; it's always fun to be out late on a school night, isn't it? Isn't that the definition of fun? Staying out late, partying with the hot-as-shit band from England that just played, dancing to the Cure in someone's living room with the soon to be hot-as-shit band's completely sexy girlfriend and laughing, laughing, laughing; drinking cheap beer someone gave you from a 36 pack on the back porch, listening to silly stories from good friends in the cold of a Denver September. Life can't always be a party but when it is, it's best to have a smile.

I walked home from the party as it was slowly thinning out. It was a good walk, but long walks in Denver are always a pleasure. I got up early for the eye doctor, ready to pleade my case. They really weren't interested in all that and I gave my sister's address for them to send the bill to.

The doctor came to me, looking into my eyes and asked me what was up. I told him. "Hmmm". He held up a little bottle with a red cap. He asked me what color it was. I told him, "red.". I was right. He blocked one of my eyes, then another and I noticed that my left eye showed the red cap much brighter than the right. I thought that was really cool.

"Hmm," he said some more. "Did you know," (pause), "that you have acne?".

Why, no, I didn't. Silly doctor. I was wondering if he was going to mention my slowly retreating hairline. I swear.

"You're eyelids are infected with bacteria. I'm going to give you a perscription for drops - they're very expensive and also a perscription to help get that bacteria out. It'll also clear up your face. You'll need to wear your glasses for at least a week."

Now, I sort of have glasses. They were the coolest pair of glasses I've ever owned, before I stepped on them and broke one of the hinges clear off last December. I don't even want to get into how expensive they were, but I treated myself.

Since then, I've worn them for about an hour total. The reason being is that my perscription is so strong, that the glasses distort perceptual reality so much as to leave me feeling absolutely disjointed from all visual information, so much so that I become depressed, have fits of anxiety and I can't think or communicate. But, the frames themselves are so cool as to be the most perfect pair of glasses I will ever have.

Although, everything in life is an adventure when I wear glasses. On Thursday, I went to Robischon Gallery for Art Industry. We were to see the behind the scenes part of gallery work. Turns out the behind the scenes of a gallery is inclusive to a small office and paintings in storage.

Although, every painting that I looked at, I took off my glasses with a sweep of my hand that I then rested on my hip. Hunching down, humming, "hmmm" and raising an eyebrow dramatically. This entertained me throughout the entire gallery.

Even though I wanted desparetely to be in recluse mode, there was a show at the Climax that I wanted to check out and I told someone I'd meet them there. Youth Brigade and the Swinging Utters were playing. Before I went, I shaved off the boy beard I was growing to ward off potential new friends. Simple enough, right, shaving? Not quite.

You see, I had to take off my glasses, which means I can't see what I'm shaving. I'm not good with sharp things. Driving to the show, I brushed the bottom of my jawline and discovered a huge patch of unshaven fuzz. I stopped at a convenience store, bought some disposible razors and shaved again right in the car. I also called the Climax, since I couldn't find it. I couldn't find it, because I can't see a damn thing in the car with glasses on. The perscription is a bit old but the glasses themselves just strain my eye so much.

I got to the Climax very late, so late the doorman basically told me I shouldn't go in. I was wondering if, in fact, this was a doorman from a competing venue. Who tells you not to spend your money with them? I went inside and saw the last of Youth Brigade. I won't even touch on the irony of their name, which is obvious, but I couldn't believe the scene I just entered myself into -

The place was hot and sweaty, a large crowd of people were circling the floor in a counter-clockwise fashion, pushing and being pushed, wearing your typical punky street wear. Most of them were fifteen year old boys, a few of them were dressed as the skinheads they probably saw pictures of from Maximum Rock and Roll or hell, Rolling Stone. Youth Brigade was playing as if they were in 1982 and the crowd really didn't seem to mind. Standing in the back with glasses on, I really couldn't run around since I would loose those glasses fast.

The thing is, I really didn't want to. I felt as if I had traveled back in time to when I was sixteen, digging like, Operation Ivy, when I didn't know shit about shit, except that I didn't go to many shows like this. We put on our own shows. I instantly loathed the people around me and tried to fish a reason for this.

The reasons I came up with seem to be so Literi PoMo BS and that further infuriated me. I looked around and felt old at 22. "I can't have stupid fun anymore," I thought. I have become over-educated.

Then I realized maybe there was a reason for me to feel totally out of place. "Wait a minute", I thought. This is all fake. I don't know any of these people, there is no punk scene like this in Denver. I know, because I go to the shittiest venues for the price of nothing to see bands that no one had heard about, who do crazier acts than just playing loud in complaining; they through flour in the air and light fireworks into the crowd. Those aren't skinheads over there, those are just stupid prick kids that don't know what they're doing. Everyone's just having a reminisance orgy. This is stupid - the wrong kind of stupid." I guess kids can have their fun any way they want, I'd rather not live the past this way.

Youth Brigade played, "Sink With California, which I actually heard the day before at Illegal Pete's as I talked with Jack and his friend who's in the first stages of divorce. It sounded exactly like the recording. That being their last song, I left. I was so confused, partly from my glasses, that I thought that the band I just saw was Swinging Utters. I thought the show was over. I stayed a bit to see if my friend came out of the show, but she didn't, cause well, the show didn't end. I went home and freelanced, feeling a little odd.

Saturday, I started an internship at the Andenken gallery. After visiting Robischon, we went there. The gallery director mentioned it and for some reason, I was interested. I asked what the benifits were. She told me, "If anything, this place is a chick magnet." Enough reason for me and there I was getting the title or "Webmaster" to the Andenken website as well as gallery sitter/store clerk/changer of lightbulbs. Something about doing work I used to do for oddles of money for FREE just to have what is almost a real job seem to strike a cord with me. Either that, or I'm a masochist.

Or I know I'm going to make some massive connections.

Rudy called me up an hour before I got off, told me about a dance party he was DJ'ing at the Linoleum that very night and of an after party dance party at the Hipster Youth Halfway House. I again had something to do.

I arrived at the Linoleum at around 11:00pm and started to immediately dance, wearing my black streachy dance pants, my dancin' doc martens, my white bowling shirt with ben day dots on them and a rose tucked into the shirt pocket.

The place slowly swelled as more and more people came in. Rudy was spinning nothing but music from the 80's and I acted as goofy as possible. Not that anyone noticed, as Linoleum was the place I was at before with the costume chest and everyone was getting spoils from it. Beer was free and plenty and it all went down so lush. Thirsty, I left around 2 to go to 7-11 to pick up some Gatorade and went back, but saw Courtney, Maghen and someone else walked towards me and towards the HYHH.

(unfinished...)

I'm having the hardest time relating to people. I think I know someone fairly well, and they become the opposite of what I thought. I was so disillusioned by Sunday, that today I got in my car, put on a Red White and Blue afro wig that randomly happened to be in there and wore it the entire day, saying almost nothing and going about my Monday routine. It wasn't a matter of why I was wearing the wig, but more of, well, why not? I looked sort of like one of the characters from Waking Life and I thought perhaps I was just having a queer little dream. I would show some pictures of myself, but someone had stolen my digital camera on Friday. I guess I should explain a bit -

Last week, my weekend basically started on Tuesday. I went to school and wasted about six hours in a figure painting class trying to do a rub out of a figure drawing of Morgan, whom I've drawn and painted countless times. After six hours, I had a misguided painting of a head, part of a torso, and arm or so and a leg I'm fairly certain. I lettered, "Figure Painting is Gay" on top of the canvas and put it in the corner of my new studio.

I would show a picture of the painting, but someone had stolen my digital camera that Friday. But, if you could visualize some random scrumbles of Burnt Sienna mixed with Dioxine Purple on a Burnt Sienna ground, with, "Figure Painting is Gay" written on top with the same mixture - you basically got it. I hate how I am so moody when it comes to this kind of painting - like I can't always be on and I never know if I'm on until perhaps three hours into the painting, where all my mind says is, "it's not working, it's not working, it's not working...".

I think my problem today was that I really didn't understand first the reason to paint some naked nineteen year old lying on a collection of colorful linens as a way to express myself. Then I thought, well, what is the reason to paint anything? and got fairly depressed. I always have the thought that painting itself is such an outmoded form of expression - it's like doing the Jitterbug at a hip hop club. Why should I have to keep retro fitting this tired format on something hundreds of years after it's (perhaps) initial standardization? What's my mode of expression?

I start to argue with myself. I told myself that if I'm doing it, and I'm a part of my own culture, then the form is still valid, since it's still being practiced. I counter this with a sort of compromise upon myself. I told myself, "you're doing this to show yourself that you could, if you wanted to, paint like this all of the time, and if you can paint like the Old Masters, it gives validity to anything at all in the name of, 'painting' - say, what you really want to do which of course you have no clue what that is, cause you haven't stumbled upon it. And Hell, painting some naked girl for six hours ain't the worse way to spend your time".

I hope there's people that think as much as me.

Being the masochist that I am, I decided that after my class ended at 6:00pm, that I would stay for the free figure drawing session that starts at 6:45 and stay there until 9:45. I tried to get coffee at some random coffee shop on Colfax - but they were closed at 6:15 pm for some odd reason. I went back into the drawing room and drifted in and out of sleep, waiting for the model and more self torture.

My phone rang before that and that girl called, I'll call her, "Calista", so I don't have to use her real name - it's going to get fairly raw in my feelings for this person at the end of this entry... Calista called and told me about a show at Monkey Mania that was playing. "Dust Bustr", she said, "It's like two drummers, and, well, a dust buster". I was down and went home to do something and got to Monkey Mania at 9:00 pm where I met up quickly with both Melissa and Rudie. I guess they were down for Dust Bustr as well. I told them that I was to met Calista there and that I was fairly excited, having made a card in crayon to give to her.

Usually when I make a card in crayon, drawn with my left hand, it's a serious case of the puppy love. Fucking dangerous - reality distorts around me and I make the most stupid mistakes, but only know of these mistakes after they are committed - but I'm getting ahead of myself again.

Before Dust Bustr played, this guy called Captain Ahab performed from LA. Imagine taking like, Speed that only lasts for 30 minutes, setting a Powerbook to belt out electronic jibber-jabber, talk/rap how you want to sexually mount anything that moves, while girating beyond safety levels and you have: Captain Ahab. Brilliant. His songs were just so clever as to make me sad for my entire lonely, pointless, generation.

The craziest thing about it all was after he performed, he didn't do much of anything, except sort of stand in the corner quietly with his girl friend and snap a few pics. It's seriously odd how many acts do this total, almost Ziggy Stardust transformation when they go on stage; whatever they were, they drop and they become something absolutely different for maybe 15 to 30 minutes while they perform and afterwards, they'll become, "themselves" again. I wonder if any of those kinds of performers can see or look or feel while performing, or if it's more like the feeling you get when you jump of a cliff by accident.

Dust Bustr were basically two drummers and a vacuum. The vacuum was just turned on, held close to a mic to create this atmosphere of, "huuooooooooooommmmmmm", while the drummers free styled for a little while. Sort of interesting, as both drummers played off each other, dueling banjo style I guess. It was sort of an experiment to a different experimental band.

A band from LA was the headliner, Rose For Bohdan. They showed amazing energy, callous at the same time timid; gnarled out and constricting. You know it's going to be good when the lead singer is wearing part of a rabbit costume. They did a simply amazing cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart and gave me an entire bag of balls to throw up in the air during the crescendo of their last song - which I did. The entire place became a battlefield, with people throwing balls at each other, which escalated to the couch cushions that were lying around everywhere, which escalated to anything not nailed down, bed spreads, whole sheets of plywood, an empty keg - people took sides and switched them without telling anyone else. No one got hurt. My glasses that aren't even my prescription got destroyed though, but not a large loss.

After the show, I actually met someone with a Seirpinski Triangle tattoo, a little higher on his arm that I want to get the same thing - it was a trip. We talked fractals a bit and I went home after saying goodbye to Calista. A very fun night, and Calista said she call me on Saturday to do something, with an extended hug. I went to sleep much too late on Tuesday and was wreck for school on Wednesday. I had to do actual work and was living off of caffeine. I was supposed to go to a show my friends were putting on, but I was too tired to even listen to them whine about how i'm not there. I hung up on Meghan, I talked back to Jeana. Courtney tried to mouth off to me after I hung up with Meghan, but I explained, as slowly and carefully as I could how I was simply tired. I don't think many people went to their show - it was in the middle of the week and there were a few other shows playing. I felt bad, but at the same time thought I needed a break from everything, that I needed to be recluse for a little while.

I had my Art Industry class on Thursday. We interviewed each other to get a feel on how we should create our Artist's Statement. Since I could never put myself in such a constricting box as that, I wasn't very stoked on doing the assignment, and when it did come to my turn to explain myself, it came out as an argument against all that I thought was art - or I guess what everyone else thought it was. My classmates weren't really impressed with my different views - I guess it's all about fitting in, like every where else, how utterly contradictory.

I guess my main argument was that the techniques and skills of the Old Masters must be learned and understood, before you can go out and just rip with your own style. That statement to me doesn't seem incredibly controversial, but I was seen as "Western thinking", and "constricted in my views". I really really hate it when I get misinterpreted with my views... I sort of felt that I was one of only a few people in my class with a view.

Maybe it's that I just cannot except less than fucking amazing, and if that means being at least as good as the best old masters before setting off and discovering something completely mind-bogglingly new - so be it. I always like the long way, if I do have to make a choice - I like those views, those, "points of interest", exits - you know? There's so very useless, but it's the journey man! everyone else seems to just want to paint something pretty. They just want to road to drive a car to the top. I left school very very sad.

I had lent my digital camera, you know, the one that got stolen, to a friend of mine who was moving and couldn't keep all his art work, so he was throwing it away. Before he did that, I told him to use my camera, take as many pictures as possible and that we'd work together and put his stuff online, just for the hell of it. I really enjoy his work, he makes me feel, more than anyone, that there's still a reason to paint - all his work describes feelings; sadness torture, feel - but feelings nonetheless.

I was supposed to meet him at his studio at 10 that night to pick up my camera, but at 9:30 pm he calls me to tell me he's at school, looking for me. I tell him, that I was supposed to meet him at his studio at 10. I guess that didn't work for him. He told me he was going to give my camera to his girlfriend who would put it in a safe place in my studio. I told him exactly where to put it, in a very secretive place, somewhere out of the view of a casual wandering person looking for something the size of a deck of cards that costed me the same as rent, who could easily and slyly put in their pocket as if it was a nickel on the street, shining, smiling, upon them.

Friday, I got to school around 1:30. I didn't have a class, but I had work to do. You see, Mr Pacman was playing that night and I was going to get dressed up to match his performance. Mr Pacman usually wears what looks like a costume thrown out from a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers casting call, donning a helmet with gold painted face shield that he can't see out of. Completed with a pair of moon boots, Ninetendo Power Gloves and a key bass, Mr Pacman is quite an incredible performer to behold. Coming at least close to this without looking completely ridiculous during the opening act is no small order.

I brought to school a pair of faded black jeans and a belt - both of which I was going to paint. The pants got three silver stars painted on the back, three on the front, one right on the crouch of the pants. It was lovely. The belt was to have a green background with purple space invaders swimming about. I bought a t-shirt at a secret thrift store location that had a silkscreen of ET in "83" (whatever that meant) which was perfect. I would show you a picture of all this, but someone had stolen my digital camera on Friday at about this time -

Before going to work on the clothes, I made sure that my digital camera was brought back to my studio space. I checked the secret location that I told Adam to tell his girlfriend to put the thing - not there. After a few seconds of searching, I had found it on my shelves, next to my trusty AE-1. Not where I wanted it, but it was there. I was in and out of my studio all day, and halfway through painting the belt, I thought, well, the shelf wasn't the best place to have that camera. I looked, and it wasn't there.

In ten minutes, my entire studio was completely gutted out, in an attempt to find where exactly the camera had scampered off, Brave Little Toaster style. No luck. Someone had stolen my digital camera. I could do nothing but be pissed at myself and throw a juggling club into the hallway. I called Adam's girlfriend the news in a matter of fact way and continued to paint my belt - angrily. I couldn't think of a better way to ruin my night. I had shelled out a few clams the day before for a larger memory card for the camera so I could take movies at the show tonight and have Adam be able to snap more pictures.

As I was painting one little space invader after another, I realized how udderly useless the camera was at this point. The battery was drained and it needs a special adapter to charge it - which was right beside the camera in my studio, but wasn't taken. It also needs a special connection to hook it up to a computer, which I still have at home - someone just stolen a $400 deck of card-sized useless piece of metal.

Good going, fool.

I finished my belt in silence, went home for a bit and made sure Mr. Pacman was playing that night.

I couldn't find that he was.

I hate this blanket of fear that I had gone to school, made this art star outfit for a show that was not taking place. I had told everyone at school about how they should check out the show. They're all going to hate me - I thought. I would hate myself.

Calling the venue, they seem to indeed be playing and my hopes rose. I met Jack, alex, Jason, Jerimiah, Melissa, Rudy and a whole bunch of other people and felt relieved that they weren't all mad at me for the wrong show date at that Mr Pacman was playing. Although he wasn't, but he was there playing -

Mr Pacman, aka Avery, was actually playing in a side project called Baby with a girl named Brandy. Avery was in a black hoody playing keyboards and Brandy was wearing a hot dress, looking hot a sounding hot, with hot... ok dorky wraparound sun glasses. They showed a video projection and showed random movies while the lyrics to their songs were shown at the bottom. They passed a mic around for anyone in the audience to sing along and kept telling everyone that they were from Canada. It was strangely overwhelming and worth it to me at least in getting all dressed up. I decided then and there that I'm custom painting all of my clothes. I have pictures of this show, since I brought the Polaroid camera to the show - it's as clunky and as large as any camera you'll ever see, and is ridiculous to have around, since it doesn't even fit in my coat pocket.

But, it has the sometimes forgotten ability to have a physical print of your picture right then and there, with a little area at the bottom for people to write trash on, and that, people did. I got Brandy of Baby to sign hers, and snapped a pic of an ass during, "Rad"'s performance -

Rad's performance was similar to Baby's, except that there wasn't any lyrics on their films, and they didn't say they were from Canada. The lead singer swayed back and forth in a dress right out of Pat Benatar's closet of 1983. Her left hand, held the mic as her right sat precariously close to her inner upper thigh. They would point at things, like rock stars point, because they said they were rock stars. Between two songs, some random girl wearing black pants and a see through shirt and red tape strategically placed runs up on the stage, turns around, sticks out her ass, and runs off. Her ass had, "RAD" written in the same red tape. I didn't understand exactly why, but I took a picture anyways, it was my last polaroid left

I spent the entire rest of the show looking for that girl so she could sign her polaroid. I never found her, but introduced myself to at least half of the people hanging out at the back patio by holding up the picture in my right hand, looking at their face closely and seriously, then at their ass, looking back at the picture, shaking my head with failure, muttering, "you're not her...", and then with a bit of a revival present in my throat, asking, "but, who are you?". It worked better than , I have to say.

People, rather being slightly annoyed seemed to always want to see the picture - they were slightly curious themselves who this girl was, why she was on stage sticking her ass out at everyone, and how I was able to snap a pic in time. I wonder what the phenomena is called where more interest is put upon a picture of something, rather than the actual thing itself... It's fascinating.

Another group played, whom I forgot the name of, and then the after party.

I left with Melissa and Rudy with a friend of theirs to her house, which was really a warehouse a few... feet from the Larimer lounge. I had been to it a few weeks before after a pirate theme party, hanging out on the roof, talking geodesic domes, watching someone get stopped by the cops on Larimer and get seriously beat the shit out of. The after party demanded that you go in a costume, so Rudy and I got ready. Rudy found a Red, White and Blue wig, some odd white colored wind breaker and funky, goggle sun glasses and was all set. I put up a black and white striped top, a dragnet-esque hat, a trainer bra, a cat collar as a bracelet, and a full on American flag used as a cape. We got in, no problem.

Inside, there were a few djs spinning, lots of lights, crowds of people in odd costumes, neon lights and about half of the people from Denver that went to Burning Man a few weeks ago. I had fun just walking around and watching everything go down. After a bit, I found some hula hoops and the night found me at 3:30 in the morning learning to hula hoop with two hoops while a crowd watched. Fairly sureal, but just what I like finding myself doing.

It took forever to find parking at four in the morning and had to walk from Downing to my apartment. I realized that my right knee was having major problems walking. It wasn't my hip, but my knee shooting sharp spikes of pain to my head. I layed down on my couch and after a while, gave up on trying to get comfortable and just dealt with not being able to bend this right leg at all.

I woke up with my left eye red and infected, the leg hurting more than ever. I don't know how I these odd things happen to me, but they do, at the most inconvenient times.

My plan today was to work on some work work which I deparately need to do and then have dinner with Calista at the Watercourse. I spent a minimal amount of time working, as Penny came over to get some help with a Photoshop project and I'm the local Photoshop guy. Calista did call at 6:30, but my phone didn't pick up and she left a message. I called her number but then she didn't pick up and I left a message. This is not good.

I found myself at Penny's coffee shop at 8:00 pm in the same position I was weeks before, waiting for a stupid girl to call me so I could, you know, take her out and pay for stuff. This sort of wait is mind-numbing. I called again at 9:30 pm and gave up all hope and went to "work". At around 1:30 am, she calls, somewhat drunk, and some reason, without having checked her messages in the five hours I had originally called her. We replanned for tomorrow at 7:00 pm. I told her not to call, but just come down. She had forgotten where I lived. Weird.

I awaited her with the minimal amount of effort possible. She actually did come, just a bit late and to the Watercourse we drove. It's only a few blocks away, but we drove.

Our dinner started out as regular as possible. Then, she started talking about wanting to join the Peace Corps, and how she was going to start modeling for figure drawing classes and if I would have a problem with that. I don't, because I could care less who I was drawing, the model is by necessity, just a little higher in my mind than, like a really neat piece of fruit to draw.

She started asking me more questions -

"alex, do you want, kids?"

I told her I didn't, for the obvious reasons that I can't keep a plant alive. I told her that I would never have kids unless I could give my entire life to my child, and that's something that I just can't do right now. It doesn't even register. What this nineteen year old opposite of me was thinking when she told me that she did want kids, I don't know.

"alex, when's the last time you had sex?"

I told her a few weeks, slightly put back by such a blunt question. I wanted to make silly comments about the menu selection, not this.

"A few weeks ago," (which was true), "why do you ask?"

"Oh, just wondering.. you know what? I don't think I've been at my house for two weeks! I must have slept with... well about four guys since then!"

This comment wouldn't have bothered me, but the reason I hadn't had sex in a few weeks was that I called off the little thing I had with another girl because I thought I had met a really cool girl, that was into my Art and into me and wasn't crazy. That girl was sitting across the table from me, slowly tearing my heart out.

She went on.

"So yeah, I found myself with this guy yesterday at like 1am, drunk, and I realized he had taken me to his parents house! There were all these weird hokey things hung up and there I was naked in his livingroom. Someone starts walking downstairs and he yells, 'um, people are down here!'. It was unreal!"

An interesting change came over me. I didn't look at her much more that night. I stuck to the intricate patterns located on the table in front of me and played with my glass of water, wondering if I should make a dash for the door and get the Hell out of this weird, stupid position, with this girl that was obviously, a bit flippy. Man, puppy love is a hell of a thing.

Now, I don't know if she knew that she just confessed on standing me up the night before for another guy, but it gets better -

"Yeah, so before that, I'm hanging out with Joan (again, name changed), we just gotten her out of the halfway house (she was committed for reasons I never really found out). and, well, we knew she was going to do this, but we found her not an hour after huddled in the corner of the kitchen with a knife. She had cut her entire forearm - I mean, I could see he muscles and shit. It was crazy. The paramedics came and everything. She's back at the halfway house, I'm supposed to visit her at 9:00 pm tonight.

Well within my shell position, the food comes and I start eating. Out of right field I hear,

"Hey alex, know what? I have cervical cancer. I'm going into surgery next Friday."

If I was uncomfortable before, I was feeling as if I had been standing in the middle of a busy intersection for the past year. What do you say to that? While eating Jerk Tofu no less?

I offered my amazement and support before and after whatever goes down.

Our night together ended as soon as I got the check - she paid when we had a jaunt to Chiles. This one was on me. We went to Blockbuster to return Waynes World Two that she rented the first time we had dinner and she went to see her friend at the halfway house, dropping me off shortly after.

I got into my car and visited Penelope at the PSI Lounge where she was guest bartending for the night. I didn't have one drink, but took the time to take every single girl that I thought I had a thing for off my phone's address book and left after a bit with a long face and an air of total defeat.

The next day, I got into my car, put on a red, white and blue wig that I had found and wore it for the entire day, not for any particular reason, but really cause I couldn't see a reason not to.

After two weeks of break, I have begun school again. It's fairly odd to see so many people walking around, as the summer trimester had about 250 students total on the entire campus. I was finally able to move into my new studio in the Spivak house. I share a room with Jack, who took no time in putting up two posters of a man's muscular chest with our names written on them in marker. It feels good to actually have a place to paint again. I got no less than two canvases and six boards ready to paint on Friday, with two more canvases still to streach for Monday if I find the money to buy the canvas. Perhaps my output this semester will be monolithic - although I only have two studio classes - More time to "really" paint I guess.

Somehow I also scored a solo exhibition in a few weeks somewhere at school. I presented some of my digital work to an Experimental Drawing class and the teacher basically told me I'll have a solo show in a few weeks. More of a, "you will be showing", rather than a, "do you want to show?" The show will be through the "Institute for Experimental Studies" so I'm fairly stoked. A pretty trinket on the rŽsumŽ.

This does somewhat adds complexity to my idea of what I'm going to produce, Art-wise this semester. I really don't know what path I'm going to take, but I've almost exclusively been figure drawing three hours every other day, and the experimental drawings I'm going to be working on and showing are in the complete opposite side of the spectrum.

I always seem to do this.

I might as well do both concurrently - wouldn't that screw with people's heads. I guess I'll figure it out - I always do.

Last Friday, I saw Pansy Division at the Larimer Lounge - another place I've been haunting fairly frequently. Pansy Division is known as being one of the first all-gay rock band, with songs dealing with sexual identity, the gay lifestyle, homophobia and gettin' down with a hot guy - all with a good dose of humor. A great show, to say the least. I couldn't really stop laughing at some of their antics.

The Swayback was one of the opening bands, alongside Dr. Neptune. I've lost count on how many times I've seen The Swayback this year, but it has to be at least half the shows they've put on in Denver. I went to the show along after not being able to find anyone to go with me. I met up with at least 10 people i knew, including some people I hadn't seen since my Brother's Wedding. Laura wasn't one of them and I really miss her.

Saturday, I did laundry, and worked on Mojo Mail, both of which I haven't done in a while. As for no laundry, "Going Commando" is fun for just so long. As for programming a web based computer program - it's such an odd thing for me to do. I'm basically in my last year of school and much of my time is spend writting computer code. I wonder if there will be a time when I don't have to do this anymore, or if something like Mojo Mail will always be a project of mine. I'm undecided on if this a good or bad thing.

Sunday, I again went to Lucong's free figure drawing session, and went skating for the first time in around a month afterwards. I stopped previously after falling on my hip badly - bad enough to have trouble walking to my car, or for that matter, driving it for a few weeks. I was a bit concerned. It felt good to skate again and the Denver skatepark has a new addition to it since the last time I skated it. My hip feels fine and I was getting some fairly high backside airs in the Handicap Bowl and was even able to roll in frontside into it. I was seriously out of breath after each run felt a bit bad for allowing myself to be so out of shape.

At least this whole, "Life Drawing" thing is starting to work out for me. I always seem to worry that I can't draw.

I randomly came across a fifty-four word story I must have wrote when I was in the dorms at CU Boulder. It was posted with an incredible amount of spelling mistakes. I've cleaned it up a bit and here it is:

Walking hopelessly down the narrow echoing alley, a lonesome man caught sight of just a sparkle of concealed metal. Curious, the solitaire strained for the curbside treasure and shuffled the find ungainly in his hand. It was just a nickel, the minted date twined his birth. Weeping, he remembered yesterday his age plused one.

Finding this made me smile and reminisce just a bit. It also reminded me of when I found a gold dollar in my pocket and had an out of body experience about 2 years ago.