My Saint

I’ve got a girl, thin and pretty. Sounds like a Fender Strat. She’s tall and lean with small tits, as white as the state of Maine. Long, straight, thick brown hair, and lots of patience. She’s signed up for the whole thing, for life. She’s signed up for the good, the bad, the really bad, and the utterly fucking shameful. She’s not a girl, she’s a saint.

Parking Spaces

One thing to keep in mind with parking spaces is that you can only park in one at a time. You can only fill one vacancy in any given moment. Certainly some parking spaces are nicer than others. Some aren’t necessarily nicer, just different. Some are worth circling the block a few times to get into. Some already have money in the meter when you get there. Some are carpeted with broken glass and rusty nails. Some you occupy for quite some time, some very briefly. There are parking spaces that you’ll try to protect by setting up cones or chairs, because you feel that you are entitled to them or own them. But you don’t, and it won’t work, and you’ll find some asshole in your space. Sometimes you’ll jump around from one space to another, and sometimes you won’t be able to find a space at all, not even to save your godforsaken life. Sometimes you’ll just want to park your car in the fucking river.

Studio Visit

My friends Christine, Grant, and Matt came over to see my new work and also revisit some of my old stuff. They collectively own and run the Moxie Dada gallery on Pittsburgh’s Northside. They’re great people who run a very cool gallery. The visit was supposed to be half studio visit and half recreational bullshitting. Christine was reluctant to get internet directions, so she asked me for directions over the phone. I gave her the best directions I could, which were really shitty and imprecise. I’m terrible at giving directions. I’m always clear about that up front, and only then if the requesting party insists will I give the directions. Despite this, they arrived right on time, and I had the studio (my garage) set up and ready. It was dusk. We spent a few minutes in the garage looking at my two newest pieces, “Honor Among Thieves 1” and “Honor Among Thieves 2,” as well as one in progress, which I haven’t named yet. They also returned the three larger pieces that they had just shown. Since they hadn’t been to our house before, I gave them a quick tour. There’s not much to look at, so it didn’t take long. Soon we were all downstairs, each with a beer, and many subsequent beers to follow those. We talked about art, the gallery, and various unrelated topics. It was great. We wandered back into the garage, and looked at and talked more about my work. Eventually it grew dark, and we planned a permanent installation that I would do on the side of their gallery.

A Strange Hell

We went out drinking with some friends last night. Two lady friends of ours were the first half of the evening, really wonderful people. They’re awesome, always a blast. They’re a married lesbian couple, and not into men at all, at least not to my knowledge. After two gay bars, they bailed on us. No biggie. We met up with the Girl From Moscow at a club. We hate clubs, but I still want to sleep with the Girl From Moscow, and I thought that it might be the big night. So we bit the bullet and went. She looked good, and she had friends with her, and they were cool, and we all drank a lot, a whole lot. At least I did. We weren’t getting anywhere, and around 1am, we left. My wife, always the driver, was still totally straight. When we got home, I was too drunk to function, and she wanted nothing to do with me. Now, this morning, I’ve got a miserable hangover. This afternoon, a cute gallery owner is coming over with two other friends from the gallery for a studio visit. They all want to take a look at some of my newest work, and drink, and I’m quite certain she has no interest in me either. For all I know, she’s got a boyfriend. I’ve created a strange hell for myself. It’s a hell lined with pussy, and I can’t seem to have any of it.

Pink Glitter-Encrusted Origami Thing Hanging From a Rearview Mirror

Behind me at the light, gridlocked in traffic, she’s leaning forward, digging for something in the center console of her late '90s model Cavalier. While she does this, the little pink origami thing with glitter all over it suspended from her rearview mirror swings back and forth, repeatedly bouncing off of her face. I guess it was possibly made by her daughter? She tried to blink it away, but failed. She came up with a tube of mascara, took off her glasses, moved her bangs, and applied it to her eyelashes using that same rearview mirror. At this intersection, the last one before the road ends and you enter town, all of the vehicles tend to pile into the right lane, leaving the left lane almost entirely empty. I did this too. I was the last car to fit past the light. Not wanting to block the intersection, she darted around me into the left lane, went down about a dozen car lengths, and cut back into the right lane. I could see that she was missing at least one hub cap from the passenger side of her car. I suppose I could do the same thing, cut in front of a bunch of people and probably get to work a little faster. I’m not above that sort of behavior. I do it all the time. I’m just not in that kind of hurry to get to work.