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I
made it down to the Artspace at about 4pm. That's two hours later than I'd anticipated. But all was well; Jenfariello, Sam and others had been there all day working in the dark room.
The painting I did today was very satisfying. At times I even had the rare feeling that I was doing things I had never done before. There were some minor errors of composition and colour saturation to contend with, but they were small enough to be compensated for. The result was so disturbing that it seemed somehow shameful, perhaps, in another time, even worthy of censorship. The painting, done in acrylic and oil, featured a warty baby's head terminating the summit of a gnarly orange spiral, set against a deep blue sky with horizontal grey clouds. At various points on the spiral, balloon-like objects were attached. These looked more like the fruiting bodies of fungi than they did children's playthings. I was both unnerved and pleased that such a heinously beautiful thing could emerge from my mind.
The result was so disturbing that it seemed somehow shameful, perhaps, in another time, even worthy of censorship. Meanwhile, Jenfariello played Ani DiFranco on the Artspace stereo. At first I imagined that the music was going to make me miserable, but at a certain point I found it bearable, even likeable on some level; I painted as well with it as I every paint with any other music. But I hate the sound of her guitar. It just sounds like she's hitting it with a bedspring really fast. She really needs to discover the boy joys: amplification & distortion. Later the girl who does the charcoal drawings was playing an interesting lowfiesque girl band, but I can't recall the name. I liked them though.
B
ack at the Dynashack, I came upon Monster Boy with Cecelia and Leticia the Brazilian Girls. Leticia set off for home (mom or dad picked her up somewhere on the Corner) while Monster Boy, Cecelia and I set off for the Horrid Crash Pad. Recalling the 420 party, I sang praises of the place with unwarranted überspeak while Monster Boy tempered my enthusiasm. No, he didn't think, as I claimed to, that the Horrid Crash Pad is the "coolest place to hang out in the whole world." I had to agree with him that no matter what, the Horrid Crash Pad will always be "The Horrid Crash Pad."A variant on the usual scene was present: the Native American Odyssey Guy, Josh Mustin playing annoying blues on a guitar, some pathetic unshaven guy doing nothing but playing video games with his mouth somewhat ajar, and a couple of girls who regularly come by. The card table was crowded with empty cans of Milwauki's Beast Ice. Since another night of drinking seemed to be taking place, a beer run was initiated. I chipped in exactly one dollar, the only money contributed by any in my contingent. 36 cans of Beast Ice, the official Horrid Crash Pad beverage, soon arrived. It comes in dark blue cans now. For this reason alone, the decor in the crash pad is more tasteful than it used to be when the cans were an uglier blue and red.
That dollar I contributed paid back big time. I drank three beers, Monster Boy drank at least one, and then some random goth boy showed up and got us all stoned. I mean, really stoned. Not me so much; I excercised restraint since I would be working tonight. But this one swarthy guy with an ear ring appeared to lose his mind.
Other forms seem to represent vaginas, in all their inaccessible glory.
P
erhaps one of the reasons I enjoy the crash pad is that I am full of self confidence whenever I am there. Unlike at the Dynashack, where restraint always seems most appropriate, at the Horrid Crash Pad, I am loud, gossipy, and (simultaneously) self-deprecating. To be amusingly self-deprecating requires a certain amount of high self esteem, something that the Horrid Crash Pad just seems to provide me, along with the beer, buds, and second-hand smoke. Whenever I'm there, I tend to monopolize or orchestrate the conversation, making constant references to familiar characters or recent events. Today's big topic was, again, the sausage party of a little over a week ago. Angela showed up briefly, and she seems to delight in the topic of the sausage party almost as much as I do. We even broke into song about it yet again. Someone pointed out to me that the illustrations covering the card table, which are rendered in electric-colour pen, are largely crudely-rendered nude female bodies. They have huge gravity-defying breasts and no noses. Other drawings seem to represent vaginas, in all their inaccessible glory. The table is an archeological treasure, a documentary of male sexual frustration.