I have begun writing before the California Figurative exhibition
opens at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco next
week. Am I in it? Of course not. They choose that asshole ____ to
curate it, and it is dominated by academics and SoCal carpetbaggers.
Insulting to be overlooked once again in my own home territory and with
so much hoopla. The newspaper actually called me to ask what I thought of
the show. I told them, but I doubt if they will print it.
I am writing my autobiography I also told them. And so I am,
but like cake wolfed after too many drinks, it is vomited out in
unrecognizable chunks. Soit. I will do it anyways. Let someone else make
something out of the pieces when I am dead.