Category Archives: Art

My Name Is NYC, IF You Are and I Am A Low Functioning Stoner

I have late classes on monday. They start at three and end around eight. I woke up at six monday morning. I pressed two glasses of coffee, and then started stretching. I did some pull ups on my Iron Gym, and then I did some push ups on my bedroom carpet. I took a brief shower and dressed to go running. Sweat pants, running shoes, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. I drank one cup of coffee and then twenty ounces of water. I found my ipod, and my keys, and left my apartment to start my 3 mile campaign. Once outside, I turned on my ipod and found a playlist I had assembled the night before, “Monday Run.” I walked across the street to Riverside Park and began jogging.I ran from 115th to 113th before turning around and going home.

It was too cold. Instead I would smoke a bowl, and lay on my couch, drink coffee and watch two hours of The Cleavland Show. I can’t say it was what I had planned for the day, but it turned out quite well. Around one I realized I should start dressing for school. I also realized I was still pretty stoned. I found a pair of socks, pulled my jeans out from a pile of clothes, and dressed for the cold. I took two naps while getting dressed. I fall into the category of  ‘low-functioning pot smoker.’

I take the red line directly to school, and it takes me 45 minutes to get there. I use this opportunity to catch up on reading. I had Jonathan Lethem’s new book “Chronic City” on me. I started searching for the page where I had last left off when the irony of the title dawned on me and I began loudly laughing to the dismay of the Dominican grandmothers who I had wedged myself between in the packed car.

My first class was Art Survey. I walked into class late because I had to stop and get a Jamba juice. My professor was going over her syllibus and I took a seat against the wall. She started showing slides, and giving us vocabulary for describing art. ” Do you guys see the LINES in this Picasso? Notice how Poussin uses COLOR and FORM.” Yes, I did. “Does anyone have anything to add?” I felt that I’d made a bad impression, arriving in class late, and figured this was a better opportunity than ever to make up for it.

“I have something to add” I spent the next five minutes of class monologuing about landscape painting, and a trip I had taken to the MET during the Poussin show in 2008. I talked about what color REALLY MEANS, whatever that means, and how I FELT about form. I talked about who I was, and how it was funny that we’re all sitting in a room looking at slides of paintings.

I scribbled this in my notes “sitting here in art survey, my young female professor is huddled around her textbook, aiming her nerd specs at the letters on the page. She is quietly reading and chewing on her hair.”

Between classes I stopped at the library to use my laptop. My friend Soan tapped on my shoulder, and we talked about our winter breaks. We talked about travel, and girls, money, and responsibility. We went for a cup of coffee at the Barnes and Noble cafe down the street.

Sitting in French 102, my teacher began calling roll. She called my name, and asked me to tell the class about myself, but in french. “ah, oui, Je muh-pelle  ——, and, no I mean ‘et’ , ET- j’aime uhm biking and stuff.” fuck. After the attendance was taken, I opened my book bag to pull out my notebook. I noticed that my laptop was not in my bag. I stood up, knocking a glass bottle off of an older haitain woman’s desk. It burst open on the floor throwing glass and peach juice everywhere. “Sorry” I said. I ran to the library, my mind racing with the thought of a student plucking my laptop off of the desk which I had so haphazardly left it. Fucking asshole! How could I forget my laptop? Did I? My pace slowed wit realization. I brought my charger, and I brought my mouse. Did I even bring my laptop today? I walked back to where I had been sitting in the library, still doubtful, but too embarrassed to ask the front desk if someone had found a laptop which did not exist. Leaning against the desk, I stretched my calves, and quads, as if I had just finished exercising. ‘yep, done.’ I walked back to class slowly, grabbing some napkins from the bathroom on the way.

That night I would find my laptop opened on my couch, frozen on a still of the Cleavland Show. A bear wearing a shirt, and a tie, and a chubby black kid crying. I knocked my running shoes out of the way, and began taking off my boots. Best monday ever!

Advertisements

Laser Etching At Gizmodo Gallery

I haven’t been able to sit down and write anything because of class, apartment hunting, and my current living situation. However, I see more blogging happening this week. That is If you’re all good little boys and girls and there’s no acting up on the drive home. I swear to god I will turn this car around god damnit.

Last week I attended the second annual Gizmodo Gallery. Gizmodo showcases some of todays more interesting fringe technology, along with some old classics. There were painting robots, a 3d printer, and of course the obligatory 103 inch plasma tv tooting Halo in the back.

Phil Torrone with AdaFruit was kind enough to lend his time, and his laser etcher to Gizmodo fans looking for a cheap way to score an etched gadget. I brought my macbook pro. There was a small donation fee (25 bucks down from 100) all of which went towards Engineers Without Boarders. My friend CNTGZ really fucking pulled through last minute and designed an amazing Guatama Buddha for me.

Here are the results:


thanks to CNTGZ, Phil from Adafruit, and everyone at Gizmodo. wadup!

Paradise Lost; Apartment Found


I was reading the NYtimes’ Complain Box tonight, and the current article is about a trip the author had taken with his children to P.S.1., one of his favorite places to view contemporary art in NY. Unfortunately the trip turned sour when they were suddenly ambushed by a bunch of dicks and pussah’s all over the place. Well:

We quickly encountered what appeared to be an indoor swimming pool- only it turned out to be an illusion (A glass sheet mounted in the floor, with a bit of water runing over it.). A stairway made it possible to see the pool….my kids ran up and down the stairs a dozen times, gleefully posing for photos. It was the exactly the kind of playful installation that I take them to museums like P.S.1 to see.After five minutes, they asked if there was anything else…they’d like…I didn’t know, so we checked out the exhibition across the hall…Two minutes later, I saw something alarming over my right shoulder: a giant photo of Katie Couric delivering the evening news with her genitalia exposed.

Funny, I’d come across that same giant photo not too long after reading the article.

The author continues on about how, though he is against censorship, he feels that there should have been a more clear warning  regarding Couric’s flaming news labia. His reason? A “harried parent” wouldn’t have noticed the small printed sign which warned of the 18 plus. But when did it become a museums responsibility to make sure that children don’t come across lewd paintings? and I use that term extremely loosely because it is a fucking museum. Does it have something to do with the fact that paintings typically hang about 3 to 4 feet high, which inevitably leads to a childs head being level with cock, pussy and/or ass? Irregardless,  a harried parent shouldn’t bring their child to a museum. A harried parent, with children with a ton of energy to expel, should bring their child to a park, or a pool. Not an illusion of a pool. I’m all for bringing your kids to the museum but perhaps P.S. 1 isn’t necesarily that educational oasis of child distraction in a sea of mind numbingly bland parks and playgrounds. I was brought up on the MET and the Natural History museum. They may not be genitalia free, but if you’re not okay with your kid seeing a nude oil, or statue, then maybe the reccenter should be your next destination of choice.

The author concludes

Do New York museums really want to make parents scared of what their kids will see around the corner? I propose this rule: The warning signs should be at least as large as the exposed genitalia.

Do New York parents really have so much wreckless abandon as to let their kids run wild in a contemporary art museum? I think the author should just be glad that the signs aren’t as big as his genitalia. In which case they would look something like this:

In other news, I found an apartment. Good bye alleyway, hello Brownsville! Just kidding. I’d never live in that broke ass ghetto. (Sorry Brownsville, you know you’re my boo.) Instead, I’ll be living a stones throw away in Bed Stuy: A Step Above the Rest. Just kidding+1. Their motto is Bed Stuy: Do or Die. As in kill or kill yo’self cuz you a pussay, ya pussay. At least I’ll be able to tell my kids I lived in Bed Stuy pre gentrification. CUZ IM REAL LIKE THAT