Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, now here’s the plot: you’ve got all these fucking people, good looks and weird clothes, singing songs together in a bar while their bodies move like one giant hand clap, saying yesssir with butts in the air and who cares? Because this is the end of something special that we’re now only realizing happened in the first place and that was our twenties and I guess for that person it was early thirties but goddamn we’re HOT and now I want to fuck everyone – why haven’t I already?
And in the meantime the interest is racking up on those loans but we don’t care because the small cut we get of the good times the world is having on Iraqi oil money makes surviving possible, otherwise our lives would suck like freshman on each other’s tits when they wake up chapped and hungover in the morning after the party that I threw for my own birthday, March 21, 1982, which is the first day of Aries and the second day of spring and the true spring solstice, the herald of a season when people break up those hunkered down relationships they had in the dark, smelly nights of winter, and look for something a little sexier, something to get excited and horned up about.
Don’t try to tell me what happened the next day. I don’t want to hear you explain it, nor do I want to be reminded of my own sad version, of nights alone and cheap cans of beans, of groups of people surrounding candidates for success, pondering the next ideas of artists who didn’t have any and who were just starting to freak out because it was nearing the end of the tale for them. Just stick around, money cooed, it’ll never happen but you’ll get to watch and it will seem like you were really there.
2 comments:
These look better in photos than they do in real life. In person they look slaped together, here they look more purposful. Maybe think about the way you show the work. Photos maybe.
I know why these are posted under this title, I just think you should suck it up and call yourself Mike "new paintings" Egan.
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