2.26.2008
2.21.2008
8.18.2007
8.15.2007
6.04.2007
5.07.2007
4.17.2007
4.11.2007
1.18.2007
1.16.2007
10.27.2006
9.25.2006
8.04.2006
7.13.2006
7.12.2006
6.30.2006
6.27.2006
6.22.2006
6.14.2006
6.06.2006
4.09.2006
3.31.2006
3.06.2006
everyday is like sunday.
Last weekend, a free coffee table was acquired.
Unfortunately, particle board just doesn't cut it.
Voila!
CLOTHING DREAM by Margaret Atwood.
"Oh no. Not this again. It's the clothing dream. I've been having it for fifty years. Aisle after aisle, closetful after closetful, metal rack after metal rack of clothing, stretching into the distance under the glare of the flourescent tubing - as gaudy and ornate and confusing, and finally as glum and oppressive, as the dreams of a longtime opium smoker. Why am I compelled to riffle through these outfits, tangling up the hangers, tripping on the ribbons, snagging myself on a hook or button while feathers and sequins and fake pearls drop to the floor like ants from a burning tree? What is the occasion? Who do I need to impress?
There's a smell of stale underarms. Everything's been worn before. Nothing fits. Too small, too big, too magenta. These flounces, hoops, ruffles, wired collars, cut-velvet-capes - none of these disguises is mine. How old am I in this dream? Do I have tits? Whose life am I living? Whose life am I failing to live?"
Unfortunately, particle board just doesn't cut it.
Voila!
CLOTHING DREAM by Margaret Atwood.
"Oh no. Not this again. It's the clothing dream. I've been having it for fifty years. Aisle after aisle, closetful after closetful, metal rack after metal rack of clothing, stretching into the distance under the glare of the flourescent tubing - as gaudy and ornate and confusing, and finally as glum and oppressive, as the dreams of a longtime opium smoker. Why am I compelled to riffle through these outfits, tangling up the hangers, tripping on the ribbons, snagging myself on a hook or button while feathers and sequins and fake pearls drop to the floor like ants from a burning tree? What is the occasion? Who do I need to impress?
There's a smell of stale underarms. Everything's been worn before. Nothing fits. Too small, too big, too magenta. These flounces, hoops, ruffles, wired collars, cut-velvet-capes - none of these disguises is mine. How old am I in this dream? Do I have tits? Whose life am I living? Whose life am I failing to live?"
2.23.2006
2.14.2006
2.09.2006
2.08.2006
high of 68 and sunshine.
Dear SFMOMA,
I still do not understand the enormous gold-plated porcelain sculpture of Michael Jackson hugging a monkey. Perhaps next month, free museum day could include a trip to the Neverland Valley Ranch.
Sincerely,
A concerned free-loading visitor.
I still do not understand the enormous gold-plated porcelain sculpture of Michael Jackson hugging a monkey. Perhaps next month, free museum day could include a trip to the Neverland Valley Ranch.
Sincerely,
A concerned free-loading visitor.
