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 Bokker 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 Martinis, 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.