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.