reverse-gender-identity cock jokes are the new black
Pizza topped with shredded money in lieu of cheese. (And vegans of the world, I have my doubts as to whether or not money is vegan.) Pantera Dance Remix 2k3.
These are the things I need to remember today.
Well, and last night was the Gugg opening. Mir and George and I tooled around the gallery in our blazers and arty shoes, talking about how much we wanted a Frankenthaler in there, or any fucking women painters would have been nice for christsakes, but it's Vegas and they'd rather get three or four shitty late Picassos in their efforts to "expand the audience" then even one truly stellar specimen from the New York School. Well fuck you, Las Vegas Guggenheim, and the hegemonic exhibition practices you rode in on.
Undaunted, we then went to the lounge in the Venetian that had been rented out for the night for us to party in, and drank Yellow Tail red and weak vodka tonics and ate artichoke slices in saffron sauce with cracked pepper and black sea scallops in carmelized balsamic vinegar garnished with clover sprouts and tiny tiny legs of lamb which we fed with our fingers to Miranda (who has developed a new school of dietary restrictions known as "vegan except for art openings") and Amanda (likewise with "I'm vegetarian except for creatures that are mythically cute and cuddly, i.e. scallops and lamb") George ("I was raised in the Mediterranean by lapsed Catholics; we believe that everything suffers") and Emanuel ("I'm a beautiful gay boy from Mexico and will eat anything"). Oh, there is really nothing like drunk Vegas illuminati to take the tension out of your evening. Unless of course it is your own drunk docent ass taking the tension out of your evening. I made inappropriate comments all night, such as seeing one hypercoiffed chick nibble the orange marmalade off her friend's chocolate mousse petit four and saying, "That's really hot," as well as pulling aside the assistant curator from NYC to harangue her about the show's nonexistent female-artist constituency: "I mean, I love the show. Really, I would marry it tonight if we could get the paperwork together. But I know you have Frankenthalers, Elizabeth, and you can't hide them from us forever. We need women artists in our lives!"
The real coup de grace (frenchies, does anyone know what the keyboard combos are to make accents?) of the whole affair, however, came when a certain 60-year-old tenured Art History professor from UNLV draped an arm around me, the other arm hard at work balancing a glass of chardonnay, and told me that she missed me while I was abroad, that she wanted to teach Italian Baroque next semester just so I could take it, and what on earth is my thesis topic anyway honeychile, and doesn't her sweater make her look FAT.
Sweet crispy fried mother of god was it ever out of control.
We finally took off around ten, the other two Figurati and I, dragging our arty shoes back to the parking garage for a Let's Make Out Leaning Against The Side Of George's Camry Until George Gets Sober party. Which was really, really successful.
These are the things I need to remember today.
Well, and last night was the Gugg opening. Mir and George and I tooled around the gallery in our blazers and arty shoes, talking about how much we wanted a Frankenthaler in there, or any fucking women painters would have been nice for christsakes, but it's Vegas and they'd rather get three or four shitty late Picassos in their efforts to "expand the audience" then even one truly stellar specimen from the New York School. Well fuck you, Las Vegas Guggenheim, and the hegemonic exhibition practices you rode in on.
Undaunted, we then went to the lounge in the Venetian that had been rented out for the night for us to party in, and drank Yellow Tail red and weak vodka tonics and ate artichoke slices in saffron sauce with cracked pepper and black sea scallops in carmelized balsamic vinegar garnished with clover sprouts and tiny tiny legs of lamb which we fed with our fingers to Miranda (who has developed a new school of dietary restrictions known as "vegan except for art openings") and Amanda (likewise with "I'm vegetarian except for creatures that are mythically cute and cuddly, i.e. scallops and lamb") George ("I was raised in the Mediterranean by lapsed Catholics; we believe that everything suffers") and Emanuel ("I'm a beautiful gay boy from Mexico and will eat anything"). Oh, there is really nothing like drunk Vegas illuminati to take the tension out of your evening. Unless of course it is your own drunk docent ass taking the tension out of your evening. I made inappropriate comments all night, such as seeing one hypercoiffed chick nibble the orange marmalade off her friend's chocolate mousse petit four and saying, "That's really hot," as well as pulling aside the assistant curator from NYC to harangue her about the show's nonexistent female-artist constituency: "I mean, I love the show. Really, I would marry it tonight if we could get the paperwork together. But I know you have Frankenthalers, Elizabeth, and you can't hide them from us forever. We need women artists in our lives!"
The real coup de grace (frenchies, does anyone know what the keyboard combos are to make accents?) of the whole affair, however, came when a certain 60-year-old tenured Art History professor from UNLV draped an arm around me, the other arm hard at work balancing a glass of chardonnay, and told me that she missed me while I was abroad, that she wanted to teach Italian Baroque next semester just so I could take it, and what on earth is my thesis topic anyway honeychile, and doesn't her sweater make her look FAT.
Sweet crispy fried mother of god was it ever out of control.
We finally took off around ten, the other two Figurati and I, dragging our arty shoes back to the parking garage for a Let's Make Out Leaning Against The Side Of George's Camry Until George Gets Sober party. Which was really, really successful.