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Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").
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disposing of mother Friday, June 6 1997 Dignity matters: Why beg when you can buy, borrow and steal?
lmost $1000 went into my bank account this afternoon. That's not too shabby. Next thing you know I'll be a card-carrying Republican. I could buy some nice Pentium system or a shitty Mac with that kind of money. I'm considering getting some kind of nice machine for my own personal use. Money issues were handled on the Corner. While I was there, I found a few people to tell about Saturday night's house warming party. Unfortunately, most of these people will be out of town.
Back at 129 Observatory Avenue, my mother Hoagie had come to visit. She has become an addict of the phenomenon that could be called the First Friday of the Month Art Opening Extravaganza. While she amused a variety of housemates, I putzed around with my contribution to the Jenfariello-orchestrated photography project. I thought maybe it was due today, since she would no doubt be having an opening at the Downtown Artspace today.
y work was only half-cooked by the time Hoagie, Deya and I left for the Downtown Mall. So it's a good thing that instead of a photography exhibit, the Artspace was featuring the mostly two dimensional cardboard mixed-media works of Gina [Eastern European Name to be filled in later]. I've referred to her before. She's been prolific of late and has created a number of very large works. They're all full of angst and ruin, the figures as frayed, torn and incomplete as the material upon which they're rendered. I liked many of individual works, but the whole was even bigger than the sum of its parts. Best of all, Gina's workplace had donated sandwiches. My boss from Comet, Ken, was there. For some inexplicable reason I was cold sober, so I didn't even give him a chance to see some of that side of me revealed in my notorious musings which hopefully he doesn't read.
Jen tells me that all her housemates, or the ones who know me at least, read my musings. I wonder how long these musings will last before I completely paint myself into a corner. What I particularly hate is when someone I could safely assume never reads the musings suddenly gets a computer and a modem. Over at bozART, the works being featured were minimalistic renderings of human forms and backgrounds. I quietly thought they were pretty bad, but Monster Boy (who'd come to the Downtown Mall with Peggy in her dented cherry red Toyota) said so out loud. He apparently didn't consider who might be listening. I know better than to ever slam someone's art when looking at it. Also at bozART were a couple of Ana Klausmann's creations. She managed to get into this co-operative gallery under their scholarship program. She pays no money to be a member but gives the gallery twice the usual number of hours. Most of Ana's recent pictures focus on her baby, Nemo. I can't relate to the obsession mothers have with their infants. The hormones involved have never reached influential quantities in my blood. Ana also does some collages and uses novel framing techniques employing things like wire. Gallery Neo had a show of two dimensional architectural designs. Three architechs showed works: Carlton Abbott, Fred Oesch and Thomas Zuk. Fred is the somewhat hedonistic guy who started Gallery Neo some years ago. He could be found showing wireframe previews of a house to an unattractively giddy middle age couple using a 166 MHz Pentium machine. The most interesting work was a black and white rendition of a Bruegelesque Tower of Babel done with quarter-inch-square pixels on a gridlike array of laminated eight and a half by eleven laser printouts. At Higher Grounds, an old friend of the family, Bill VanDoran, was showing his paintings of clouds. Hoagie and I attended his show at Spencer's in the Spring of 1994 and that's the moment I was conclusively sold me on Charlottesville. I was too late for McGuffey, which closed up shop early. Outside, pedestrians stood around watching in amazement as Chimney Swifts queued chaotically in flight to dive down the central McGuffey chimney to find roosts for the night. Back at the Artspace, a band called something like Plush Toy was getting ready to play a set. It mostly consisted of members of the Plan 9 employee scene. Not the classic rockers with embarrassing high school graduation pictures showing them with mullets, but the mock retro kids who listen to even more Guided by Voices than I do. Or at least want you to think they do. They were really good, at least to my sensibilities. The music was amplified yet mellow, melodic low-fi type stuff. The musicians all sat down while they played. It was that anti-80s, anti-style thing that is so undeniably cool. I'm very pleased that Charlottesville is slowly but surely making a low-fi name for itself. Most of the members of the Curious Digit were there, and being low fi musicians themselves, they were enjoying it all. They told me that if I'm the reason they're on the Internet. Suddenly I'm aware that I'm a God, able to craft "fame" out of thin air. The Curious Digit guys, their girlfriends, their nongirlfriends, Wonderboy Neek and a pear tree were all intending to go drink Margaritas at the restaurant that stands in the place of the old Brasa on Water Street. I wanted to join them but my mother and Deya needed to have a transportation option of some sort. I gave Deya my keys and told her to drive my mother home. I would find my way back somehow. The Curious Digit contingent, with neither Wonderboy Neek nor two turtle doves, left for the Tokyo Rose and I rode with them as far as Emmet Street, then I walked back to 129 Observatory Avenue.
y mother was holding regally forth amongst the far more youthful contingent that surrounded her. She was sitting right next to Toni Dirtbag. I thought my mother was pretty cool for chipping in $2 for a box of vino that soon arrived. If she'd contributed more, I wouldn't have thought she was quite as cool. Monster Boy's manateelike friend from Norfolk had come to visit and he'd brought Monster Boy's television and VCR. This is in addition to Matthew Hart's teevee and one dropped off today by the Aaron known as Bad Bumpersticker. It's thought that eventually we'll have a pyramid of televisions all tuned to different channels. I fired up some pot that I had, but only Leah was much into smoking it (Monster Boy was gone at the time, see). I was kind of tired and considerate of my tomorrow-self, so I went off to bed rather early. What happened as I slept:
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