2002-10-10 - 6:25 p.m.

God I'm tired. What was I going to write about today? Something. Nami told me, "You're gonna write about this in your diary tomorrow." Yes, I said. She has a roommate whose towel smells like fermented armpit juice. Stinks up the whole bathroom something insane. The juice doesn't register with her nose in the least, however, according to one fridge note. Denial ain't pretty. In fact, it stinks. There's gonna be a rumble.

I think I'm going to a gallery opening tonight. In a few minutes, actually. I hope it's low-key. Nothing worse than an overblown opening with crowds of art groupies filling the entire block. Can't a man drink sponsored liquor in peace?

If you wanna know why contemporary art is at least 90% bullshit, just check out the "art" scene as represented by one of these SoHo or Chelsea openings. Artists gotta hustle, man, and that means marketing and networking. Throwing a good party. Getting the name out there. In fact, fuck painting. Fuck it altogether. Honing one's craft. Whatnot.

Real artists should be obsessed hermits.