Beer Man

The first train trip home was blemished by the presence of a beer-drinking white boy, whose idea of fun involved calling each of his friends and complaining about his bitch of an ex girlfriend who apparently told her parents he was hitting her. The guy said it was bullshit, but he also called his friends "my man" and "homie". Ghetto: ur doin it rong.

The second train trip home featured the delightful presence of a beer-drinking white MAN, who growled periodically in my direction and informed me I was not Marilyn Monroe. If he had his way, he'd jettison his body 4,000 feet into the air.

Sandwiched between aforementioned trips was NYC.

Kate, who interned at the Museum of the Moving Image last summer, got us free tickets into MoMA, where we sat, entranced, looking at "Pour Your Body Out".



The video projection covered three of MoMA's twenty-foot-high walls; the above photo belies how insect-like I felt sitting next to it. Highly saturated with a focus on nature and the close up, the shots dissolved easily into one another and were accompanied by a vocal/electronic soundtrack that captured both the familiarity and foreign nature of the images.

There was a COUCH, for God's sake! People took off their shoes and dove in; expelling smells of sock and oily hair into the protesting air.

We hopped through the photography and painting galleries, where I saw my first original Warhol (which is, itself, a kind of oxymoron. How different are the photocopies, really?)After browsing the bookstore, we disappeared into the subway system and popped up again at some vintage stores and American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, where I finally got colored tights and some new shoes.



After visiting some friends of Kate's in Queens (they had four cats and a dog!), we took the train home, and it is on that train that we encountered beer man.