Yep, the party�s just begun, but I already have post-party depression. And definitely post-party remorse.
You know, by the ripe old age of 28, I wish I could say I was better at this whole boy-girl crap. But when the perfect opportunity presents itself, when an incomprehensibly lovely and talented artist takes me in (the deep bosom view helped) and says the one thing to which the only reasonable follow-up would be to give him my number and/or invite him over, what do I do? I believe I lectured him about copyright law. Oh, god, please stop laughing. Almost immediately I heard the groans of the studio audience in my head, and I wanted to dash outdoors to let out the panicked shriek that was building from underneath my fingernails. The situation is potentially salvageable, but the irony is killing me. See, a few days ago, as I was deciding whether to procure one of his pieces for my own, I said to the rest of the crew that I�d only buy it if he�d come on over to my place and mount it to the wall. So it could�ve truly happened, but for one misplaced legal lecture.
Alas, the show�s fantastic. It really is. Nobody bought my paintings last night, but last night was for the people with expensive tastes and for artists. Tonight�s the public opening, when the poor folk who just want to buy some small piece of art for a good cause might happen to snap up one of the Fuzzys, which are hanging in a lovely place of undue prominence, since I placed them my very self.
So if the day ever manages to progress, I�ll walk downtown to meet Ralph for a drink after work (Roger Ebert�s Overlooked Film Fest is in progress as I type, so it�s impossible to park down there now), head to the opening, help Mustang pick out some art, and probably end the night at the mother ship, as has happened nearly every day for the past week.
It�s time to slow down next week. Refocus on diet and exercise and housecleaning and embroidery. Oh god, it sounds so tedious.
As the people say, wherever you go, there you are.