Moma.

I saw the Van Gogh exhibit the other day. Haunting. 4th and 5th floors; the Rothkos and Pollocks. What sad depressive men.

These days I have about as much desire to go to a classical music concert as I do to drink the pimple-juice of a diseased chicken from the farm of a third-world country. Concerts uninterest me (is that a verb?) unless they contain either something new/fresh or free champagne. Preferably both.

Andy Warhol. I don't really get it. Am I supposed to?

Girls induce apathy, but the self-loathing kind one has very little desire to escape.