x-x-x-x-x. Jersey City



| | | — | | Los Angeles. Got to write out some poison. Followed friends to Sunset Strip, where actors dressed as Spider Man and Snow White pose with children amongst the hustle, standing on the cement footprints of their wildly successful, mostly dead counterparts in the outdoor lobby of Grumans Chineese Theater. Most of them, but not all look hot, tired and bitter. Pretty depressing. Old mexican guys selling “star maps” for five dollars. Groups of twenty fat, pasty tourist in headsets, crawlin up and down the street, in the low of another struggling artist. The whole scene exemplifies the vast chasm between rich and poor, famous and unknown and what’s worst is still being not only a member of the latter class, but still feeling so tortured, jealous and resentful. Not even knowing if it’s desireable to be in that ever-so-elite class, doomed to burn in Hell and be torn limb from limb at the coming of the more and more impossible-seeming, so-called Revolution. Most doomed to slide into Quaintness, followed by Curiosity and ultimately Obscurity, like the rest of us. So why not just enjoy life and art and concentrate on Love, Happiness and Creation? Artistic frustration. The highs are never long enough or often enough. The product always falling so fuckin’ far short of it’s potential. Well, Fuck. Leave you with that.

Sorry. Mike iLL |