I went to the Cindy Sherman opening at MOMA.

At first I felt really big time being invited to the opening and all, but after ripping my eyes away from Chuck Close's wack-a-doodle outfit and the open bar and actually entering the show, I felt really small.

The wallpaper at the show's entrance is mesmerizing, and even though you can't tell by this photo, it's huge. I've realized as of late that the only real reason to live in New York is for the art, and this show is a good example. Looking up pictures of the pictures on the internet simply isn't the same thing as being there and witnessing them. (Take the photo above as an example. It's shit. Use your eye magnifier--or your imagination if you don't have one of those--and times this photo by 10,000 and you'll be closer to the reality of standing before these images.) This isn't often the case with a photo show, but Cindy Sherman figured it out...though sometimes subway ads tap into something too:

A comment on her new post-production methods?

Something to aspire to.

 Another minor achievement is that I made a skirt in collaboration with the taylor/dry cleaner on Dekalb, which I wore it to the opening. I didn't get any compliments on it. Nonetheless, I'm happy with it and should probably give it it's own entry, since you know, it's done. I guess I could orchestrate a self-portrait in the new skirt so that everything could really come full circle. Perhaps it would even give me a sense of accomplishment. For now, I'll just add it to my 'not really going to do list'.

I mailed a manila envelope for an old lady.

But she wasn't that old... Innocent? Lazy? One of the perks of enduring 60-65 years in this place? The bottom rung of a drug circuit? Even though my voice raised an octave as I said, "Sure! No problem!" after she touched me on the arm and asked me to drop the envelope in the mailbox another block up and I spent half a second feeling good and noble about the act of kindness I was about to embark on and how nice and trustworthy I must appear to the common man--in this case an oldish black lady--panic about what I had actually agreed to overtook me. I mean, let it be known that the block in question is in front of a large low income housing project on one side, and police barracks on the other side. In Brooklyn gang wars, is a manila envelope equivalent to a white flag of surrender? Was I an unknowing soldier sent over to the other side to say that we're hungry and would like to go home now? Or MAYBE I was equivalent to a duffel bag full of money in a kidnapping/hostage type situation. Maybe there was some sort of wheeling and dealing going on and there was to be some sort of trade-off. Perhaps the kidnappers would know the sacrificial lamb walking down the street by the manila envelope in their hands?! I was going to be shot! Now, I think about this sort of thing a lot. Not this exact sort of thing, but getting shot in the back. And/or stabbed. In the back. Anyway, in this scenario, I imagined it more like being shot from above and potentially collapsing on my favorite piece of sidewalk--the one that has my initials engraved into it would have some nice symmetry. I could spend my last moments feeling like I really belonged here, really belonged...if only for a time. 

But none of this happened. 

Well, potentially I mailed something questionable, but that's not really on me so much as the USPS now. It wasn't easy though. I mean, to actually get the thing in the box. The mailbox was full and I was worried about leaving it sticking out and vulnerable. What if it was just a nice letter with newspaper clippings or coupons for the old lady's sister? I could be targeted for that sort of negligence as well. I don't need that stress. So I took my time and I shoved it in there. It should probably arrive today. It was only going to Philadelphia. 

I read Easter Parade.

I did not watch Easter Parade. Yeats' novel is wildly depressing while the film boasts being the happiest musical ever made. I suppose the reality of an Easter parade is somewhere in the middle. Evidence of this is a photograph of me at an Easter parade and hunt circa 1989:

I'm smiling despite an unfortunate mouthful of teeth, wearing my Book-It pin and letterless letterman's jacket proudly, all while standing next to the one black guy in town in white face. Yes, it seems an Easter parade is equal parts raucous musical comedy and family drama involving sisters, failed aspirations, and trouble with teeth. You'll also notice my basket is one of those shrink-wrapped numbers...definitely more of a consolation prize than something earned, let alone found.
I wonder if Hollywood has a conflation of these two titles in the works? I would watch that. But not before I see Netflix's hotly anticipated remake of Benny And Joon inserting the quippy and (fingers crossed) dancing Michael Collins. 

The only thing wrong with this picture is the assumption that I'd give this trailblazer anything less than 5 stars.