All work weeks should be three days long. Today is my Monday. Neener neener. I got to be productive AND lazy. Finished a painting and started on two more. Pitched several fits and thought, not for the first (nor the last) time that it's good that I live alone and even though my pets are pretty pampered, I still feel for them having to occupy space with the crazy lady who appears periodically. And never so routinely as when I'm painting and the spectres of my dead parents are looking over my shoulder, saying, see, didn't we say you were worthless? To which I reply: and you're dead.
On Saturday I went to see the show of a work-friend. It was at ACT Theatre, which is the old Eagles Auditorium, where I spent a goodly portion of time attending rock shows in the early '70s. It houses several stories, linked by slanting floors and I recall shooting up or down those ramps many times. New Years Eve, 1971, I was peaking on acid as they sounded the New Year in and realized I was going to be sick, so I was flying down a ramp to the bathroom when I was accosted by my first gay crush, Rhina Stone, who grabbed me and stuck his tongue down my throat. I was pleased that I didn't throw up in his mouth.