I feel sort of like the Sopranos jumped the shark when Steve Buscemi's character was introduced so we're taking a bit of a break. Instead - because moving pictures are great when you're high and for some reason I just have not been giving a shit about movies lately at all - we've watched most of a series called American Visions, narrated by Robert Hughes - a brief snapshot of American art history.
Figaro told me he'd heard a Barry Humpries (Dame Edna) interview about how, out of that whole "Push" group of Australian ex-pats wherever they were when they started getting famous, Robert Hughes was the one who fucked all the ladies because he was HAWT. Time is inexorable.
Anyways, the series was nice. I don't know anything about modern art except how to sit around in a Rothko room and calm down after whatever indignity life has lately subjected me to, so it was lovely and interesting to look at the evolution of American art into Jeff Coons or whatever that slick bastard is called. But really Hughes could have been saying anything coherently and I'd have believed it. It all sparked off some great mental masturbation that I'd write about here, but I have a stupid cocking conference now.