Now that I've entered at least the visual constructs of being retired - the distant urban homestead, the hound, the pipe and reclusive informational overload - I feel like I can start to talk about what happened. Not like it was bad. It was mediocre. It was intoxicating and at times made me feel real shitty. Seldom was it satisfying. Whatever it was called, it had to do with art and the way people interacted with it. It was scholarly and gossipy and gross. Simply, it was a scene, and not much of one speak of.

But I'm gonna try. I'm gonna spend some time going through the last few years. Its the last of the unpacking we have to do up here. Go through the art-shit. This could be called art shitstory then.

Sprinkle in some contemporary ramblings and you've got yourself something to read sometimes.