Went to aquarium instead, hung out with some fish. Watched a California sea otter eat a crab, whole. Not only that, watched a Planet Earth special in 4-D. It’s 3-D so it’s like you’re swimming with the dolphins and humpbacks but 4-D cause you get hit by bursts of whooshy air and splashed with water. Seats in there vibrate, too. Know anyone who wants a fish? Person in my building sent this out: “We are moving overseas and have a fish to give away to a good home - if you are interested please call Kylie…”
Saw guards yell at two people at the Met the past few days. First (dude) touched a 200-year-old painting. Second (woman) took a flash photo right next to one. Also saw a girl rubbing a sculpture. All three of these people were from the same hemisphere. Guess they don’t teach art gallery etiquette over there. But they’re sure good at computer espionage.
Sometimes I wonder if Jon Stewart is more prick than mensch. In spite of all the success and adulation he seems to still have a chip on his shoulder. Glad I’m not a member of the media who sucks up to him on a regular basis. The Daily Show, The Daily Show, Jon Stewart this, Jon Stewart that, let’s verbally fellate him some more! See Frank Rich.
Been a little self-involved lately. Reading Catcher in The Rye and it holds up O.K. Narrator a little irritating from time to time.
I’ll never ski again and I’m fine with that. Scuba diving’s different.
I know one thing not doing: going to Cabo or anywhere in Mexico till everyone there chills out. Apparently, beheadings are becoming routine amid the gangland turmoil there—more than 200 victims recently decapitated. Not a big fan of getting my head chopped off.
Not going to Palm Beach this year for Easter. Yep, that’s out. I’d say there’s a 35 percent chance I’m going. If a private plane’s involved. Kidding. Sort of.
Here’s how to get to Roosevelt Island: Cross 59th (“the Queensboro”) bridge. Turn right, turn right, go around like 120 degrees, then go down until this big plant’s on your left, then turn left onto the bridge to Roosevelt Island. Turn left, turn right at the bottom of the fucking whatever, go down a ways and I’m right next to the tennis courts.
Had a major revelation. You want to get on someone’s good side? Call them a genius. You want them to remember something you’ve said 10 years later? Call them a genius. You want the guy at Nuvisions to help you with your computer and cable service? Call them a genius.
So by the time we’re 60 there will be a Muslim majority in Europe? That the deal?
All right that’s it. Don’t want to start an international incident but once again, like the two other times I’ve been to the Met this week, some people have misbehaved and gotten yelled at by guards. They seem perfectly nice and excited and happy to be there, but then they go and stand too close and take flash pics right up next to a Seurat or they’re on their cell phones or touching paintings, rubbing sculptures—I’ve seen all this happen. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.
Don’t know what it is, but there’s something smelly looking about Gisele.
Pretty sure this Pineapple Express is both indica and sativa. The dealer acted like it was a big deal he had some. Unlike any weed I’ve ever had. Only drawback—feels like some creature’s in my head moving my brain around, adjusting it, swishing it around, playing with it with its hands like Playdoh. That can’t be good, but it’s pretty relaxing stuff overall.
All a sudden I’m in a great mood despite a negative $65 bank balance. Private plane’s sealed the deal and I’m off to Palm Beach!
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