2005-04-10 - 10:41 p.m.

More of Superboy's party and the horror of artstic love.

Feeling hyper yet moody. That's what happens to me when I talk to too many artists in too short a time. Remember my previous entry about how artist/writer/poet/lover types cannot be trusted due to their sketchy ambivalence toward reality? Yeah, I got a nice, healthy reminder of why I think that at the party last night:

Too.Many.Creative.Types.In.One.Room.

Don't get me wrong- I prefer a party like the one last night which featured both intelligent conversation and a keg to the just-a-keg kind that I usually find myself at but it was exhausing atempting to maintain my perspicacity despite my inebriation. As you can see this has resulted in a residual hangover (lasting even to this second!) of compensitory verbosity. When you spend several hours using your whole vocabulary to not sound stupid, sometimes you forget to stop. Later in the night you might order a pizza by saying "yes, I would like to procure one of your exquisite cullinary masterworks but first let me assertain if this contains any products which do not meet my high standards of herbivority" and sound really stupid. Then you realize you've been putting on airs but have been too drunk to notice. Oh, and that pizza request translates as "gimme the veggie special."

Of course it wasn't an entirely undebauched party (my wordy self-humiliation asside). Some guy named Scott became so wasted that he ran off into the woods like a madman. We don't know where he went but he apparently came around sometime this morning, felt awful about making a scene, and came back with a small aloe vera plant as a way of apologizing. Also, some guys in togas showed up at about 2a.m. As for the more intellecual side of the party, I found myself engaged in conversations about the complexities of metalwork, alchemy, Prismacolor markers, homosexuality, martial arts, heroin abuse, ex-acto knives, celibacy, Islam, Tangerauy (sp?), the viscocities of different brands of acrylic paint, tattoos, Japan, thrift shopping, flamenco dancing, Wagner, German industrial music, ethical vegetarianism and why we all hate frat boys.

That was pleasantly exhausing, but nothing can make a girl tired like the subject of love among creative types. I'm sure half of the people there were carrying around hand-written sonnets about romance in their coat pockets- wadded up with the sketches for that next tattoo. I don't want to begin to begin with the melodramatic relationships most of these people find themselves in. All I know is that after further details came to light this morning I am forced to retratct my previous retraction of my assumption that a certain friend is gay. That's a whole 'nuther story though, so I'm going to try to wrap this up with a bit on the most troubled artist/lover at the party last night (excluding the hour Casey was there). That's right- the dude that slept on my futon last night:
R falls in love at the drop of a hat. R loves the wrong kind of girls too. It's sad. But at least he can shrug it off... no, wait- he can't do that... well at least he can channel it into productive and trippy art. While this isn't the best example of his work and (of course) it's better in person and extra bestest if you've met the guy, I feel compelled to insert a link what R described to me as a self portrait. You know, just so you have some idea of the kind of mind I'm talking about as I continue my story. Oh, and by the way- the title of this work is The Depressive Suppression of Reciprocal Happiness. You know, because I have the kind of friends who give drawings those kind of names. The reason I tolerate R though is that he does so not out of a deep-seated melodrama but out of a sense of humor. Like if you look at the picture you see a crying face but if you turn it upside down you see a stoned grin. That's a pretty good sumation of R. Anytime he's crying there's always a stoned grin behind it, but anytime he's happy you know he's crying on the inside.

So, to finish this all off so I can get some fucking sleep, let me reiterate that ARTISTS CANNOT BE TRUSTED. This doesn't mean they're bad people- just that you never know what's going on in their complicated little skulls.

The last thing I wrote before this thing. The next thing I wrote after this.