Tuesday, May 16, 2006



About a month ago I completely fucking lost my mind. Whose fault was it? Keep reading and see. What follows are excepts from my diary.


It all started when the Workshop told me I would be teaching a class called Studio. I thought, great, cameras and paintbrushes, I can do that. I mean, I can't teach them how to run the dark room or anything, but I'm pretty sure you just dump some clear liquid out of a jug into a sink and throw your film right in.

I get to class. I've brought along my Sony digital camera, twenty sets of Crayola crayons, and a roll of butcher paper. My first class, I've decided, is going to be about finding your inner vision.


I roll out the butcher paper before them, hand out the crayons, and ask them to tear off sheets of paper and do whatever they want to do. They scribble, I wait. Then at the end of class, I ask them to turn in their papers.

They haven't drawn a thing. Crayoned onto all their papers are SHORT STORIES about essentially how a high school cheerleader misses her childhood dog more than her ex-boyfriend, but less than Cher. Apparently they all think that Cher is dead.


Night-time. Dave's Fox Head Tavern. I put my quarters into the juke-box, pick out my four songs, and wait. I wait and wait and wait and wait and just as my first song comes on, the bar closes. I buy a six-pack of beer to take to an after party, but then decide I'm too tired so I just go home. In the morning, I wake up and realize the six-pack has been sitting all night long at the foot of the bed.

Without cold beer in the fridge, what's my incentive to get up?

I decide to skip the Studio I'm supposed to teach that day.

I email the class and tell me to write something about their feelings. I tell them not to worry, I won't be collecting the assignment.


I decide there's a little room in my head called Studio. I can get there by laying in bed and repeating the word "Cher," like a mantra, "Cher cher cher cher cher...." When I get to the room called Studio, the only thing to do is email my class. The problem is, email isn't email in Studio, it's just a pneumatic tube that delivers beer.

So I'm thinking, shit, I've just sent alcohol to my entire class! I call Connie to report the error, but the only person I can reach is a Cher impersonater. I tell her, Help, I need to save the Studio! I need to save the Studio!


Flash foreward. So, to answer the question: whose fault was it that I went crazy? Cher's? Beer's? Studio's? If you chose any of those answers, you're wrong. The correct answer is: The Workshop. Because this shit is totally corrupt.

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