I went back to Governor’s Island with Erin to take down the typewriters and of course it started downpouring the minute after we rented our bikes. In other words, our asses got very, very, very wet. Erin came prepared and had an entire outfit in her purse. Literally her purse is the size of a wallet and she busts out with a whole wardrobe of clean, dry clothes. She probably had like a 20-piece Chicken McNugget meal in there too. That reminds me a of a dude on the ferry wearing a shirt with a hotdog inside of a heart and it said LIPS AND ASSHOLES. I couldn’t tell if it was a band name or if he was celebrating Gay Pride weekend, or if he was saying that he actually likes hotdogs in the real I-like-eating-lips-and-assholes way. Confusing statement. But awesome shirt nonetheless. Anyway they ended up closing the island a little early. Rosalyne (THANK YOU ROSALYNE) also came to help me carry the shit off the island. If you see Rosalyne give her a hug. She loves getting hugs from strangers.

Anyway I had put a little sign on the typewriter tables saying, hey buddy, write whatever you want, just leave the paper in the typewriter. So of course, everyone tore off the paper. Also they jammed the keys, messed up the ribbons, and worked the lever on the Sears Tutor so hard that the spring broke so now the lever doesn’t work. The worst though, was that someone was messing with the ribbon and then WIPED HIS OR HER HANDS ON THE WALLS. There were like black finger print smears on the wall. I wanted to die. Dude. Look at this house. It is old. It is historical. It is pretty. It is pretty because people do not use the walls as a napkin. Dude, use your CLOTHES. Don’t use the damn walls. Don’t be a dick.

Over the weekend there was the Olaf Eliasson opening, the arts crap, and also a SWIMMING RACE around the island. It’s like they really, really, really want people to visit Governor’s Island. And it worked. Everyone I know pretty much went there for the very first time, which is cool. Anyway swimming in any river that goes through NYC seems…toxic. Like you will get all kinds of diseases. However, if you survive it somehow, you will never, ever get sick again. Your immune system will be like hah, encephalitis? I SURVIVED NEW YORK HARBOR, NATCH. On the ferry Erin and I were chatting with this fella who was convinced that the Harbor water was cleaner than the tap water because “there are many drugs in the faucet water.” Like you know, people go into the john and shoot up or snort a rail and then pee or do a big-kid sitdown and then all that winds up in the water system and heroin and coke are apparently not filtered out. I was like shit, son, I should drink more water. It’s one of those situations where you just shrug. I like shrugging. It is a good way to end conversations I think. Hey, Annie, is that thing due today? Shrug. Hey Annie, is the 1 train running? Shrug. Hey there is a lot of drugs in NYC tap water. Shrug. It’s nice.

Tomorrow I an putting up typewriters on Governor’s Island. However, it is going to rain, so I’m not sure how that’s going to work out. They are looking into inside spaces for me, but aren’t sure about it. I can’t leave these things in the rain, they would be so sad and cold. Pony gave me a typewriter that is from the 30’s I think. It’s made of iron, so I guess it might rust if mother nature has her way with it. It also weighs the same as a Hyundai. Which might seem light, but it’s kind of heavy for just a typewriter. JoMo made the tables and they are much nicer and much better than anything I could do (which actually isn’t much at all). I was thinking hey, just take a piece of wood and slap on some legs, call it a day. Then you know, accessorize it with a scarf to hide the fact that it is butt ugly. But I was WRONG. JoMo is an architect. Nothing would ever just be a piece of wood with four legs. So thanks to JoMo and thanks to Erin who is graciously coming along and helping me set up.

Also, someone stole Erin’s TREE. Can you believe that shit? Who does that? She apparently left for like a minute from her shop, and when she came back her tree had been snagged. Why would someone do that? That is how starved people are for trees in this concrete jungle. I mean come on! Take cash monies, take jewelry, take cookies, take five, Take That (oh shit remember them?). But leave the tree alone. It was so happy in front of her shop. It was so cute. And now you have taken it away. The tree is sad. Erin is sad. Shame on you, tree stealer!

Erin has delivered some horrible and disappointing news. You guys better sit down for this. Also remove all rope and sharp objects within your reach. I do not want you to hurt yourselves or do anything stupid. I care about all of you.

Someone stole my HOMIES idea! Check it out. Thief! Thief! Granted, this Andrea person did a far better job than anything I could ever do, but then again, all these locations were FAKED and not LIVE and not taken ALL OVER THE GLOBE, from the upper east side all the way to South Australia via some Middle Eastern place with a lot of money and architects. Why am I not famous and rich and getting driven around my Hummer stretch limo with the jacuzzi with the top down and bitchez up? Just saying. Just kidding. Clearly being an artist is worse than being a writer. It’s one of those things where I should’ve told my parents I was going to be an artist so they’d get super disappointed and then I’d say, ha ha ha just kidding, I want to be a writer and then they’d feel a little better because hey, at least I am not an artist. It would’ve distracted them from the fact that I wasn’t you know, a doctor or something. So that is the lesson I guess. Disappoint people even more before you actually disappoint them. Try it at work. This strategy is watertight.

I am doing something for this “art/culture/music/activity/blah blah blah” event on Governor’s Island in late June. It’s an outdoor festival celebrating whatever it is that they feel like celebrating. I think it’s called Life. Or maybe Love. I don’t know. Some people say it’s like Burning Man East which is EXTREMELY SCARY TO ME and therefore will ignore them. I’ve never been to it, but I’m doing this thing for it. And I need your help.

I’m creating an “analog Internet” where I take 10 manual, functioning, old-skool, antique, vintage, seasoned, used, etc. typewriters, put a roll of paper in it, and spread them out over the island. There will be a sign that says “Internet Access”. Anyone can write what they please on the typewriter. An idea, a message, a dirty limerick, so forth. The typewriters will be connected together via ideas. There could be occurring themes across the typewriters because of everyone being in the same place at the sametime. Or maybe it’s a word or phrase that appears several times (like “douchebag” or “dirty Burning Man hippies”) or maybe there are trends in thoughts. There’ll also be a public record of it since the paper can’t be removed. I guess that’d be the “cache”. Anyway the point is, it’s one part social experiment and one part “totally been done before.”

I need 10 analog typewriters. I have now 7 of them, which my loving and gracious friends have allowed me to borrow because they are loving and gracious friends. I can get them on Craigslist (typewriters, not friends, but I guess I could get friends on Craigslist too but that could be creepy, like, in a bad way) but they are like way too expensive. And I can get them on Ebay (but I’ve already bought 2 of them and I have no idea where I’m going to put them in this shithole I call home). But if you have one and I can borrow it, my life would be, like, so much easier I can’t even tell you.

So please. Help me. If not, I hate you. OK fine I don’t hate you. I will always love you forever and ever and ever. However, I’d love you and mean it if you could help me.

So for those of you who didn’t get a chance to walk along Prince between Mott and Elizabeth, near the old church, I am going to tell you what the fuss was all about. I’m pretty sure it’s not there anymore, so if you were planning on going, you can probably NOT BOTHER and also YOU SUCK. But, you know, in a nice way.

OK, so you are walking, walking, minding your own business, maybe you are listening to your iPod, or if you are a jerk, your iPhone, and suddenly you hear a whisper “This is not part of your imagination.” It’s quick at first, so you jump a little, you look behind you because it sounds as if someone is whispering in your ear. You see nothing, you think, hrm weird I guess it was just my imagination, but then you hear, “I am not part of your imagination” and then you realize the voice is FOLLOWING you as you walk down the block. It’s timed perfectly with your thoughts. I don’t know who the artist is, whether it’s just some guerrilla thing or if it’s like real, sanctioned art or whatever you want to call it. I tried to look for the speakers in the trees but couldn’t find them since it was dark. However, the ABSOLUTE BEST part of this is watching people FREAK OUT as they walk down the street. I actually saw a girl scream and yell and run down the block, her arms and flailing like a squid. It was fantastic. The weird part was that I wasn’t freaked out or anything. It was like oh cool, audio installation. Then I went on my way. I guess I am desensitized. At first I actually thought it was my iPod (I do not have an iPhone because I am not a jerk, OK fine I’d like one but come on, I don’t need half that crap, I just need a phone, which I have), but then I realized it wasn’t my music. Because Les Savy Fav just does not do that kind of whispering stuff. They are more like ROWR ROWR ROCK ROCK ROWR ROWR YOU ARE A JACKASS ROWR ROWR. Anyway how cool is that?

Now, a joke:

What did one eye say to the other eye?

For those of you who live in the City of New York: Walk down Prince St. between Mott and Mulberry. You know that old church there? Walk on the north side of the street, right near the brick wall, which is supposedly the oldest brick wall on Earth. OK fine it’s not, but someone told me something interesting about that brick wall and I totally forgot it. I guess it wasn’t that interesting, so I’ll just make up something better: This wall is made entirely of cream cheese specially crafted from the milk of ten burros. Anyway, go walk there, right next to the wall of cream cheese. Go there at night. During the week or something, when it’s kind of quiet and not full of people. You will BE A TOTAL WINNER if you do it. I will not explain, just that you need to walk there and that you need to do it kind of soon. I don’t care if you live in Brooklyn or Queens or the B-to-the-X and you are like, waaahh it’s too cold, I don’t want to walk. Trust me. Do it. At night. If you don’t do it, I will give you a check minus on your report card. For all you Asians out there, that means you’re parents are going to be pissed and give you more Mommy homework. Then check out the New New Museum. You know how people always say, oh Tom Cruise is a lot shorter in real life? Well the New New Museum is a lot like Tom Cruise. It’s a lot smaller in real life.

Attention Chicago-heads!

Or anyone visiting Chicago in March!

I worked with a talented Korean video artist named Sujin Lee on a video piece that explores speech, race, and the translation of culture and language. It is now being shown at the Woman Made Gallery on 685 N Milwaukee Dr. in Chicago. Check out a description here. I haven’t seen the piece, but it will be up until March 29. Anyone passing through Chicago, take a peep and report back. That’s an order, soldier!

Also, I have bad posture.

Also, I went to an acupuncturist about my tendonitis which is approaching carpel tunnel (read: BOO BOO BOO) and she cupped my back, which is when they take these little glass round bulbs, heat them up to create a vacuum, and suck the crap out of your muscles. Not entirely sure what it does–maybe sucks out the ‘itis’ out of the tendons or maybe it sucks out demons–but let me tell you, it’s like getting really really big hickeys on your back.

Eastern medicine and I have a strange relationship. Which is to say, I’m not entirely convinced it works, but I keep going and trying stuff because the Western stuff doesn’t work either. But I guess in the end, I’m just spending money on Eastern and Western treatments and I’m still sitting here, hunched over with sore wrists and fingers and complaining about it. There has to be another option, though right? It’s America. We have options. What about Northern medicine? No one ever talks about that. Please advise.