On the afternoon I receive the
check from the IRS (with interest for the money they have withheld from
me), the This Is Your Life sign explodes. 
Beside the shards an empty shopping bag
sleeps like a wino in the weeds. I fill the shopping bag with plastic
fragments and sneak like Lord Elgin to my studio. It won't take long to
discover that this is dangerous. I draw the word life and the buyer dies.
Patrons became exotic medical specimens. Harv's face froze. His eyes
leaked and his wife left him. Mary Ann Melchert's husband is appointed
Director of Visual Arts at the NEA. The work is cursed, but I still have
one for sale.Peter Van Riper and Allison Knowles performed a John
Cage composition last night in Ventura--one note played until no one was
left but the performers. A guy stood up in the front of the theatre and
says, Anyone who wants to stay here and listen to this, help yourself.
Anyone wants to step outside and talk with me, you're welcome. It was Ray
Bradbury. Sci-fi beat Fluxus by about four to one. Tony Ramos was the last
to leave. He studied with Kaprow, and his endurance is renowned. I found
Happenings beneath Julie Newmar's bed. On the Santa Monica freeway my
hands turn to lobster claws on the steering wheel. Man Ray was right when
he said Why bother with those who give seconds of their time to what we
give our lives?