Like Jessica, I hate the dangling participle

The log's name is Christopher. It was the mold that made me choose this name. Beyond that I have no other explanation.

I have much to talk about. The Blue and Green Ball, a benefit for this guy in a coma in Amsterdam, is the first thing. The other is the NaNoWriMo after party and a very frightening fifty-to-sixty-year-old bald writer guy with too much to say about nothing. (Oh oh, that is a song.)

So the Blue and Green Ball was filled with artsy people who were so fraught with their own creativity that... that... please help me come up with a good comparison. They were so fraught with their own creativity that one of them shit in their hand, threw it on a wall, and put the value at $450.00. "Dada, what is this shit and why does anyone care?" "Exactly." There was an auction, and this one piece, which was a giant metal board with a really bright oblong light in the center that buzzed loudly, sold for about a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for what was essentially unlookatable (yes, I know that's not a word). I mean, I feel like I have pretty good taste in art. I like art. I think it's great that people are trying to make (usually unknown) statements, and conveying them to the public through imagery or buildy stuff, and they care a lot about their work. One piece was a small welded metal box that the artist then shot with a .44 magnum and broke his welding seams; that is something to which I can realte on some level-- he made these seams, and then tested them with firepower, and it was sorta cool that he could admit that his seams would not stand up to being shot. But the art that you can't even look at because it burns your retinas? It raises the question (natch), is that art? Answer: unknown. These pretentiously demiurgic people thought so. I mean, they're the ones paying eight million bucks for an ugly wall lamp. There were some amazing pieces, though. I ess all over the artists ('ess' is 'shit'; I'm trying, as my mother would say, to lessen the use of vulgarities in my everyday vocabulary) for making me feel too normal or not hip enough to be there, but some of their stuff was pretty sweet. Especially the work by Julie.

The post-NaNoWriMo party was also lame, but mostly because of the irritating man who cornered me (in a manner of speaking; really he just held me prisoner by never shutting up) and talked about the 'write' way to right a novel... Um, I did that on porpoise. He reminded me of the three ladies I have allowed to do my nails in my life, with their pedantic pedicures. "Oh, Laura, you should not bite your nails. Look at your cuticles!" (Don't ask me how I am able to bite my toenails. It's not something I'm willing to discuss, but only because I don't, not because I couldn't if I so wanted.) Anyway, Bill Jones (for that was his name) told me that a good writer sets aside time every day to work on his book, but always took weekends off. Then he complained about the deplorability of young peoples' reading and other banal topics and I committed suicide in my mind every three seconds. The best part of the conversation was that he was also something of a close talker: I'd take a step away from him, and he'd take a step towards me, and then I'd take a step away, and he'd take a step towards me. I must have moved ten feet over the course of our entire conversation, which felt like years, but really I only listened to him for maybe ten entire minutes (points to me for endurance). Then I said, "Uh, I actually have to go to another party where I will still feel out place. Have a nice evening! BYEEE!!" I do want to note that the other people with whom I spoke were really nice and awesome and NOT lame, in case they are reading this blog (that's for you, Dan). In fact, the real reason why this party was lame was that I knew no one there beyond two friends of friends; it was lame because I had no friendly leg on which to stand.