I was just re-reading my old archives. I'd just like to point out:

PreSeptember11th2002:
"Well of course I wasn't paying attention," said Bill.
He was staning on my foot, and looking around at the bad paintings around the room. According to the program, this was the single largest collection of the worst paintings available in America today. Of course they had to obligatory Pollock, just to appease the critics, but the rest of it was real proper garbage. The walls were crammed with paintings; my first impression was that a child could have done them, but upon closer inspection they were clearly the work of adults. Attempted symbolism was rampant and the sheer number of "baby-as-bowl of fruit" still lifes was agonizing. As I walked through, I could hear the everyman putting on airs, trying to be the artiste. And you've never seen so many bad paintings of the Madonna with Sean Penn. Somebody thought the Mother of God and Madonna Ciccone's first husband would be a funny pairing. Then everyone else thought it too. That was in the '80s. Today, it's just hack. I won't even go into the internet art. Yes, being able to self-publish is nice because it takes out the editor and allows the artist more free range, but there's a little thing called taste that goes right out the window with it. A thousand blinking lights told me there was more to go.
I didn't heed the sign that said "Bad Art Exhibition." I thought it was a joke. Learn from my mistake. Don't let it happen to you.

PostSeptember11th2002:
When I was a kid of perhaps four, I saw an ad for Kraft Singles (Kraft is German for strong, or strength. For a German to be Kraftig is for that German to be Strong) (And to sell cigarettes to children) in which a kid was sitting on a porch in front of his happy home, eating a Kraft Single, which is a piece of cheese that comes wrapped in plastic and in a big squished-together lump, for those of you who don't know. I didn't know that at the time. I watched that kid pick up that pack of Kraft Singles, and look at it funny, and then a piece of cheese rose up from the pack. He took it and bit into it, looking as pleased with himself as anybody ever has any right to look. Then his dad came over to him and said something to the effect of "Hey, Sport! Can I have a piece of Kraft Singles Cheese, the Only Cheese Made with More Milk than All the Rest Put Together?"
The kid looks at him funny, and then holds up the pack, and a piece of cheese comes rising magically up out of the rest of the cheese. The man bites into the corner, and looks just as pleased with himself as anybody ever has any right to look. The two of them sat there on the porch, eating cheese.
I had no idea what the actuality of a Kraft Singles was, but I knew one thing, in the very fore-front of my mind: I needed it. I desperately needed a cheese that would magically levitate from the block, spreading joy and happiness. I think that in the commercial, it even made a "vooieet" noise as it rose. It was something I could not live without.
I bothered both my parents for days on end, needing that cheese. I offered to go grocery shopping every time Mom went. Eventually, I wore her down in that "OK, but you'll be disappointed and I'll have to deal with cheese you don't like" way. We bought the cheese and brought it home.
I ripped thumb-holes in four pieces before AngelBob and Dad could convince me that the cheese levitation trick didn't work. I got a good solid mouthful of inedible orange gunk before I could be convinced that the cheese was wrapped in plastic, a fact carelessly glossed over in the commercial.
And Mom was right. I didn't like the cheese.
I still don't. It tastes like the biter ashes of defeat and the must of lost childhood innocence to me.
I still believe I have lead a charmed life.



That's for those of you who think that I wasn't affected by the date. Just so's you know. Also, I self-edited my anti-American, anti-religious diatribe that I had scheduled to post on that day. Man, I'm bitter today. I need to go home.