The one year anniversary of Pico Dulce's blog is upon us. Break out your finest meats and cheeses, fill your face with cake!
Read the August Road Trip.
Read a great day which includes Miss America 2002.
From my old Diaryland site:
Mid-Feb.
I spent the whole night lying. Lying loosely, lying freely, lying guarded, lying on the dance floor, lying about the art. I have never lied that much in my life. And I am not lying about that. I never would ahve thought to tell that many untruths. Not to my father. Not on a resume.
And there was no purpose for it. I had just met these people, designers, artists of some mediocre sort...
But I told people I had never met that I was a financial analyst. I told them I had been published in small obscure magazines. I told them I lived in windy Chicago for a couple of years trying to find myself. I graduated with an architetcure degreee-- so some young lady thinks. I ran track all four years of high school, specializing in hurdles. I had a coke habit in the late '80's. I stopped drinking Budweiser after I quit coke.
All bald-faced lies. Wrapping the body of a boy with a hat pulled down to obscure the eyes. Roaming the party in a black silk blouse of all things. Hey, it looked good. So I started conversations with a woman on line. So I talked to the painter of the pieces with the rectangles.
I was concocting an image and I was barely conscious of it. The paintbrush just started working once they couldn't see my eyes. The paintbrush could not stop with the sweeping strokes, once it was triggered by tales of hip activities and pompous mentions of places where they worked, how this was out of their "circle," how this Leonard Street location was "off the beaten path." I would relate (retaliate?) with a story of my own, each one taking on a monstrous Godzilla life of its own, swinging at power lines and finger-crushing any reality I could tell someone about--
I had become the image of a fast talking New Yorker, embellishments and all.
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