Confession.

I have a guilty pleasure. It is glossy, tough and dirty. Juxtapoz. Yep, Juxtapoz magazine. I know I should be burning the mid-night oil with Art Papers, ArtForum and Art News…but no, I have locked my bedroom door, stole the flashlight and am silently flipping from Barry McGee to Mark Ryden to Camille Rose Garcia. I’m torn between disgust from the pumped up, pimped up objectified images of young, nubile women to a sort of pornographic glee at the grit and spit of street punks taking a bite of the financial action someone once told me exists. I only thought of “financial action” as the unicorn from my childhood or the desire for Flipper to come and live with me in my middle-class, mid-America back-yard. I know dad could build a pool for him and we could swim together faster than lightening…well, at least in a tight circle.

With a bit of grit and spit and a unstoppable urge to turn our guts inside out we can have that house in the mountains and maybe one in San Francisco and while we are at it, we can escape to our East Coast country estate like Sir Affleck to just get away from it all.

So, I flip off my flashlight, scoot my guilty pleasure under the bed and contently drift off to sleep knowing my dirty little secret is safe with you.