"It's not a must, it's a can" he corrected, pointing to the steel cookie barrel.

Everyone agreed it was by far the most clever thing said during the long evening, a remark all the more remarkable since English isn't Thomas's first language. It must be wonderful to speak more than one language.

(Due to the acute shortage of appetite stimulants, we never did finish the can of cookies.)

Each person had two lines of text under their photograph. Since most of the first line was taken up by the name, that left just a few words to summarize an ostensibly notable life. Some of the people who died in 1997 were the "doyen of 'bonkbuster' novelists," a (the?) "leading French communist," the man who "invented the Portakabin" (I wonder if he was buried in his invention?), "beauty exiled in 1941," the "wrestler who was born Shirley Crabtree," an "actress, page-three girl, drug addict," "blacklisted Hollywood screenwriter," a "gay writer, junkie, wife-killer," and "Adolph Hitler's favorite secretary."

Since the date on the cover of the magazine was 28 December 1997, I'd wager the entire piece was finished around mid-December. I feel sorry for anyone who died in the last week or two of the year; they never had a shot at being included in any of the myriad "memorable deaths of the year" features. Fame is fickle; just ask any leading French communist.

The time is Mars, the place, long ago.

Since the rest of the book can't be as good as the first sentence, I'm debating whether I should continue to read it.

First, there was the needlepoint wall hanging with a crude image of a toad accompanied by the text "A toad is a thing of beauty forever." There was a huge poster showing some forest dwellers munching on toad shish kebabs, again with text: "Eat a toad for breakfast and you'll never eat anything worse all day." The bookshelf had some great titles, including You and Your New Toad, The Toad No One Knows, and Toads: Creatures of Mystery.

I asked the manager (who was wearing a t-shirt with "Kiss Me: I Might Turn Into a Toad") if she sold toads. When she said she didn't believe in selling animals, I congratulated her on taking the ethical high ground and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Nothing happened so I left.

I asked Umberto about this, and he explained that since the Rabid Wombats only released one album (Rabid Wombats Attack!) before they disbanded acrimoniously, that the "best of" album has to be the same as the only one they released.

My other reaction was to consider making beautiful prints again. It's been almost seven years since I was in a darkroom; I'm surprised when I look at my photographs and realize I used to be a good craftsperson. (Once a good craftsperson, always a good craftsperson?)

I thought about it and thought about it and thought about it and thought about it some more, and this is what I finally ended up thinking. I can make pretty pretty art and I can make boring conceptual art; they're not mutually exclusive.

That's what I think.

I take great pleasure in remembering this article, for it gives me a lovely reason to be cheerful: I can't remember the third reason I should be miserable.

It reminded me of another story about a young comedian from a rural community who went to Chicago to see professionals perform. He was depressed after seeing his first show; he thought he'd never be as good as the comic he watched. He asked the doorman if he'd caught the performer on a good night. The doorman laughed at the question, saying the comedian in question had done the exact same act for well over a decade.

Woody Allen was right "The audience always wants what you gave them last time."

I thought it was amazing that a scent could be the catalyst for a long-forgotten memory. I wonder why there are virtually no artists working with the medium of smell? (Actually, I haven't heard of any, but I suppose there must be some.) The technical hurdles seem daunting. How would you produce the smells? Make them last? Disseminate them?

Dogs live in a smell museum; I wonder if I'll ever visit one?

There wasn't much there; just a couple paragraphs in a temporary scratch file that the other person's computer program didn't erase. But what writing!

Sharon twisted her ponytail absently. She didn't know a Jessica ... But she did know a Sandy, worse luck. They had been best friends at Rydell High until Sandy stole her boyfriend. Danny was such a rat! She sighed in remembrance. It was a world away from this mysterious garden and the cartoon rabbit. (How did she get here? Last thing she remembered she'd been in a Chrysler, as big as a whale, heading down the Atlanta highway, looking for a love getaway.) She was ...

"Of course" said Sharon in a disappointed voice "it's entirely possible that nobody will recognize me. After all" ... she eyed the cartoon rabbit quizzically ... "I'm merely a thinly disguised pastiche on one of literature's most famous women." She walked towards the grassy knoll in the center of the grounds, still wondering where on earth she'd seen the rabbit before. He wasn't wearing a top hat this time. And shouldn't he have been a real live rabbit? It made little difference to the puzzle ...

I feel just a bit guilty for reading and publishing someone else's efforts, but not enough to stop me from sharing someone else's twisted genius.

(I'm not talking about the mystery of why one always has an odd number of socks. Since the disappearing sock partner has baffled the greatest minds in philosophy and science I'm not going to waste time banging my head against that conceptual wall.)

How is it possible that my socks continue to shed bits of lint after I've worn and washed them so many times? Given the cumulative volume of the lost material, I'd have thought that by now half the socks' volume would have disappeared, but they're still in fine shape.

If petty squabbles are of little interest I suggest you carry on to tomorrow's entry, otherwise I suppose the new manifestation of an old project says it all. Here's the site that used to have a couple dozen pages now changed to a single text document:

Foundations, Fountains, Filters and $ome $eriou$ Mone¥

Now with exciting dynamic changing blinkingcontent linked to developments in the real and/or artworld(s)!

I thought I was finished with Foundations, Fountains,Filters and $ome $eriou$ Mone¥ on 25 September 1997when the first version of the piece was completed, i.e., uploaded to my server.I've never been interested in gimmicky "dynamic" art pieces;I've always felt that when a piece was done it was done.

Until now.

Before I introduce you to the exciting dynamic changingcontent, I think it's only fair to foreshadow where this isgoing: this is a long boring dissertation about art andmoney. And I think that's great: contemporary western art isall about boredom and money. Brian Eno described itbest, or at least most succinctly: "The tedium is themessage."

And for our final introductory aside, it seemsappropriate to describe how this piece was conceived. Here'swhat I wrote in the original incarnation:

OK, £et'$ get thi$ out of the wa¥right now: I did it for the mone¥.

In Augu$t 1996 I read that $ome Eng£i$horganization ¢a££ed Arte¢ wa$"¢a££ing for arti$t$' propo$a£$ forinternet proje¢t$ that exp£ore theme of thedigita£ or imaginar¥ ¢it¥." I didn't£ike the idea; a£though I ¢ou£dn't de¢idewhether it wa$ be¢au$e it $ounded tediou$ or trend¥.Or neither or both. One part of the announ¢ement $oundedintere$ting:

Artists Fee £3000
(plus produ¢tion expenses £1000)

I did what an¥ prudent arti$t wou£d do: Ifound out who wou£d be making the de¢i$ion$, then$ubmitted three propo$a£$ under three differentname$ for proje¢t$ $imi£ar to one$ the¥'d$pon$ored in the pa$t. And I of ¢our$e paid a mode$tbribe to the right per$on--it'$ on£¥prudent.

I got a ¢ommi$$ion, a$ did $evera£ otherarti$t$.

Artec then gave the £4,000 to another "hosting"organization, Zone Gallery, to pass along to the artist. Ornot, as it turns out.

The offer I accepted from Artec could only be interpretedas offering the artist the fee plus the production expenses, right?Wrong.

Zone Gallery was told in a separate announcement for theproject that "Channel will provide host organisations£1000 towards the production of the work," in essenceleading both Zone Gallery and me to expect to receive the£1,000 offered by Channel.

And to exacerbate things, Zone interprets "productionexpenses" to include "all expenses that were incurred by thehosting organization (such as gallery installation),production and distribution of publicity and interpretivematerials (both individual and contributing to grouppublicity, ie advertising) and any education/outreachactivities ..."

The "hosting" organization's final accounting cameout:

Zone Gallery: £1,000 in productionexpenses
artist: £nothing in production expenses
 

On the other hand, the artist's (my) accountingconcluded:

Zone Gallery: £.50in production expenses
artist: £1,000+ in production expenses

Foundations

Is money a/the foundation of contemporary art?Would a cow ever want to go deep sea fishing?

Fountains

Is money the fountain that fertilizes contemporaryart? Is the pound worse than the cure?

Filters

Is money the filter that separates the aestheticwheat from the aesthetic chaff? If a tree falls in theforest with no witnesses, who benefits?

$ome $eriou$ Mone¥

How much is it? If dollars were millimeters, wouldit be longer or shorter than a length of string?

Given that this piece's exciting dynamic changing contentis linked to developments in the real and/or art world(s),Foundations, Fountains, Filters and $ome $eriou$Mone¥ will enter its next manifestation after thereare some new aesthetic developments, e.g., after from£999.50 to £1,000 pounds is deposited into mysecret Barbados bank account.

Let me close with a last line from the original piece:Ah, the amazing wor£d of art: it'$ a££ ro¢kand rô£e!

It turns out that I actually did die that night. I recently discovered that I've spent the last twenty-nine years since then in what appears to be some sort of afterlife. It doesn't feel like heaven, hell, reincarnation, or any of the other post-death scenarios I might have anticipated.

The bright side of my revelation is that at least I don't waste any time wondering about death now that I am dead. And neither should you: if you're reading this that means you're probably dead too.