Who do I spy from the window of my car as I speed up La Brea, on such a lovely Los Angeles afternoon? Why, it’s the nightmarish previous employer whose mere presence makes my stomach drop, the dreaded mega-gallerist Douglas Chrismas. He who incites pure anxiety in my (and likely many others’) very being. I catch a glimpse of him greedily surveying the large building that is currently destined to become his legacy museum, but may well be sold and end up reverting to a car dealership. Alas, my Sunday has been ruined.That is, until I cross the threshold into the Louise Bourgeois exhibition at MOCA. Ms. Bourgeois calms my nerves and sets me at ease with her organic sculptural forms and voyeuristic “cells.” Truly, "art is a guaranty of sanity." Vive la France! Et vive le dimanche!
Yeah, that Chrismas guy is a massive twat. I heard he doesn't pay his artists a lot and there was this one time when he was in front of me in line at Pink's Hot Dogs in MidCity and he was taking FOREVER like "gimme this, gimme that" and I was like "Homie, it's a freaking HOT DOG" but he didn't even turn around because he's so old and bald.
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