I’m going to be attending a lovely art show in about twelve hours from now – Sweet Nothings, “an eccentric collection of fantastic art and photography from a diverse group of artists ” Held at the The Fall Artist Gallery and Tattoo, right across from the skytrain exit on Seymour Street, it will feature:
Noah Stacey, Onwyn Stacey, Kathy Rankin, Sean Arden, Tamas Szathmary, Jesse Daniel, Mike Moore, Damien Pannell, Michael Mueller, Claire Roberts, Cheol Joo Lee, Leia Herrera, Christine Dibble, John Harrington, Lisa Griffiths, Stephen Dinehart, Kevin Kraft, Nick Carota, Rodger Grodan, Dave Clement, and Erin Marranca, with live Painting collaboration by Noah, Tamas, Mike Mueller, and someone billed as “D-TRAN!”.
Now me, I worry about extraneous exclamation marks, but hey, whatever. It’s somehow seven in the bloody morning again and I am still, again, awake. Functioning, not so much. (No food, no sleep, make Jhayne a something-not-as-smart). Perhaps it is paranoia, but really, I would like to think that we’re all familiar with the fact that exclamation marks are a warning sign.
Multiple exclamation marks are even worse, a sure sign of mental deterioration, they not only denote a certain sense of forced wackiness, but also an uncomfortable personality, the sort to chatter enthusiastically about nothing at all in particular, ever, but will want you to love whatever it is just as much as they do. Maybe, in fact, you’ll help them stave off the inevitable, unspecified government agents who are coming with crystals to suck out their brain to give to aliens.
Ah well, at least nothing was underlined.
I should go to bed.