I have begun writing before the California Figurative exhibition
opens at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco next
week. The newspaper called me to ask what I thought of
the show. I told them, but I doubt if they will print it.
I am writing my autobiography I also told them. And so I am,
but like cake wolfed after too many drinks, it is vomited out in
unrecognizable chunks. Soit. I will do it anyways. Let someone else make
something out of the pieces when I am dead.