It seems that artists who produce things, make commodities, are doing a lot better than the ones who work conceptually or in timebased media. I'm being so observant.

Another war: Between me and the mice. I recently equipped myself with a new sponge to free my dishes of mice-germs. This morning I found it covered with mouse turds. There is something extremely depressing about that.

At some point I got onto a few mailing lists with various gyms. I can't exactly recall how, but it seems like I made a few very good friends at those places, who have been calling consistently, worried, where I might be, if everything is ok, why I'm not exercising. And they happen to have "great" offers.
On this morning, weakened by an itching scalp, I accepted my third (!) trial membership at the NYSC. I like them, because I can take showers there, they supply shampoo, soap and lotion, hairdryers and towels. More than I can supply, so I normally take advantage. Yes, I think I recommend them. Dolphin and Crunch want money for towels. Just so you know.

I resolved the war between my scalp and my braids with sissors. Convinced that I had fallen prey to Iraqi torture techniques and that part of my brain was starting to leak into the space between the skull and the scalp, I resolved the issue quickly and for much less than 75 Billion Dollars. The current status of my hair is a somewhat electrified one, yet much less dangerous. My still bravely braided friend supplied my with--olive oil!!! to put on my head....I might try it on my salad first....

I think I am going to ignore political issues for today, because things are just too depressing for everyone. Instead I will focus on the politics of the scalp. For some odd reason I went to Harlem yesterday and had my hair braided. It soon became evident that the African braidress (or what do you call a braiding professionel?) seized the opportunity to get back at the caucasian race for 3 million years of slavery. My screaming, scratching and stomping was at first ignored, later the sound of my weakening voice was drowned in strange sounding music and stranger sounding conversation yelled between the hairdressers. To keep me stationary a second braidress joined in and tore my hair from a different angle, leaving me perfectly immobilized by deactivating the nerves which enables escape. When after several hours of African torture I finally was released, I realized that my life was changed forever. I have lost the gift of invisibility. Everybody is now talking to me, recognizing me, admiring me, loving me....One should think people would steer clear, since I look like Medusa. But no.
My head is utterly sore, it's day 2. There is also no way to be comfortable when lying down. Sleepless night number 2 ahead. Update to follow. I wonder if the POW in Iraq suffer simular torture.