I like this painting because it makes me think. The artist must have gone on a three-day drunk or something and thought he was some kind of cross between Jackson Pollock and Pablo Picasso. But who cares? Isn't art something to look at and then to either enjoy or hurl lunch over? All right, then, there you go.
Hey, I went to a New Year's Eve party myself once, in New York City, back in the late 1970s. It was in a big brownstone townhouse on what they call the "West Side" of Manhattan and somewhere between the fifties and the eighties, I can't remember which street. People, including me and my girlfriend at that time, drank champagne from paper cups and stood around or sat around while really talented people with mental or emotional problems gave incredibly talented musical performances. A 21-year-old guy played a beautiful grand piano like he was Van Cliburn or something and one woman in her sixties, wearing a dazzling blue sequined gown, belted out a couple of torchy jazz songs under a spotlight like Sophie Tucker. When I talked to her she said she was Sophie Tucker. I didn't argue with her.
When I left the party I was so moved and choked up I wanted to pull my teeth out or something. I had been at a New Year's Eve party at an exclusive mental hospital for fairly wealthy New York people. But don't get the big idea that I had experienced a touchy-feely moment or anything.
Hey, I went to a New Year's Eve party myself once, in New York City, back in the late 1970s. It was in a big brownstone townhouse on what they call the "West Side" of Manhattan and somewhere between the fifties and the eighties, I can't remember which street. People, including me and my girlfriend at that time, drank champagne from paper cups and stood around or sat around while really talented people with mental or emotional problems gave incredibly talented musical performances. A 21-year-old guy played a beautiful grand piano like he was Van Cliburn or something and one woman in her sixties, wearing a dazzling blue sequined gown, belted out a couple of torchy jazz songs under a spotlight like Sophie Tucker. When I talked to her she said she was Sophie Tucker. I didn't argue with her.
When I left the party I was so moved and choked up I wanted to pull my teeth out or something. I had been at a New Year's Eve party at an exclusive mental hospital for fairly wealthy New York people. But don't get the big idea that I had experienced a touchy-feely moment or anything.
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