Day 201: Become a contemporary artist.

By itself, this doesn’t make any sense: a “contemporary artist” is just an artist working now, and how could I do anything else?

Fortunately, the Book provides a few “ideas” for its readers, which give one an idea of the sort of thing it means.

A two-meter test tube filled with semen, containing billions and billions of spermatozoa. A canvas filled with nothing but the artist’s signature, over and over. “A feminist video installation featuring nuns discussing their sexual fantasies about Jesus” — although that’s been done, after a fashion. Similarly, a performance piece involving a monk who has taken a vow of chastity lying in bed with two female nymphomaniacs — which has been done, ad nauseum.

The best one, though, is a supercomputer that connects two phone numbers at random, and records the conversation: this “the best” because these things already exist, and we’ve been down this road before. It’s a fun road, so I did it again.

For the record: “asl” means “age/sex/location,” and I hate conversations about those things.

I have no sense of humor. Very funny.

There was — of course! — a better conversation before this one, but it was lost. Alas! And I lied in this one, which I try to avoid doing. It has its moments, though, despite not being nearly as good as the one before, in which I turned the conversation to hedgehogs after ten minutes of nonsense.

Fucking hedgehogs — they make everything funnier.

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