Spurned by long lines at the Picasso exhibition yesterday, I discovered this, hard wired to a light pole outside SFMOMA.

A little googling led to Mr. Indiana’s web site. Here’s his statement regarding the project?

American Testimonial is a satirical reflection on the current state of culture and media in the United States. The project consists of 40 wooden tablets, each engraved with different qualitative juxtapositions of a contemporary pop stars—models, singers, and hot young artists basking in the disposable hype and whimsy of public attention—with influential, canonized artists from the last century.

The commandment-like tablets are at once cheeky and authentic, asking viewers to ask themselves: Is Paris Hilton actually more relevant to American culture than Mark Rothko?

It’s a cute little idea (though it begs the question: is Scarlett circa 2007 any worse than Miles circa 1985?) if not a little obvious—and much more entertainingly realized on MTV’s “Celebrity Deathmatch.”

Then I browsed Indiana’s site, and noticed this “commandment-like” tablet. It’s one thing to pit “canonized” artists in one realm against “hot young artists” in another. But dissing your contemporary is a cheap shot that turns satire to snark.

Here’s my qualitative juxtaposition: Pablo Picasso is better that Scott Wayne Indiana even when Pablo Picasso is oversold.

Click on the blooms above for a selection of pictures from our recent trip to Tokyo.

Erin and I just got back from Mexico City. We indulged in Thanksgiving dinner at Fonda El Refugio, strolled through the Viveros de Coyoacan before visiting Frida’s house, and spent time with the incredible collection of precolumbian artifacts at the National Museum of Anthropology .

Also, we loved the Sanborn’s Owls – don’t you? The linked article is an interesting history of the Californian pharmacist and entrepreneur whose coffee and hot chocolate was beloved by Porfirio Diaz and Pancho Villa. (in spanish)

Here are some photos from the trip:

Last night, around 8pm. A woman with thick, blue framed glasses sitting next to me leans forward to her friend, who has a frisee-salad of burnt sienna hair. My neighbor’s voice is a raspy whisper.

Blue: You raised that project. Mother to ‘em all.

Frisee: Shh, girl.

Blue: (voice raising) Don’t shush me. You know it’s the truth. Every child in that hood calls you mother. Ain’t no one else say different. You done brought them all with you.

Frisee: (obviously embarrassed) Thank you, dear.

Blue: (standing now, in full throat, pointing to Frisee) This is the most beautiful woman in the world. The most BEAUTIFUL. WOMAN. IN. THE WORLD. Look at her. Tell me I’m wrong. Don’t you all look away, like I ain’t talking.

Frisee: (pulling Blue to her seat) Sit down, now. Ain’t no need to shout.

Blue sits, reluctantly. The bus is knocked into watchful silence. Then Blue leans into Frisee’s shoulder once more, her voice back to a whisper.

Blue: ‘Member that place Shirley works.

Frisee: The bar? Down Eddy?

Blue: That’s the place. Can we walk by there?

Frisee: Yeah, girl. Let’s do that.

Blue: Oh goodness, that sounds right.

The two exit at the next stop, Frisee leading her staggering charge by the hand.

After almost two steamy weeks in New York – during which I did read a
book or two, but haven’t had time to post just yet – I came back to
San Francisco with mixed emotions. The cool weather was a relief,
though hearing New Yorkers complain about the heat was entertaining.
It was hot, brutally so some days. I remember a particular Thursday
where I felt every sip of water I took detouring immediately for my
sweat glands. I became conversant with BTU’s and Italian Ices. I
appreciated anew the wisdom I showed in packing a linen shirt. But, in
the end, it was just heat, made exceptional by the fact where only
weather and personality is outside of someone’s control.

Then again, everything in New York is exemplary in some way. It took a
few days to slough off my casual Californan shuffle to walk at the
speed of sidewalks. Here’s how William Dean Howells portrays New
York’s “solid mass of humanity.”

…they are enraptured; and that is the great secret of New York; she
takes you out of yourself; she annihilates you and disperses you, and
you might starve to death here without feeling hungry, for your mind
wouldn’t be on it.

True enough, but I always find time to be hungry. My friend Ted has
just moved to Manhattan, so we spent some time trying to get him
situated. Of course Zabar’s is right around the corner, providing
ample supplies for his beloved Insalata Caprese as well as a place to
find good air conditioners. But we found a decent slice place and, on
the recommendation of Ted’s best man Nest, an excellent neighborhood
bar, Yogi’s.I don’t know why peanuts on the floor and Waylon & Willie
on the jukebox seems so damn right in NYC, but there’s no doubt it
fits right in. The rest of our dining consisted of a short list of
great . Burger Joint. Patsy’s. Grimaldi’s. And, of course, the Shake
Shack:

I was lucky enough to get a guided tour of Brooklyn from my college
friend Allison Valentine and her son Max. I could gush here about what
a crazy day it was, but I won’t. I’ll just tell you. You sit amazed.

It’s natural to take a visitor to see the promenade in Brooklyn
Heights, site for loads of movies, videos and dreamy black and white
photographs of the Manhattan skyline. We were lucky enough to see a
video being filmed. I wish I could star-strike you with the group’s
name, but I suspect appellation is not so important here:

That was it. One cam, a bounce board, a boom box and the woman in
salmon who I imagine is a dancer’s assistant. All the girls took turns
lip-synching. Max wasn’t too interested in any of them, a fact his
father later proudly exclaimed “They’re too obvious.” I’ll say.

Then it was over to Dumbo, where we cooled down over ice cream and the
sight of many Chinese couples to be. Allison said it’s always like
this, filled with young couples getting their wedding photos made. The
girls can apparently wear racier dresses then they can at the actual
wedding. The same photographer and his assistant had them lined up,
running them through the paces, first the skyline, then a tree
outside the River Cafe, where the girls delicately held a blossom.

This girl was waiting for her groom. Or maybe she’s a bridesmaid. The
yellow shirt in the window is me. Anyway, the bridge looks cool, and a
quote from Walt Whitman is welded into the fence at the end of the
pier.

We met up with Max’s dad (and Allison’s main squeeze) Mike soon after
and poked around Williamsburg some. They recognized a guy on the
street, someone who Mike went to school with, who revealed to us he’s
working on a memoir about his fucked up life as the son of the guy who
started the Chicken Soup books. I noticed this sign as we got into the
urban ‘burban.Then it was off to a tasty dinner at Diner: burgers and
beer all around, except for poor Max, who had to do with formula. Soon
enough, pal.

It didn’t stop him the little fella from charming the ladies on the
Paul Hunter video shoot for Shaggy, going down just outside Diner,
though. Oh yes, they were all over him, and he was totally cool with
the attention. If he had enough muscle control to drape his arms
around their shoulders he would have been all over it. Not obvious at
all, Maxi. Paul Hunter is the blur next to the hasidic guy. Those are
Maxi’s girls just in front of us.

Mike and Allison drove me home, which was lame ’cause it was so late
and we were right by the L train, except it was really awesome for
them to do so, so I should just shut up about it. But you will be
repaid with kindness. Soon.