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It turns out that my inspiration for art comes from unsatisfying sexual experiences. Is that really a surprise? Isn't that the origin of a lot of art?

Last night was one such experience. He was attractive enough (I mean, if someone other than myself were judging him, in my opinion he could've been more attractive) and it felt good but when we were done I realized that I'd much rather be sleeping with someone I'd actually want to talk to afterwards. Anyway, while lying on his chest, experiencing the emptiness of my soul, an idea for a performance piece began to formulate in my mind. Unfortunately I can't remember much of it now but I think I've found a way to tap my creativity. This is the second time that's happened. The first time was with a different man and that experience spurned the creation of my meat cleaver piece. Coincidence or source material? You decide.

My dad and his wife were in town this weekend. Here're two new things that happened:

1. Peeing while Dad was just one urinal over...and talking to me
2. Dad's Wife pointing out men who're checking me out

And two new things I discovered:

1. Dad and Dad's Wife both take off their shoes at the theater.
2. Dad's Wife sucks mints while watching performances.

Though I have nothing against taking off your shoes, I do it too, discreetly, in other respects Dad & Dad's Wife were quickly becoming bad theater goers. Mostly it was the mints. And that she asked my dad, during the play, if he wanted one. I'll at least acknowledge that she did try to take them out of her purse as quietly as possible but still, it was a metal box with a bunch of rattling small orbs inside, those are hard to keep quiet.

We had an art filled week. On Thursday we went to the Met, which was great. After living here for nearly 3 years I'd still never been. Pathetic. I saw a self-portrait of Pablo Picasso that made me fall in love with him. Now if he were my boyfriend I'd really have some inspirational sex. We then went to the Museum of Arts & Design to see an exhibit on subversive knitting. (Thanks for the tip, MNS.) That was also awesome. One piece was a huge knitting project captured on film involving telephone poles and tractors. I could tell my dad liked that one. And then we went to see Journey's End. They liked it well enough. Their main comment, "Wow. That's certainly better than the college productions we usually see at BYU (Brigham Young University)." Good enough for me.

On Friday we went to a small movie house to watch an artsy French film, Private Fears in Public Places. We all found that to be a disappointment, not bad exactly, just not that good. Later we went to MoMA, where I rediscovered the joy of David Smith. Then we had to rush out to BAM for a performance of The Magic Flute, also a disappointment. I was so excited to take them to BAM, it feels like such a New York thing to me but the opera really was bad. The singers, professional opera singers from Belgium's national company I'm pretty sure, couldn't even fill the house with their voices. We could barely hear them. And I'm pretty sure the woman playing the Queen of the Night might have been a bird in disguise. She literally squawked out those notes.

On Saturday I had to work so Dad & Dad's Wife went to the Bodies exhibit, which they said was "good." When pressed for more they added "fine." Then that night we saw The Lion King. No, I didn't ever cry, neither did they as far as I could tell. But here's what I have to say: Julie Taymor is awesome, that grass was fucking brilliant but the basic story and many of the songs of this show are godawful boring. And tourists are weird. And fascinating up close.

And that's how it went down. Next time we're going to more experimental theater. At least they'll be expecting that to be bad.