Just back from the Vienna show. I swear the jetlag is getting worse as I get older. I couldn't sleep worth shit while I was there, and now I can't back here either.

I have to say that the museums were really nice, though. They're not crazy crowded like most cities, and while I'm as sick of Klimt as everyone else, it was nice to finally see the non-Altman stuff in person.

I think the preeminent question in the art world today is, "How the fuck do I win a MacArthur Grant?" I mean it's $500,000 that seems to be handed out in a totally random manner. Not only that, but once you've won, everybody starts whispering that you're a "genius." Well I know Sally Kianpour—I even hooked up with her a couple times back in college—and that woman is no genius. Yes her art is "timely" and all that, but that whole school bus installation thing? Come on. It had fucking 80's hack Julian Schnabel written all over it.

Okay, maybe I'm just a tad jealous. But seriously, Sally's become an absolute raving cunt since she won. That review she gave of Xander Hollis's show in the New Yorker? If you're going to call a photo of rotting headless donkeys "cute," should you really be reviewing?

Rant over. Christ I need a drink. Where the hell is Soren?

I don't mean to be crude or anything, but can't you at least wash your meat before trying to get me to blow you?

Soren showed up at my apartment last night after having biked all the way from North Hollywood. Does he, say, step into the bathroom for a shower or even a quick once-over in the sink? No, he whips it straight out of those hideous Lycra bike shorts and starts chasing me around the room with it.

Now I'm not opposed to blowing or anything, but come on! I mean, if you've eaten onions or something, you're going to brush your teeth before trying to kiss me, but you expect me to suck on that sweaty slab?

God, Soren, you really are a pig.

The "demolition man" came for a studio visit today. You know that Police song from "Ghost in the Machine?" This guy was just like that. Susan Vollman called up this morning and asked if a wealthy Swiss collector she knew could come over. She said the guy—I'm not going to use his name, even though I swear it's fake—was leaving tonight on a redeye, so it had to be today. I thought she sounded kind of odd, but she was on her cell, so I couldn't be sure.

Anyway, the guy shows up and I nearly piss myself. I don't even know how to explain it, he just exuded anti-empathy. It wasn't that he looked like he might have killed someone, there was no question about it, he had killed someone. Probably a lot of someones. Susan introduced him, and I had to shake his hand. This guy who looked the embodiment of genocide. Jesus. Of course I was too freaked out for the usual artist/patron chit-chat, but this whole time he hadn't said a word himself. He just stood there in the middle of my studio looking at the six paintings I had up. Not walking over to look at them like anyone else would do, but standing in the same place as he examined them. Finally after about five minutes—and I mean five minutes of dead fucking silence—his eyes landed on me. It sucked the air right out of my lungs. I mean, it's like eighty degrees in the studio, and I'm shivering.

Then he left. NEVER SAYING A FUCKING WORD. Susan didn't follow, she stayed in the studio with me. After I heard the fire door to the street bang shut, I turned to her.

"He wants to buy them all. I'm supposed to deliver them to some guy in London. I guess he just came here to meet you."

"Who the fuck was that guy?"

"You really don't want to know."

"He didn't say anything!"

"A guy like that doesn't have to."