I can't help it, if I wanted to,

I can't help it even if I could

I've begun packing. The wife is useless, mostly by my proclamations. We found a house. But finances be tight. We've got to make good on our year lease (we got something of a sweetheart deal), and the wife has a nest egg, but things are in transition. And I find like my parent's marriage, I keep afloat, and she's the saver. But then again she makes so much more than me. Which is an issue, but there you go. I have too many fucking DVD's, so this is another chance to box them up. It looks like everything will be closed up by the end of June, so we'll probably be able to move in by August. We are getting some work done on it, but it's minor things. And now I have weekend plans to baby proof a room.

Look, honestly, I don't want to live in Burbank. I never did. The commute (if I keep it up) will be that much quicker, but this house is a temporary solution to our long term problems. And I hate thinking of myself as a deadbeat dad. LA friends, I will get you drunk if you give a helping hand. FYI. The place is slightly better than my condo, and a little bit more space. I showed it to my mom, who was in town for the weekend. We commiserated over LA prices.

I took her to the MOCA. Preston Fairy was there for a signing. Real heads who know the deal know that "we" were the Preston Fairy of Snakes on a Plane. But there was a Robert Rauschenberg exhibit, and I must say I almost cried looking at Factum I and II. The idea of the piece was that Rauschenberg wanted to show that his art was not the act of randomness that others may have suggested. But in the two versions, there are millions of little differences. So much of creating art is creating failure. So much of art is trying to create precision in randomness. So much of art is instinct mixed with discipline. He both succeed and failed miserably. That's great art.