NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION: WRITE A BOOK

I know what you artist types are muttering under your breaths right now. "A bit presumptuous of you, isn't it, calling yourself an artist when all you are really is a fucking illustrator?" Two things: firstly, kindly watch your language. This isn't an Irish pub, it's the internet! Second of all, shut up. I subscribe to the theory, advanced by one of my liberal commie art professors, that we're all artists in our own way, and that everything is art. Think of the implications of universal adoption of such a theory! For one thing, picture frame sales would drop precipitously. This would only be a good thing in my book. To borrow a ten-cent word from my second sentence, a picture frame is a presumptuous thing, an artificial boundary, a unsubstantiated conferror of authenticity. Fie, I say, in smug condescension, as is my hypocritical socialist wont. Bring on the Banksy! So there it is, my Artist's Statement. No more or less comprehensible than most, if you ask me. Now go away.

Oh, man. The above doesn't bode well for the rest of the year, does it? Well, let's hope that the boding turns well-wards and instead of being continually smacked in the face with a mackerel like last year, we can turn our faces skyward and be rewarded with a shower of Skittles like sweet grace.