If there were three of me it would be three short of what I fucking need. I was supposed to ship Coagula today but the printer did not deliver it because i did not pay him - i had gone to the bank, gotten the banker to give me cashier’s checks and then sat them on my desk and did a ton of other shit.

So I am supposed to go Friday morning to ship but I am scheduled to speak at Mission College, so I had to hire someone to help Salerno. Had to hire two people in New York to distribute Coagula at the fairs there (found them both on Live Journal), so they are getting boxes from UPS next week.

I am leaving for New York Sunday and am swamped with work, found time to buy baseball season tickets (drove to Anaheim, it was like a trip to the Vatican for a catholic). My girlfriend said i looked miserable, right after telling me that my new pair of glasses looks great. I am losing karmic punk rock points because my new frames are CK oh god i cannot even write the name of the designer in my journal i have turned into a miserable yuppie somebody beat me with a stick.

Anyway, i am taking the train to NYC and if there is some accident or terrorist thing and i die just to let everyone know that I really did enjoy my life, and not to be sad about anything that happens at all. If my memory were to make you laugh, that would be a better accomplishment, OH GOD now look i am a fucking sentimental yuppie kill me saddam kill me george kill me kill me kill me i have money kill me for my money for my american citizenship for my hatred.

I had fun writing that and laughed heartily thinking someone would send me some sort of concerned aw-shucks email. adios!

I woke up today at 5 p.m. and now everything is upside down. I finished writing an editorial for ArtScene magazine that will hopefully provoke and entertain people.

I saw one of the original MTV Veejays, J.J. Jackson, at Trader Joe’s tonight. He has slimmed down and appears to be using that Ronco spray on a bald spot on the back of his head, but he looked pretty fit. I didn’t get a good look at what he was buying, he saw a shorter line and darted over to it. Leigh and I were buying Tiger Milk bars and we bumped into Polly Chu and she said “Oh, you two are going to the store together now…” which was like an indictment that we are a total couple. That was hilarious. I stood in the aisle cackling.

I should go to Trader Joe’s in ever-gentrifying Silver Lake more often. I even saw Jesse Easter sweet-talking the girl giving out free microwave pizza samples.

In one week I will be on a train to New York City. Three whole days of no email there and three back, am debating what book to take along. The NY Armory Fair should be an unusual thing, as the vibe in the world is just not rightly jibing with art. New York dealers are grumbling these days, asking if people are going out of town to buy art. Actually, from what i see, people are just not buying art. After 9/11 there was a rush to “spend as usual.” Not anymore. And not for the near-term future.

Outside of the art market, though, there is art still being made. How much and why bother become buzzing flies best left outside the studio door. The job of the artist is to make the art. The duty of the artist is to exhibit the art. When duty is too tough, there is always the job to be done. Get it?

There was a wonderful moment this afternoon. A couple was at the little cafe at the Bergamot Station art gallery complex. they were reading the new issue of Coagula to each other. I sat there and watched, ate, watched some more, it was nice to see everyone walking around with a copy of the magazine and it was nice to see this one goofy little interaction between intimates. As a writer and a publisher, there isn’t much more one could hope to see with one’s efforts.

There were a few openings at Bergamot, Ellie Kevorkian at Mark Moore, Barbara Kerwin at Ruth Bachofner. Painting painting painting.

The talk is that a few galleries from L.A. have pulled out of the armory fair in New York. They say that the Basel Miami Fair put the crush on the Armory to step up to the plate or disappear.

I got tired and came home for a nap. Got a lot done recently considering the magazine’s deadline.

I just paid $2.19 a gallon for gasoline. On the pump there was a big sign about how much per gallon is taxed - 18 cents federal, 18.4 cents State of California, 7.25% sales tax. Those cocksuckers are taking about 52 cents a gallon. Exactly whose terrorists are being funded?

Met up with a group at MOCA that is focusing on graffiti art - this is the educational side of their thing, not the high curatorial altar, the lowly education (ironically, MOCA is funded as a non-profit educational institution, so without these supposedly superfluous groups and meetings, the navel-gazers buying bullshit trendy crap for the permanent collection would be Shit Out of Luck - yes, this means people there like Ann Goldstein).

In this instance, the educational group was high school kids, and my association with the famous JERK graffiti artist was what drew them to me. There is a whole range of events planned, but protecting JERK’s anonymity is my job #1.

The new issue of the magazine (#61) is supposed to be distributed all over town by Saturday afternoon. I wrote up a comparison between Lucianne Freud and Cecily Brown. It is kind of funny, kind of accurate, or in the words of an old friend, Lori Allen, kind of but not really.

I wrote this all earlier tonight and then fell asleep. If old people are the only ones who take naps at 8 p.m. on Fridays I at least am going to try to work senior citizen discounts at age 38.

Wow, the magazine has been printed and it looks fucking fabulous. The cover photo of Cecily Brown that i took at Gagosian Gallery looks great with the design Marty gave it. She posed for like two seconds and i snapped a winner. Years back, i took the cover photo of Mary Corse for an issue, and shot three roles of film and it turned out that the shot that was best that made the cover was the first photo that had been clicked. I’ve learned that it either works out like that or it doesn’t and their ain’t much you can do. Forcing the issue fucks everything up. The art gets drained so quickly in life.

My GF and I drove over to the printers after we had our yogurt fix. I thanked all of the pressmen, shouting “Estan Artistos!” They smiled. Leigh and I had gone to the mall because she will be very cold when we visit New York (California vegetarian shivering when it gets below 68 degrees) and she wanted to buy a fashionable hat. She bought two. There were some awesomely ugly hats for fat ladies to wear to church. Bright purple with big bows and veil material drooped down, Densely brilliant reds with fake floral sculptures weighing down one side of the headdress. Leigh tried these on for pure comedy. I passed on the opportunity to elicit a guffaw. She bought two nice hats (understated, almost casual, not even any leopardskin) but I think she is still going to freeze her little ass off. I probably will too.

Last night Jerry The Priest showed me something he wrote that really crystallized a lot of my thinking. He wrote “Most punk sucked.” Wow, it made sense to this old punk rocker how narrow a range of expression it all was (and still is to some kids, who can begrudge them, as they choose punk over Brittany). When I mentioned the recent death of Joe Strumemr, Jerry was confused - He hadn’t heard! I hate being the bearer of bad news, Actually, i hate being the unintentional bearer of bad news. I take quite a glee in publishing tense reports. Can’t read them anymore though, won’t internet surf news sites anymore, or at least try not to. I will be a good Catholic boy and give up the News for Lent!

All day long at the printers. Marty brought over the final version of the magazine today, it looks great, as always. There is a great Bill Viola takedown by Tulsa Kinney in this issue. Everything went well at the printers except i owe them a lot of money. I had to sit down with the guy and he looked at what i owe him and he was like “Oh, no, no, no this is way too much money.” So I was like, “Well, if you can’t print this issue, then how are you going to get any of the money i owe you.” Christ, i’ve become a capitalist. Hey, it gets the job done, the paper is getting printed and there is an excellent payment plan set up for me to lower the debt without missing a beat.

So Salerno calls the printer while i am there - the man sold another advertisement, a half-pager, do i have room for it? Well, I had to pull some stuff, nothing too important, but he came down and added the advertisement and the magazine should be out on Friday.

So back here after a long day and who should knock on my door but Jerry the Priest. The man is a performance genius and a wonderfully impractical, irreverent human being. He entertained my GF and I for an hour or so, having come by wanting me to publish his novel. Your novel? Hey Jerry, who’s going to publish my novel? He may write for future issues of Coagula.

Memory Lane: In 1985, Max Estenger and I hosted a short-lived public access television show (so short I don’t even recall the name of it) about art and we had Jerry on as one of our guests. In 1980, my brother (Joe Gleason) and I along with Gary Tate started a public access show called Media Blitz. Gary calls himself Gary Blitz to this day. I tried to get something going again in 1985 with Max, but it just didn’t happen. Then Max went on to get his MFA at UC San Diego and moved to New York and i moved to Downtown L.A. and got progressively drunker. The 80s sort of sucked for me that way. I read Live journal entries of random kids int heir twenties and the only thing I envy is that it is infinitely easier for them to get the albums of the bands they like.

So Leigh and I took Jerry The Priest (real name: Jerome Dunn) to 21 Choices Yogurt. Okay, this is a pretty goofy ritual but let me explain. My GF gets up at 6 a.m., works a job, comes home at like 7 or so. Meanwhile I go to bed at 6 a.m. and get up around 1 or 2 or 3 and then go to work writing at midnight. So or quality time is between 8 and 10 or 11. She has to crash and i have to get busy. So we go out to eat and i can only have sugar after a big meal, so we go to the most awesome yogurt place on the frickin’ planet. So Jerry had a yogurt with strawberries and almond roca added, Leigh had raspberries and blueberries and i had boysenberries and blueberries added to mine. I highly recommend the tart yogurt with fruit added.

So we drop off Jerry and then Leigh has to go to bed and I tried to get organized here but then Brian Ruppel comes by, he was walking his dogs. we chatted. Then he left and JERK came by, she is trying out markers and wanted some paper I had that i suggested for her art. Wow, kind of a full day when you think about it. I’m going to bed.

Well, around noon should be the delivery time to the printers for the new issue of Coagula Art Journal. One time, years ago, I took prozac for four or five months. The magazines were coming off the printing press and it was the only time in all my years of publishing that I did not get a rush of excitement. The rush should come this Friday. But before the rush comes the payment and it is time to cough up a lot of dough for issues past to print issue present. Cough and Dough are spelled identically but do not rhyme - probably the result of bad Medieval proofreading.

Hopefully Issue #61 will have a smooth print run and be out in the L.A. galleries this weekend and the New York ones next weekend and around the country by then as well. I say hopefully because Marty, the designer, had his computer break down yesterday. Anything can happen in these situations.

Other than that the only highlight of the day was going to 21 Choices Yogurt with my GF. We are such regulars that we are beginning to know certain workers’ schedules. If you go to Old Town Pasadena and there is some grey-haired guy asking what kind of yogurt you want, guess what, i took the pay cut and got a job there.