When I'm loitering around on the Web all bored, it's nice to know there are huge archives at exile.ru. This morning I read a Mark Ames review of an underground club in Moscow that contained an accurate description of what it felt like after seeing the Butthole Surfers in what I assume was 1988. I remember walking down an empty street in Pontiac, Michigan, in a haze after seeing them for the first time, in euphoria, feeling like I had seen something no one ever had before. (This also was the first time I had seen a g-string on a live woman, and actually, come to think of it, probably the last time.) Or seeing an exhibit of Joseph Beuys at the museum in Darmstadt, Germany. All the American kids were talking about this weird part of the museum with felt and lard and dishes of bees. I remember wandering through the galleries, room after room, knowing nothing about the artist, and all the labels were in German, and being so intensely, mystically moved. I really couldn't tell you why. The more I read about Beuys later on, the happier I am that the first time I saw his work I had no clue what it was about, because evidently I felt what he'd intended his viewers to feel. Usually when I'm given hints on what to feel about art I go ahead and feel it. As long as I like the art, I'll go along with what's asked of me. But I'd have had a hard time going along with an order to feel the oneness or whatever I felt at this show.

That said, we saw "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" yesterday. All the actors in it were charming, like heart-eyes charming if you know your old Monkees shows. I didn't walk out of the theater feeling like a new person; I felt like I had spent the exact amount of time in the theater as I actually had.