I ran into special breed last night only native to contemporary art/entertainment circles: human beings who are incredibly adept at talking about themselves and their work without breaking for breath. It’s like a special kind of terrestrial apnea, the face gets redder and redder, the eyes eventually getting a delusional blaze. Oh, if I had known what I know now I never would have asked him what he does. But, in the running series of “facts that prove Mensa will revoke my status soon,” I’ve already been burned by this situation many times.

For example, once I got stuck with a girl, on the TGV, who spent a good portion of thirty minutes talking about all her future exhibitions. She was getting more and more excited about her greatness with each dying breath, while I started wishing for a cardboard cutout of myself, or Jar Jar Binks, to stick in my place. She got on the spam list after her seventh personal bulletin in as many days. Why don’t people send me joke of the week spam? What happened to that fine tradition?

Last night’s problem all started when I accidentally sat at a table talking architecture, after drinking way too many vodkas and bumping into the only Quebecois guy in a 3km radius, which always makes me desperate. Suddenly some kid, his face wide and flat as if an image of an angel had suddenly appeared on a dinner plate, asked me what I do. This question makes no sense at all. So I say… oh nothing (which is not only true, it’s harder than you think). And then he, in cherub-like sweetness, starts to go on… and on… and on… Me… art… this… me art… that… me… art… piss… me… art… great! At one point, when he seemed confused, probably from lack of oxygen, he actually asked what school I’d been to. I let the cat out of the bag and mentioned the evil bastion of hell that was my old art school.

“Oh, the Fresnoy! (pronouced Frai-noi but got Fresno-ed on his tongue) I heard about that place.”

“It’s a serious mindfuck. Only the strong or/and criminally insane survive.”

“Sounds like my kind of place! I bet I could do it! I’m so good! My last work confuses everyone!”

“I don’t know if you really want to go there. Dude, it’s like Kafka’s Castle but in the North of France, which is like Transylvania. So basically you’re in Dracula’s administratively challenged Castle. Think about it”

“I’m SO GOOD. I can do ANYTHING! Do you know how much people love me?”…

Finally I interrupt, “Well, I wouldn’t let any of my friends near that school but for you, why not!”

I swear, it took all my willpower to get him to stop talking about photographs hung badly on a wall. Luckily a nicer, cuter and younger boy came up to my right elbow and started yelling at me about his book and film work. Oh, the youth these days! Oh the humanity!