In 1999, at about this time on a Saturday night, I'd be heading up to Kinko's with a bundle of images and anecdotes in hand. There was never a plan. It was just cool to hang out until the wee hours, cutting and pasting and manipulating images, and listening to the always awful music they piped in. If I was lucky, my diligence at the copier would be interwoven with walk-ins from roaming drunks or the overly curious. Nobody had ever seen art created on a copy machine before, and some of the reactions I got were worth a million dollars. And the art, well, sometimes I'd hit on juxtapositions that would work and sometimes I didn't, but it was always a good time.
Ten years later, everybody's older, and I don't even think Kinko's is open that late anymore. Hell, it's not even called Kinko's now. So I sit at home, where nothing interesting ever happens, and play with Photoshop.
Blah. Am I dead yet?
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