The Quality Control Committee's pernicious comments in yesterday's reports notwithstanding, I still think it looks much better in the PDF version.

I remain unconvinced. Bill's one of the most brilliant people I know, but I'm not sure if he grasps the concept of worthless art.

Today is the two hundred and twenty-first annual celebration of the Americans' more or less successful rebellion against the English, so most government workers have the day off. A private contractor making an emergency repair found that one of the utility holes in the street was actually a small refrigerator stocked with beer. After this was reported on the news, people started prying up metal covers out of the street, and they weren't disappointed. By nightfall hundreds of people had discovered thousands of bottles of beer, and the streets were mostly impassible either because of the holes or the abandoned cars with broken axles.

It's not really a problem tonight, though: it's unsafe to go outside because of all the drunks and gunfire. By Monday, however, I predict there are going to be lots of angry, sober, city workers.

I told him the problem I had with science fiction films--that was more or less his genre--was that the future was always shown as being fully developed. In a century or two it always seems that everything's been perfected, nothing's experimental. I told him he should have a scene in which some rich middle-aged men are playing with expensive prototypes of, say, antigravity belts that they bought after work from a science boutique. I suggested he show them fiddling with all the dials, knobs and switches but being unable to get them to work, unable to get more than a few millimeters off the floor.

The film director stared straight through me looking for someone more wealthy, interesting or attractive to chat up; I thought he didn't hear a word I said. As it turned out, I was wrong.

Ten minutes later he was yelling at two of his assistants: he didn't care if it was Saturday night and everything was closed, he wanted an antigravity belt and he wasn't going to wait. At least I guess he heard a few words of what I said.

The film director stormed out in a covey of assistants, sycophants and gold leeches.

"In a couple years my four year old daughter will be 'replaced' by a more mature six year old. I can't hang on to a four year old just like I can't hang on to an old painting."

It wasn't a persuasive argument, but I didn't argue; it was a better line of reasoning than most painters make.

He was, predictably, absolutely right. That's how all the cute young artists smelled during my brief art school stint. Even today, I find women who smell like paint much more attractive than those who don't.

(I thought that number must certainly be wrong, but given that he was two years behind on his developing, that works out to just under eight rolls a day, every day. But I digress; I mustn't let facts get in the way of a good story.)

If I remember right, Winogrand's theory was that he waited two years before developing his film so that he wouldn't have any emotional connection with the images. By forgetting the circumstances under which the film was exposed--if not the subject matter--he was able to look at his work as objectively and dispassionately as possible.

(It's time for an anecdote break. When Mason Resnick asked Winogrand if he felt bad about missing pictures when he reloaded, Gary replied, "No, there are no pictures when I reload.")

I thought of Winogrand after developing two or three years of film--nine rolls in all. I was surprised at how many of the frames seemed completely unfamiliar. Gary Winogrand lives in me.

I think it may have been an encyclopedia

he ran across a tutorial titled Punctuation, the Lubricant of Language

Although he shares my love of punctuation

I like it because it holds my run-on sentences together

he was disturbed by the title and said

I will never punctuate again

I think he was being a bit hasty as I'm sure you will agree

Or perhaps not

I read one of the last interviews with him; he seemed like a sad old man. "I always thought I'd be remembered for my plays, not my drinking. I guess I was wrong."

At least he was right about being wrong. I saw "The Potatoes of Auchtermuchty"--arguably his best play--several years ago, and can't remember a thing about it. I can't even remember the plot, or if it even had one. I never even heard about some of his other works like "Seven Drams of Hate" or "Oatcakes With Porridge" until I read his obituary.

Ah, but his drinking; that's another story. Who can forget the time he drank two bottles of whisky between breakfast and dinner then picked a fight with Fitzgerald by taunting him with his famous "bollocks for brains" jibe? Or the time he stuck the princess's finger in his mouth instead of doing something as passé as air-kissing the back of her hand?

Brendan Macpherson is a tough act to follow.

A friend in Vienna told me there was a lucrative four-week guest curator opening at the Museum of Improbability. I asked her if she thought I had a chance of getting it.

She thought about it for a moment, then replied "It's improbable."

I came up with "A SQUIGGELDY LINE AROUND THE EDGES," but I'm not too sure about it. I guess that's the difference between thinking about something a lot and a little. Maybe I'll like it, maybe I won't; it's hard to say. I think Tadashi Kiyotani has the best perspective on the discomfort of the new: "Everything new looks strange for the first 200 years and then it's fine."

She closed her letter by saying, "Hope this finds you healthy, happy, and as surly as ever." What a nice thing to say! I always thought all my efforts at acting surly as a teenager had been wasted, but it turns out someone noticed!

"Art produces ugly things which frequently become beautiful with time. Fashion, on the other hand, produces beautiful things which always become ugly with time."