Fuck Rothko.

I spent two hours today at work becoming oriented. Everyone is exceptionally nice and they all appear to find every minute of their workday utterly boring. Many of them intimated to me that they had considered suicide. Others gazed at me with eyes of infinite sorrow and whimpered softly. They told me about their respective theories of subjective time. Apparently, time never passes more slowly than when you are guarding art you don't like. One of the guards said, "It's all shit to me; I don't care who touches it, so long as they don't leave any marks during my shift."

The Museum has a Rubens, a Gainsborough, and a Rothko; their Winslow Homer is on loan to another museum. I think that we're supposed to like Rubens and Gainsborough. It's probably still ok to think Rothko sucks.

I don't care for Winslow Homer either and I don't care who knows it.

The only painting at the museum that I really like is a pretty average Yves Tanguy. It was kind of misty and atmospheric and nice and just like every single one of his other paintings. Nothing special, but it would look real nice in my apartment next year.

The guards said that the most exciting event in recent memory was when two little boys knocked the Rothko off the wall. It fell to the ground with all of the force of a canvas covered in splotches of red paint. Then, a museum worker picked it up, brushed it off, and rehung it.

It is going to be quite an exciting summer.