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Bravo for you, Glenn Dixon (Beneath Contempt, 1/10)! At so many times in our mundane lives are we mere mortals confronted with the everyday, average, self-absorbed, know-everything bore that it is quite a refreshing turn to read the words of a man who had the chutzpah to rush to the top of the heap and bellow to the masses, “Hey, look at me! I am King of the Idiots! Lord of the Nincompoops, resplendent in my stupidity and damn proud of it!” Such courage. Such bravery. It makes my heart quiver, or, at least, some part of my body. How insightful for you, Glenn, to notice that we in the art community had longed for a man of such magnitude to enter into our dreary little lives, which, before now, we had so routinely spent mewling for milk. But alas, poor Glenn, perhaps while you were so busy listening to the sound of your own self-important voice and repeating such big words as “Twomblyesque” and “incarnadine” 200 times so you wouldn’t forget them because only bad boys rip the “It Pays to Enrich Your Vocabulary” page from mommy’s Readers Digest, you obviously confused our desperate cries for milk for the desire of another art insider wannabe, another bag of “only my opinions are of worth” hot air.
However, it is important to remember that fate often works in mysterious ways. For not only did you fill your self-appointed quest to the best of your finite ability, you also supplied those of us within the art community an even more exhilarating pastime than before. No longer do we have to remain unfocused, ceaselessly removing the scattered piles of droppings from the District’s gallery floors, we can gaze bright-eyed to the future, concerted in our energies to ensure that the biggest, most offensive pile is indeed cleared away from the District galleries and the local art scene. Perhaps, Glenn, if you close your eyes and strain very hard (you remember how to do that don’t you, Glenn? It couldn’t have been that long since you were potty trained), you might be able to rub enough nebulous innuendoes and empty, junior-high-school analogies together to realize that this pile is certainly no other than yourself.
Indeed, Glenn, you should be praised, for not only have you helped to give birth to this newfound unity in the local art community, you also have offered us another choice: If we grow tired of listening to the sound of “one hand clapping” by reading KOAN (Ken Oda’s Art Newsletter), we can always turn to the esteemed pages of Washington City Paper and read Beneath Contempt to learn the sound of one mouth crapping.
via the Internet