TJ and I went to Little Tokyo to have our tempurature taken and have some soy. Many people don’t know this, but Spanish is high in soy.
For some reason, my Japanese lunch was brought to me inside of an Ikea bookshelf.
After much green tea, I had an urge to visit the john. On the way to it, I found a picture of our chef.
Although we were given ice cream as a dessert, we still ducked into some bakery that was hosting a donut hole suggestion contest. You write your donut hole flavor suggestion on a slip and if you win, your donut hole dreams become reality.
That’s really suggestive.
We walked to the Geffen Contemporary with our desserts and while some would say it was closed, I call it discrimination.
We drove to the downtown MOCA instead.
Strolling into the first gallery, the man who was guarding the Rothkos glanced at my shirt and started to sing, “Ahhhhhh, FREAK OUT! LE FREAK, C’EST CHIC!” He continued serenading me and dancing like my mother while TJ muttered, “Don’t make eye contact. Stop making eye contact with him.”
We ran away from him but not before we leapt in front of that Rothko everyone on Facebook has been using as their pro-gay marriage equality symbol and shot a double selfie.
“Oh my!” I said, strolling towards scribbles, “a Cy Twombly.” The dude guarding the Twombly rolled his eyes. “Its more fun if you try to decipher what its saying,” I told TJ. “John Waters says so. Take a picture of me with it!”
TJ did and said, “Try to look normal!”
Every time I could sense she was about to snap a photo, my instinct was to look psycho.
We left the Twombly and walked past the tiny glass box Tilda Swinton will be sleeping in when she visits LA.
On to the pet steps.
And throwing gang signs in front of the Basquiat.
This Claes Oldeburg thing looks like something that would tour with Sister Spit. It would sing and dance to EDM or queercore dub step while wearing shoes made out of ketchup, love, and sporks.
TJ adores prison-related art and thus greatly admired this portrait titled Hoe Squad.
Here she is again, with a massive scrote.
At the gift shop, which is next to a big pile of trash a.k.a. a major work of modern art, a salesgirl admired my golden goober.
“If you go hungry, you could eat it, too.”
I shook it for and she listened to my nuts rattle.
TJ dug through a bin with all sorts of buttons in it that said cute things like Boob 1, Boob 2 (I think those are for your nipples), CHURCH IS GAY, AND I’M ON MEDICAL MARIJUANA. The salesgirl pointed at that last one and said, “This one is the best!” and started cracking up, to show us that that is her creed. We will be giving one of these buttons to my father. It says ALFGHANISTAN.