When I lived in Baltimore, my friend Leila and I went to a gallery opening in the lobby of my apartment complex. Back then I lived in a government-subsidized artist compound (or whatever it was called) and the place actually had its own gallery space where the people who lived there could display their work. That sounded like a pretty cool idea until Leila and I showed up for the very first show.

There were things that had been drawn, and things that had been painted. There was a kiddie pool in the center of the room filled with feathers and broken fiberglass or something. By the window was a tipi resting on astroturf and if you went inside there was a TV displaying static. On the screen, written in lipstick, it said “FUCK THE GOVERNMENT.”

Leila said, “I fucking hate art.”

And you know what, so do I!

I mean, I like art. But I also fucking hate art.