I’m planning on spending this snowy London Sunday polishing off Phoebe Hoban’s Basquiat: A Quick Killing In Art. The fatalistic, self-sabotaging fraction of me – the same small portion that wishes I could be a little more like Californication‘s Hank Moody and a little less akin that ginger-haired love interest on Glee – would love to time travel back to New York in the 80s. The decadence. The hedonism. Imagine: brutal, homicidal celebrity. It’s scarily attractive. But I’m all talk and no action. I won’t even go outside at the moment for fear of slipping on the ice and breaking the other leg. Vicarious is today’s word of the day. Go ahead, use it in a sentence.
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