Hey Sparky, Susan Hammond, the executive director of the National  Association of Women Artists yanked the price list right out of my hand!

"Small Works Exhibition":  reminiscent of Hitler's takeover of Austria by the kaiser's greater Germany, brushstrokes were so engaged in a charade of Jailhouse Rock  they made even the most firmly convinced pacifist yearn for monumental style. Put together to avenge Sarah Smelser's share with me, which made it into the juried show only because of her love for Adolph Gottlieb, the rest of the stuff, besides tritely beating me as collage metaphor for a dead fish-horse to stuff their mouths with in a torture chamber after my teeth have been substituted with a gold safety pin and filling me as the n-word, missed the mark, like all good subservient women, feminist in the north, poisoners of Yankees down south, must, will and should.

Abstract pieces luring for a starved version of process-I stuffed my face on brie, other cheese, crackers and dip, some 7 Up and seltzer, introduced to me by none other than Elan Portnoy, for his mother, whom he consulted on whether to carry through our relationship after a quick check-in with the 111, Queens. While avoiding  mineral depleted purified water and sulfites stuffed wine, I thought of how the Queen of England could sell another escrutcheon to somebody with toilet paper and a synagogue as symbols, then I thought how these artists must refuse to wean Japanese dogs since the market for turning nineteenth century immigrants into children's toys as sailing steerage ships with a masthead on a skate was a new painting is dead, sculpture is a mere reminiscence of woody.

For that matter, birds in various phases of badly rendered niponaise tints were paired not with Magritte's foot and boot, but with a creepy darkish bloody hand, but with clean fingernails, and a sleeping? woman in a rounded off hood. Yearnings for a tribal past crossed over in an abstracted dream catcher's drum net, staggering cheap beads in the world of direct reference. For those really, really upset by Lockean politics, you had the spirit from the flesh  manifest in beautiful ornament, still beads, and glass spheres, but attached to the origin, a physicality reduced to pierced, weighted down wings, showing you what's what in the world. Again, the repetition of clothing in beads, stitches, stitches of hair, paired with the anger I roused at daring to eat, in and of itself, exploded in a hoop rug version of a necessarily by gender befuddled woman, enamored by her pickaninny hair, the ultimate trickster tool to yield against natural law. In an effort to plug Sears Christmas catalogue sales of plastic paperweight tumbler kits for children there was a triptych encapsulating on one side a house, on the other non kosher seagull erotic bakery intentions, with you, in the middle, trapped as a waterbug whore. For that matter, another piece called Storm went explicit since Gloria Steinem's opening to the confederate as feminist concept, and slapped a bad old mushroom in the attic of a representation of a house, poison being the only refuge for a slave from the brutal beatings of the elements symbolized in jabbing red and yellow blue pastels on the outside of the shacky construct with a side staircase, evil be to opera one and all.

Isabella Pizzano -sic-reveled in the unfinished perfection of her miniature dreaming of netsuke England, with Sue Barras Piermont Morning the silver frame with too wide a stroke, because of the bay's peacefulness.

So, Susan Hammond, irritated that I did not give the time of day to a female child, also shrunk, who had to ask permission from her confederate scrappy father to taste the cheese, while her mother was there to gender befriend me with a smile on an Old New York Concentration Camp for Yankees face, and even more irritated that I asked for the price list, one of at least five, available to the public, from that very same confederate fool, who was holding on to it for dear life, and crunched up too, had a series of women ask me as a Southern gentleman would to fork it over, to which I said no, until I drove her to distraction and she yanked it out of my hands.

Oh, besides their bad art, Marilla Palmer was their other  masthead against me throughout the evening as the non-welter weight contender to?