I finally met with Brandon Bird after months of rescheduling. His action-packed jet-setting lifestyle as an acclaimed artist had previously interfered. Plus, we kept getting colds. We met near his massive downtown LA loft, which is his home, his studio, his business and still has room to raise fourteen elephants, should he wish to do so.
Every time I’ve come downtown, I’ve gotten lost. This was no exception. Googlemaps fucked me. Plus, the pub we were going to meet at was closed.
If you wish to imagine artists in exotic locations, picture Brandon and me in the gardens of the Musée Rodin, leaning against the Gates of Hell and sipping absinthe from the skull of Camille Claudel. In reality, we sat on cold metal chairs in front of a convenience store. Brandon bought me a Gatorade and we discussed homoeroticism, Sears and Chuck Norris and their relation to art.
[Cool and Awesome and Fun]