OC Weekly
December 26, 2000

A bunch of down-and-out artist types (who still manage to dress as well as the next Gap-frequenter) living in Manhattan’s Lower East Side decide to catalog the unfair realities of their lives--such as having to pay rent when they’re artists. And having to deal with the fact that they’re junkies and have AIDS and how it’s all society’s fault because the squares don’t get them. Because artists are artists, and that’s what they should get paid to do: be artists. Even though it seems most of the sorry-ass contingent of artists in this play (the filmmaker, the musician, the dancer and the candlestick maker) have about as much talent as, well, the four closest artists you know. Geez, people. Lighten up. If it’s too bad and society’s mediocrities are weighing you down and you feel crushed and marginalized because you’re an artist whom no one appreciates, just grab your oils, find a blank wall and paint some whales having a good time under the water. Make it really blue. People love that kind of stuff. You’ll make lots of money, and you’ll be happy. And you’ll finally have the time and resources to do what you really wanted the whole time: score all the drugs and have all the loose, indiscriminate sex you’ve always yearned for.