NEW PALTZ, N.Y. -

Recently it has come to my attention that I’m maybe not as good-looking as I’d thought.

I used to have a pretty good idea where I fit on the whole pulchritude scale: somewhere in the middle of the pack, for sure, but closer to the George Clooney ten than the Yasser Arafat zero. I’m not handsome enough to trade on my looks, nor am I not handsome enough that my deficiencies would impede me getting the girl. My attractiveness is neither dealmaker not dealbreaker.

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MELBOURNE, AU-

Yesterday I went to the opening of an exhibition at a small art gallery.

I love exhibitions. Especially when they’re small and quirky.

The invitation to the opening was nondescript and black, and gave no indication of what the art was going to be like, or even what medium it was going to presented in. All we could discern from such an oblique invite were the artists’ names, ksubi and Kane, and the title of the new collection.

The title of the show?

“Sunglasses For Dickheads.”

We thought we were prepared.

We weren’t.

Being unprepared leaves room for surprises.

I love surprises.

This is what we were confronted with when we walked in the door.

Rocking cocks.

And I don’t mean the rooster variety.

There were no chickens there last night.

Nup. No chickens at all.

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