The first time I ever won anything was in college. It was an ebay auction of a fake Christian Dior saddlebag. My ineffable joy knew no limits.  Alas, undeserved victory trailed me over the years to another slope of sadness, this time, in the form of a letter, a love letter of sorts.  I cried the way I always do when the big “R” pokes its head into my modest potato sack of false victories.  An old professor who wrote me my rec letter made the point that maybe I’m simply overeducated.  Thanks for that. I’m sure he meant “too good for those mofos” but what I read was “mediocre, baby.”  Here’s to keggers with kids all next year.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if Black Acid were a drug that let you peek into a forbidden or hidden zone, space, cult or subgroup, one that you already know exists but will never ever infiltrate. What Black Acid would do is give you bionic insight, not just vision, but a prescience and knowledge of everything this group does, but only in the aftermath. In fact, you’d be forced to quote Faith No More probably more than once:
You will never understand it 'cause it happens too fast
And it feels so good, it's like walking on glass
It's so cool, it's so hip, it's alright…
If this terrifying yet palpably gratifying drug is an imagined work of art from a diabolical mind, so is Black Acid Co-op, the current exhibition at Deitch Projects where Jonah Freeman and Justin Lowe have laboriously erected the ultimate assemblage of anarchy where we can explore the (probably) imagined substrata of sects in a fantastic labyrinth of rooms replete with smells, gnarly artifacts, ripped, moldy books that nod to Gondry’s rental shop in “Be Kind Rewind,” a sterile museum space with molding and a drop ceiling, and other areas of methodical ingenuity.
Just when I was starting to lose my bearings, I saw Jeffrey’s satisfied face, slowly examining the work, smiling coyly, somehow knowing that he can penetrate the undercurrent of any tribe, club, congregation, what have you, smoothly, like a cheese stick in butter.

Image courtesy of Black Acid Co-op

Facebook kicked me off for apparent misconduct. No explanations, no replies to my myriad of emails and no compunction later, I figured who fucken cares. I was done with that. But then, ashamed and flustered, I rejoined. Like a hopeless addict, like a social fiend in desperate need of constant stimulation and procrastination. FB sucked up my hours and proved ever so categorically that I am weak, dependent and shamefully social. I found myself rummaging through old photos – something I hate doing because nostalgia destroys my willful energy – and uploading, updating, befriending, and commenting. It’s true. Hello. My name is Julie Fishkin. I am 27 years old and I am an addict.

When I was little, my grandma would always buy Klondike bars and little Debbie snacks because Shopwise, our local supermarket in Jackson heights, would always have sales on them. Next to the produce, there stood a big candy case with a variety of candy by the pound. She would be on the average two pounds and always carry and assortment in her pocket. But it wasn’t just her coat pockets. She would have a few in her purse, a few in her coat –winter coat, rain coat and spring jacket – and a few in her bath robe. My favorites were the butterscotch but I always hated Little Debbie Snacks. I thought they had a bland texture and the sweetness was more fluffy and filling than actually satisfying, infiltrating my mouth with vile chunks of fructose-bound particles.
The Klondike bars were ok, especially the crunch variety. The problem was the vanilla ice cream to chocolate ration. Never enough. Once you ate the perfectly thin chocolate cover, the vanilla would just melt away into this sad creamy pile, with no stick or anything. The polar bear on the silver wrapping was really their saving grace. I wonder what her favorite flavor was? I never asked.
Here’s to 2009, the end of the first decade and the start of a shitload of new thoughts on obvious things.

Dear Terry,

I love you for many delicious reasons but even you have managed to top yourself.  I had a transcendental vision this summer on Barrack.  I saw him as the perfect human being -- the ying and the ying, the black and the white, but that priceless look on your face sums it all up.  Your sweet smile of knowing satisfaction fills me with warmth because your eyes speak for me when they say "I got it."

Love always,

Julie