Black Like Me

by Jayson Scott Musson

9 p.m.: I feel like dancing. I wish people played rap music at galleries more. It would really make art openings more tolerable.
If I ran a gallery, I’d play nothing but rap all the time. That’s what we’d be known for the world over—the voracity with
which we love rap music. I think I’d call it the Rap Gallery. Yeah, that has a nice ring to it. I’m so smart. I need another
drink. What flavor is this? Chianti? I’m a Chianti-from-a-box-loving dude.

10 p.m.: What the hell is this girl talking about? “Homogenous landscape of academic fine art?” Is she C-3PO? Is she speaking
Bacchi? If I was fast enough I could probably ram my tongue down her throat the next time she says “homogenous.” I’ll get
her right on the second “o” in “homo.” She’ll think that a forceful makeout in a gallery is romantic, like Gone With the Wind. And when she tastes the Chianti on my tongue she’ll think I’m a real classy negro like Benson or Frederick Douglass.

11 p.m.: After-party? Sure, why not. I need to get out of here anyway. Apparently borrowing a pair of high heels and wearing
them while fixing yourself a drink isn’t what the kids are doing in Paris nowadays. “Oh look at his feet!” “Oh he’s going
to break his ankles!” Pardon me for living life at 110 percent.

1:30 a.m.: I should really ... leave this party ... I’m not ... really ... walking or enunciating ... too well ... lizard
brain taking over ... must have ... sex tonight.

3 a.m.: Fuck. Eat. Sleep. Fuck! Eat! Sleep! Fuckeatsleep! Fuckeat … (black out).

Epilogue: How’d I get home? Why is there a sock on my penis? My anus isn’t sore, so all’s well that ends well in Smurf Village.
I’ll just ignore my lack of dignity and obvious problem with alcohol for a few more years.