2002-02-18 - 5:45 p.m.

It was just another Sunday spent rescuing photography from the clutches of militant lesbian midgets with mullets. I�d never been part of an art terrorist ninja posse before, but the gallery that had fucked with Pixgrrl were about to find out that people are ready to rally round when artistic integrity is at stake, especially if there�s the possibility of drinks afterwards. Actually, Pix reclaimed her excellent piece with unswerving dignity and we didn�t have to resort to my back-up suggestion of a dirty protest, which is no doubt for the best. We retired gracefully and embarked on the pastime favoured by all the best art terrorists, that of drinking our collective way to new livers.

I can reveal the identities of this covert band of diehard art liberationists, together with a brief outline of their super-powers. Of course, we�re lead by Pix (kickass photography and being a hoochie mamma to former presidents) and her sterling boyfriend (film production and alcohol coordination), then there�s Anita (the ability to take a wound in pursuit of the cause and hair plaiting), Bruce (killer prose and spectacle jiggling), Scott (queer theory and loud waltzing), Malena (graphic design and adorable shoes), and senior officer Helena (as super-cute as she is super-smart as she is super-concerned about the cinematic career of Mariah Carey). With the looks, brains, stealth and cunning all taken care of, I�m not called on to contribute much, so I concentrate mainly on jokes about Ahmish porn and bad 70s TV themes. Such a merry band, and able to blast out any number of Queen hits at a moment�s notice. Is it possible to have a crush on a rag-tag collective?

This morning I took the decision to make an anti-bourgeois stance by not going to work, right after my hangover made me turn back at the station.