I was sorting through my fig drawing sketchbooks last night, and this fell out. I know I must have done it, because it hasn't been my experience that strangers who draw like me creep in and slip their drawings into my sketchbooks without me knowing it. But I sure don't recall what inspired me to do it. Safe to say I was disgruntled about something, but aside from that, who knows? I remember thinking that the easel would be fun to draw, and everything after that is a vague haze. I mean that literally--everything after that right up until the present moment, which keeps moving on me. Maybe I was mugged or something. Or maybe I'm in a coma in some midwestern hospital and I'm only dreaming this life. Or maybe I'm God and I'm amusing myself by pretending I'm just some guy. Because it must be boring being God. Tell you one thing, if I were God, this shit would be getting old. I would take one look at George Allen and say, "Jesus! Hand me that mirror, would you?"