You’re an artist. No really you are. Marcel Duchamp – born today in 1887 – basically said you are.
He had this great idea – you take stuff that’s already been made, stand back, look at it all arty like and say something that sounds really intellectual : “Oh my God, I’m riding the playful tension in that readymade motherfucker.”
And there my friend – is your entire job done. The thing you looked at is now YOUR work of art and you have claimed it for us, for wine drinkers around the world. Most nights I create a readymade performance piece of chaos, stumbling and ranting at the news all held together by the solid, scarlet thread of alcohol. They are – inevitably – masterpieces.
And, now, thanks to Duchamp’s genius you can do what the fuck you like and claim it as art. It’s brilliant! – So use Duchamp’s birthday as an excuse to do all those wonderful artist things that the vanilla teetotal crowd are terrified of – get ridiculously drunk in public, make inappropriate approaches to members of the opposite sex and, most crucial to your success, talk about things no one understands in a way that doesn’t actually mean anything. And drink – drink buckets full of wine to get you in that “artistic zone.”
Oh hold on – you do most of these things already . (Like I said – you’re an artist.)
A quote: “A bottle of good wine, like a good act, shines ever in the retrospect.” Robert Louis Stevenson.