Drugs, middle of the night, weird time. Weird time. Been feeling sick, and that's just great. Crazy headaches. Can't hardly see straight. My brain: the summit meeting between the freaky and the deaky. The Whitney Biennial is in my head. Yeah. That's Nam June Paik in there with those (gah!) nails. If I were a work of modern art... um... I'd be one of those ugly blowup neon prints of Picasso they hang above the beds in all the rooms at the Gershwin Hotel. A ubiquitous eyesore, a party-crasher, tasteless and artless... vaguely decorative with that jaunty Groucho smile, lighting up a slapdash bedsitter with splotches of the entire day-glo inventory at the Canal St. art-supply store. What'd you be?