*PLEASE do yourselves a favor, take two minutes to listen to the skit from the Neo-Futurists at 24:41-- one of my favorites EVER
So. To hop back a week to some more People's Art Fair . I really fell down on taking photos, didn't even take one of my setup, nor any crowd shots, friends, favorite artists. But I'll share what I have.
To start, when I looked up, this was what I was looking at, from my wobbly director's chair:
Shifting my gaze down to booth level, here's what I was treated with, all day for two days, when I forgot to NOT look over 6 inches. Joy. Insert here (hah!...unfortunate) my disclaimer
|A preponderance of asses|
Later on I caught snippets of him talking about his "racier" paintings, something to the effect of them originating from photos that non-professionals took/had taken, online, in different cities. The tail-end (unfortunate punning is proving unavoidable) of the exchange was a remark along the lines of: "...Yeah, there's an interesting trend, more women are showing their faces in the photos. Which, fine by me, but if you were doing something like that, would you want people to see your face/know who you were?" Dude, if you think you're a rebel, that position couldn't be more traditionally aligned. Desire + denigration of the desired object. And yes, I know, as long as the photos were on the up and up, the subjects were adults and gave full consent, I got it, I got it. Ugh.
To extend the theme of gazing, so very much time was spent by glorying in the passing parade. It is motley and meandering, with the good-hearted, the appealing, the obnoxious, and the unfortunate (fashion choices, life, etc.) This parade was rich. There was an outcropping of Theater Bizarre folk, with some strutting their gothy/steampunky/freaky glory and others not quite carrying it. The latter individuals were trying rather hard, their posture rigid with a simultaneous desparation to be SEEN in their freakiness and adolescent horror of same.
|Isn't she cute? So happy, funny. She has two mustache tats.|
I watch an extremely thin woman shuck off her shirt so she can show someone a detailed black-work tattoo covering 3/4 of her back; a guy sporting a utilikilt holds her clothes.
Gazelle-like women wandered past, with their hair in curlers. Which was confusing until we figured out they were models for the fashion shows scheduled through the day.
|one of two crazy peace-pants guys.|
|She wears the lashes every day, different colors.|
One especially thin, leggy model with shorter platinum blond hair, short bright purple shorts and hot pink high heels can not stop walking past (not pictured). Is she practicing for the runway? But the walk is lacking in attitude. I label her "Pink Heels," while Ginger prefers "America's Next Top Model." "How can she be everywhere at once?" Ginger wonders. I'm sure I have seen her at least 20 times by fair's end.
A very large bearded man wearing a front-facing pack with a tiny dog in it comes into view. "Look at this guy," Ginger murmurs at my elbow. Seconds later this is followed up with, "Oh my god I *know* him!!" Ginger hops up and I join them. Ginger introduces me as his ex-girlfriend, which completely throws me, since we haven't gone out for 3?4? years. I grimace at him, wth?? And he backpedals. The dog is a 13 year old blind chihuahua, with one visible tooth. He bites his tongue when distressed. He docilely hangs in his pouch. The man is an old work friend from several lives back.
Our attention is caught by pigeons repeatedly settling on some of the studio window ledges, high up. "Oh," says Ginger, "Someone's probably racing pigeons."
"Racing pigeons? People don't race pigeons. They keep them, they don't race them."
Ginger is otherwise convinced. "People do, they race pigeons." I can't remember the term carrier pigeons at the time, but this was what I wanted to reference.
Heaven Sent: "Mike Tyson raises pigeons!"
Me to HS: "Racing, he's saying racing." And to G: "She said raising not racing."
This happily travels into the fact that her 13 y.o. son tries to get out of tutoring so he can watch his beloved Ellen talk show. Apparently Mike Tyson -- now sober and vegan! -- was recently on the show.
Stand-out Tyson quote (approximation), uttered while gazing at old photos of himself projected on the stage screens, "Oh Ellen, there's nothing worse than a fat cokehead. You just don't think of cokeheads being fat, but some are and that's what I was. Nothing worse than a fat cokehead..."
Ellen, nodding: "No, there's nothing worse. Nothing worse than that."
And really, this is an odd note to end on, but the second Benny Goodman CD is done and if I don't hop in the shower, I'll be late for volunteering. The weekend was a fun one, definitely! The unexpected always arises, and usually I am glad for it.
Happy Saturday, Everyone!