StayCation 1: So Many Hooks in the Bathroom

In Uncategorized on November 7, 2010 at 12:56 am

Here’s a tip.  Drinking an entire bottle of wine while slapping together a blog entry, and THEN going out to the bar is an idea somewhere on the level of “if I put the dog in the toilet and flush, it’ll be like a doggie jacuzzi.”

Oh sure it might look fun for a little bit.  Your dog will be confused by the swirling water for a moment, then bemused, then terrified.  Why terrified?  Because he’s stuck in the pipe.

And you’ll have to call a plumber and he’ll have to destroy the toilet to get your dog out.  And your Dad will make you clean up the mess the plumber made in the bathroom, only you’ll get a porcelain splinter and it’ll hurt like hell, and your Dad will have to take you to the hospital because there’s a chance you got poo in your finger, which he can’t believe he has to do after you clogged the toilet with your dog.  I mean, the plumber cost two hundred fifty bucks, and if you sneeze within a mile of a hospital they charge you three hundred bucks.  What do you think I’m made of, son?  Money?  Christ, I’m never getting that pinball machine for the game room.  OH GOOD GOD SON!  Don’t put your poo finger in your mouth!!

Christ.  There isn’t a question in my mind, I must have been high as a kite on coke when I conceived your dumb ass.

Yeah, drinking that bottle of wine was like that.

Day one of the StayCation had an odd feel to it.  Fueled by a solid Friday hangover my attendance at Spoons, Toons, and Booze was both stunning, and rather ghostly.  I settled into a booth to watch the Animaniacs in a haze, just about half way back to reality.  Luckily, a bowl of Cocco Puffs and a steady stream of Jem, Spiderman and his Amazing Friends, Duck Tales, and Wacky Racers is just about the right speed for someone still trying to rev their engine off the kick start.

Plus, in babbling with the guys at the next booth, we discovered that whilst I had the live-action version of The Tick on DVD, he had the animated version.  If I make a return trip, we’ll be trading.  There’s something bitorrent doesn’t provide.

A solid two hours of cartoons restoring my constitution, I went about wandering and reading in random corners of bars and diners.  There was a staggering lack of urgency to the day.  Generally, you spend the whole week waiting desperately for a break in the pablum.  So much waiting and when the weekend finally does land, I feel a massive push to get my party on hard and fast, with what little time I have left.

“Damnit, ya’ll!  We are not having enough fun, right now.  I did not wait for this all week to not do something stupid!  Some one get shots.  You!  Start laughing!  I don’t care about what.  Enjoy your fucking self right now, or I swear to got I will stab you right in the spleen.  In the SPLEEN!  Happy times are here again, bitches!”

Knowing I have a glut of free time coming my way has alleviated that compunction entirely.  I strolled my way round, sat down in a quiet corner of a fairly quiet coffee shop, and rolled lazily through about half of Jennifer Egan’s new book.  It was a nice feeling, though it took a little bit of the edge off the day.  In both good and bad ways.

Of course, the next thing I did was go watch a man drink whiskey and set fire to Janis Joplin over a record player.  That’ll perk up your day a bit.

There’s a man just to the right of the shot holding a fire extinguisher,
just in case one of the musicians had drank enough to turn themselves into an explosive.

Despite the window in back with a stunning view of a brick wall glazed in red light, and the fairly impressive furnishings, this wasn’t the gent’s apartment.  The artist actually built a full corner, ceiling and all, for use in his performance.  Janis, Michael, and Kurt all burned up over a spinning record player, in between regular notation and a couple fingers of whiskey.  When the remains of the artists were spent, they were dutifully swept and deposited in the bin.

The flux factory is an odd place, in an increasingly expected way.  The place is the kind of commune that’s becoming a lot more common these days.  You’ve been to an event at a place like this before.  You know the one.  There’s a big party, or a show, or a weird event, and it’s fantastic but at some point you need to go pee, and when you go looking for said bathroom you wander through the awesome warehouse/exhibition space/loft only to turn a corner and find a kitchen with a man in his pj’s it.  There’s a list of house rules about washing dishes up over the sink.  And he barely looks up at you, since he’s just looking for a midnight snack, and behind you is a party, and in front of you is a dude scratching his butt in his kitchen, and just for a moment you feel that odd dream logic creep up on you, where you exit out the door of your current bedroom, and enter into your Uncle’s tool shed, and it doesn’t surprise you at all.  And neither does your Uncle’s apparently new interest in possum taxidermy.  It’s that kind of place.

Every surface did announce that artists roam these halls, though.  For christ stake, this was on the back of their bathroom door:

The event for the evening was the Self Destructing Art Show, a celebration of sorts for Jean Tinguely’s self-destructing device that premiered for one night only, fifty years ago.  I’m getting this all off their program, but honestly I wish I had seen this thing.  It sounds like a Rube Goldberg device with an extremely powerful sense of self loathing.  By their description Tinguely’s device “committed suicide by sawing, hammering, and melting itself into bits and pieces before a zealous firefighter put an end to the mayhem.”

Nothing against the cool shit I saw tonight, but more than anything that description had me wishing I had a TARDIS on hand to skip back to 1960 and watch a game of Mousetrap eat itself.

The installations at the flux factory this evening were a little more of a slow burn than a big explosion.  Almost all of them denied the audience of watching any immediate destruction.  Bruckheimer would not have been a fan, but knowing the slow erosion that had to be in play, and being hard pressed to point to a definitive sign of it made these oddly meditative to stare at.

Did he just try to get all pretentious and introspective?  God, I hate it when he does that.

A painting being slowly washed away by a stream of water.   A pyramid of Ivory Soap with a teepee inside it, taking a shower as well.  (I never saw the tepee but I bumped into the artist, and he assured us it was in there.)  The last one made way for at least the possibility of a boom.  Anyone wandering into the way of the electric eye on the right side of the post, would set the hammer clanking on the bottle of paint.  It rapped away for quite a while, especially when the three kids squirming through the space found it.

The gent with the pyramid had set up a camera pointed at it, and I’m hoping there’ll be a time lapse video making it’s way to the internet shortly. Actually, I’m hoping all the erosion themed pieces are time-lapsed onto Youtube, including this one:

I think it was spice cake.

The capitol here is made entirely of cake.  There were at least four mice in there somewhere, each no bigger than my thumb, each with scraggly clumped fur, as if they’d just gotten in from the rain.  By the time I’d gotten there, they’d very purposely burrowed a mouse sized hole in the top layer right by the edge.  One had already curled up inside on the top floor.  The rest stood guard cleaning themselves vigorously.  Poor things looked like they had given themselves a sugar high and didn’t quite know what to do with it.  I’m not sure how long it would take them to get through that whole cake, but the they certainly didn’t intend on rushing it.  And really, a piece of cake always takes the edge off your day.  A couple closed their little red eyes and took a nap right on top, their lungs puffing away still fueled by the layers of sucrose they were resting on.

And, right now, a nap sounds like just the thing. Night, all!

Tomorrow: The New York Art Book Fair is in town, and that sounds like it might be interesting itself, but as I cruised through their website I noticed that tomorrow, Sunday, at 3:00 pm, at the New York Art Book Fair, the performer who will be spinning tracks is one DJ Dog Dick.  I’m not sure how that happens, but I intend to find out.  While I’m in the neighborhood, I figured on hitting the LIC bar.  They have a great back garden for performers, and the Sunday Social is going on.  Sounds like a plan to me.

  1. […] 1. What could destroy our cartoons? Syndication? No. This art dissolves by itself. #dadaistmice […]

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