59. resolution nr. 9
“Brothers! Sisters! We don’t need that perverted art thing!” Preacher
Dan’s voice blasted from the loud speakers over the steps of the
capitol building when The Chosen Ones had finished whipping up the
crowd’s support with a rousing rendition of, ’Forever I Bereave, Lord’.
“Once wholesome people, gone hee-bent all in the guise of fine art!
Children, I say children, exposed to the filthy genitals of all
around perversity! I say unto you, repent! Come clean and ride up to
heaven in God’s washing machine!
“It is written! Brothers and Sisters. Come clean. Come clean. God’s
spaceship earth has become unclean. Like Jesus, the carpenter, turned
opportunist by his followers, told us, we must live unselfishly.’’
“Brothers and Sisters. Let me ask you a question. Are you nothing but
dust in the wind ready to stick to any perverted surface you come in
contact with? It must end. It is time to be clean for Jesus!”
“I have called you together to help me clean up the filth that is
nowadays being exhibited in galleries and museums. Even today, in our
beautiful city, there is filth being exhibited and sold at high
prices. The cultural elitists who lap it up are unaware that they are
simply buying trash. Why, I could put my trashcan in a gallery and
call it art. But I won’t do that ’cause I know what trash is. It is
time to show them where trash belongs!”
Preacher Dan reeled around pointing at the crowd and shouting, “Take
heed, take heed and plant the seed. This perverted art thing we don’t
need.” He repeated his mantra while The Chosen Ones lined up behind
him and started to sing the phrase along with him, accompanied by the
shaking of a tambourine. Chanting and singing, Preacher Dan and The
Chosen Ones descended the steps of the Capitol to the churchmobile, a
Winabego mobile home converted for church purposes. They climbed on
and the churchmobile slowly drove away followed by an eclectic crowd
of supporters, off on their crusade against filth and trash.
Denver, Icky and Freedom were smoking a joint in the Galaxy, which
was to remain parked outside the Benjamin Levy gallery for the
duration of the exhibition. It was intended to function as an
interactive installation focusing on the combined elements of art and
home, gallery and street. Icky created an installation in the back
using stained american flags and Fotoroids of assholes.
Denver and Icky both knew that the place was going to be packed. The tired art crowd with some bewildered business types
thrown in, as well as the usual onslaught of local artists would all
be present. The conversations would be meaningless and fleeting.
The trivial cocktail art talk would debate the return of post-modernism,
the emergence of virtualism, or the ongoing decline of artistic
sensibility. Most present would agree that the decline was a serious
issue but would deny having any affinity with it personally.
Obviously, attending an art opening, they showed enough sensibility
to quell any doubts about their artistic prowess.
“Hi Boys. Meow. Meow.”
“Hey. Meow. Meow. To you, too.” Nancy bent to greet Icky with a kiss
on both cheeks, then leaned further into the Galaxy to do the same to
Denver, and introduced herself to Freedom on the way. She slithered
out and purred, “The town’s talking about you both. Should be a
really big jamboree tonight. Everyone’s stopping by.” She batted Icky
on the shoulder. “The invite says that you’ve been living in the
galaxy for the past year.”
“Yap. This could be the last road trip for the Galaxy. It’s now a
piece of art or a way of life, dependin’ on how you look at it.
There’s documentation of my galaxy life in Sacto in the back of the
gallery.”
“Hey Denver. I heard you’re moving. Meow. Sad Day.”
“Yeah.’’ He stuck out his lower lip. “It’s time to move on.”
“What are you going to do, Icky?”
“I dunno. I’m kinda stuck here. At least the car is. I might make
some road trips.” He turned his head and smiled at Freedom. “Who knows.”
“I came early to get a look at all the stuff you’re offering. Are you
selling the commando armchair. How much do you want to sell it for?”
“Everything is marked. The prices are negotiable, depending on your
economic class. Astro Bob and his crew are there to take bids. I
decide who gets what and for how much.”
“Oooh. That’s wicked. Meow.”
“No. Just straight trade.”
“How’s your darling mom?”
“Funny that you think so.” He got out of the car and circled the front.
“Boy, Denver. That’s a lot of yellow. Head to toe.”
“Thanks.” He stood sharp for a moment to allow Nancy to get a good look.
“Fabulous.”
He walked over to Nancy and they leaned together on the polished
exterior of the Galaxy. “Listen to this. Things changed really fast
for her after my dad died. I guess she’d been planning her escape for
some time. She moved to Chico. Get this, Mom, alias Fraulein Debby,
was seeing this guy from there, who she met on the web. He’s the one
who took her to the Young Millionaires Gala.”
“I can’t believe it. The intrigue never stops.”
“And listen to this.” He knew of her craving for the latest society
news. “This guy is also the father of Freedom’s daughter. And,
Freedom also ran into her ex-husband at the gala.” He stopped and
glanced quickly at Icky and Freedom in the car. “Ah. Forget it. It’s
too complicated. I’ll tell you later. Anyway. Freedom drove up from
Fresno with some friends of ours and surprised Icky with a visit.
He’s as happy as a pig in a poke. The funny thing is how we’re
somehow all connected.”
“You know, Denver, sometimes this city is better than Peyton Place. I
didn’t know valley life could be so exciting.”
“ At least it is for my mom. She’s like the only one, who really did
good in this whole story. Funny huh? She did freak out a bit though
when I told her that I moved my whole apartment to the gallery and am
selling all the stuff. Most of that crap was hers anyway, junk she
gave me whenever she upgraded at the mall.”
“Well, you’re looking pretty upgraded yourself.”
“Thanks. You’re looking purr-ty too.”
“Meow. Meow Denver.” She vogued for a moment. “The coat I got from
Linda. It’s dyed goat.”
“Sure is.’’ He smiled. “Nice.”
“So. You’re going to squat at Benny’s?”
“Yep. For six weeks and then I’m out of here.”
“Oh sad day. Where are you going to go?”
“I thought I might go to france.”
“France? That’s alien. Are any of your tee-shirts for sale?”
“Yeah, I got a few in there along with the rest of my clothes. Why?”
“You never know. I might need one sometime for inner strength.” She
opened her foot-long cocktail purse and took out a cigarette. “So,
what’s happening with your apartment?” She took a light from his
yellow Bic.
“It’s being demolished.”
“What! Not that nice old victorian.”
“Hi, guys,” Steve grunted as he suddenly rolled up on a bicycle.
“Icky. Is it okay if I lock my Cosmo to the Galaxy?”
“Hey Art Shit.” Icky stuck out his hands to be slapped.
“I thought you were the Art Shit.”
They exchanged masculine arm waves.
“I was until I became the Art Fuck. Art Shit suits you better.”
“No. I am the Art Hole.”
“Guys,” Nancy meowed, “What are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you seen those Art Angles notices around town?” Denver
leaned into Nancy to explain, “They set off a chain reaction.
Everybody has been naming themselves the art this, the art that.”
“So what are you Denver?”
“I was the Art Martyr until the Art Angles banned me to paradise. So
now I am the Art Marks.”
“So that’s what you’ve become,” the Art Fuck interjected, and slid
his bike keys into his pants pocket.
“I have an idea who it might be,” Icky declared.
“Who?” all four responded in unison looking at Icky positioned in the
driver’s seat.
“I think it’s your neighbor, Denver.”
“Janet?’’ Denver shook his head. “I don’t think so. The speed queen
isn’t up to anything so political. She’s more like an Art Troll
toiling in her garden than an Art Angles.’’
“No one knows who’s doing it?’’ Nancy inquired.
“As of yet, no one has confessed,’’ Steve added.
“Which adds to the mystery. I’d like to know why she’s doing it.’’
“Or he,’’ Denver suggested.
“Or he,’’ Icky repeated. “But I don’t think so. So what’s Nancy?’’
“Yeah. Who am I supposed to be?’’
“Let me see.”
“The Art …”
“Kitty!”
“Meow. Meow. I like that and what is Freedom?”
“Ah.” Icky smiled and rubbed Freedom’s shoulder. “We’ve been trying
to figure that out for awhile. And we’ve come up with the Art
Anomaly. I think that suits her the best.”
A few of the local dignitaries were starting to arrive so Denver
decided to make a move. “The Galaxy looks fabulous, dude.” He flicked
his cigarette into the street and patted the hood of the car. “I’ll
see you all inside.” He pushed himself away from the side of the
automobile and entered the gallery space.
With a glass of wine from the buffet table in hand, he surveyed his
masterpiece one last time before it was scattered to bits by the
onslaught of art bargain hunters.
Denver had recreated his apartment as an installation with the altar
as its centerpiece. His computer was positioned between the silver
dollar and the now entirely wax-engulfed Madonna statue, and was
linked to the website with the lightbulb, and the amplified sound of
high voltage electricity humming in the background. There was another
monitor on each side, both playing documentation about the tragedy at
the F.T.C. that he had recorded. On the ground in front of the altar,
was the carved dining room table. The yellow boxes set on low
platforms and opened to display their contents to bargain hunters
were in two rows flanking a pathway to the altar. On the wall
opposite hung the tribute to Dee.
The rest of space was littered with most of the other artifacts from
his apartment, which he had managed to cover, dust, dye, glaze or
paint yellow. He was ready to recount, if necessary, the origin of
each object, in order to transmit his personal attachment and give
meaning to the object being acquired.
Denver had also planned nightly art events throughout the exposition
and invited his friends to participate in the running of an art
salon. With their help, there was to be a hair jamboree, a save sex
party for men only, evening poetry slams, virtual and interactive art
chats, soul-stretching classes, and loud music on the weekends by the
Slugs, Screaming Pygmies, Squishes, Mosquitoes and maybe even the
Geniuses if they could find time in their busy schedule.
Tonight, the cheap white wine would flow, served instead of red to
avoid stains on the wall-to-wall gray industrial carpet. People would
come to him, address him by his last name, know intimate details of
his life, and smile. He would vaguely place their faces and search
for clues to their identities in the manner in which they addressed
him. More often than not, he would have to ask a friend to help him
get their names off his tongue.
The hair, the dyed Pierre Darwin dancing shoes, the yellow tuxedo he
had purchased at Big Mona’s Fast Trash, would blare in contrast to
the gaggle of black-dressed art patrons congregating to mourn the
demise of art.
A perfect neo-errorist performance action. If they only knew, he
thought. “Mr. Griess. Do you remember me?” Of course, Denver
remember the woman standing in front of him, claw extended. It was
hard to forget a face in a small city like sacramento. It was just
the names that were difficult. He did however remembered a lengthy
double-barrel name from the business card she had given him when he
had picked up a grant form from the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts
Commission, SMAC.
“Yeah. I remember. We met at SMAC.’’ He shook her hand.
“Strong work.” She nodded, and glanced around at the installation.
“We hear you are leaving.”
“Yap.” He was surprised that she knew this detail. “Word gets around
fast.” He took a sip of his wine. “I’ve gone minimal. As little as
possible. I have opened wide the front door of my life.’’ He waved
his free arm in front of him. “I have gone public. I have put an end
to the easy way of life. Something exciting is going to happen and
whatever it is, it’s going to be new and therefore different.
“Instead of being tired and boring.” The Art Kitty brushed up to his
side. “Hello Linda Czchevitza-Mencina,” she purred, paw extended.
“You said it. Hey Kitty, is the Art Fuck working his video camera?”
“Hello, Miss Feldman.” She looked a bit taken aback by Denver’s
ejaculation. “Too bad, Sacramento is losing an artist. I do hope you
decide to come back.” She shook Nancy’s and Denver’s hands
and walked over to Astro Bob and pulled the same stunt.
“Art Bitch,” Denver whispered under his breath. “If her lousy
organization would support the local talent instead of repressing
them with needless administration, I might’ve stayed.”
“Do you want a shot of Vodka?” The Art Kitty pulled a flask from her
fur-covered purse. “Here’s to your show.” She took a slug. “Da. Ja
loobloo Vodka.” The Art Kitty puckered her lips and handed Denver the
flask.
“Can you teach me how to say, eat my weenie, in russian?” He took a
slug.
“Gee. Art Fag. My russian is not that good. Look who’s coming.” The
Art Kitty jabbed out a paw. “It’s Margaret Kuckel, probably drunk off
her butt, and we’re going to be cornered.” She grabbed the flask >from
Denver, screwed on the cap and hid it in her purse.
“Quick. Who is she?”
Nancy thought for a second, “Art Gringo.”
“Art Gringo?’’ He shook his head. “That’s weird.’’
“I don’t know.’’ She guessed again, “The Art Drunk?’’
“No, the Art Lush.”
“Perfect. Meow. Meow.”
They both laughed.
“Hi, Denver. Hi, Nancy.” Margaret sloshed over and put her hand on the
wall, effectively blocking any possible escape. “You know what I like
about you two?” She did not wait for a reply. “I can really talk to
you both.” She pursed her lips and stared blankly at Denver. “By the
way, Denver.” She tapped him on the chest. “Great installation. I
always loved your apartment. Everything found or gotten. God, I know
what that’s like. My parents are constantly dumping their junk at my
house. All this yellow. I didn’t think you were serious when you took
on yellow as your corporate logo. I want the toaster. Does it still
work? Robert is in his glory acting the full-fledged Virgo. Did you
know he’s double Virgo. You always knew who was really sitting in
that leather Eams chair in the galaxy …’’ She hiccupped. “I mean,
gallery office. Look at him go.”
They all glanced over to Robert working the party.
“Go Astro Bob. Go.” Denver looked at Margaret. “We like talking to
you, too.”
“Oh god. That reminds me. Did I ever tell you that I was a belly
dancer?”
Denver and Nancy nodded their head affirmatively, but Margaret kept
going.
“Oh yeah. It’s true, and a real good one at that. I was skinny as a
rail. Did you know, I was in Oaxaca last winter?”
No one in Sacramento did not know that Margaret had been in Mexico
last winter. It had been her topic of conversation for months.
“I think so. You were in …” Denver attempted to reply.
“Well, it was great. I spent one month in a cave, chanting my brains
out, synchronizing my alpha and beta brain waves.” She placed her
fingertips to her temples. “Of course, I had to pay out the ass for
it, but it worked wonders for me. The first thing I did when I left
the cave was hug a tree. Can you believe that? I hugged this tree for
what seemed like days and I actually tuned in to its past life. It
had once been a palm tree in ancient Egypt, and a mulberry in some
courtyard in France. My spiritual guide Jesús was moved to tears.”
“Look, Art Fag,” Nancy said, seizing the window of opportunity, “I
just saw the Art Fuck and the Art Shit come in. It looks like he’s
got the camera.”
“Art Hole,” Denver corrected, “and I’m the Art Marks.”
“The Art Hole, Art Fag, Art Shit? Fuck!” Margaret spluttered in
confusion.
“Art Lush?” Denver interjected. “Yeah Margaret. Haven’t you seen the
posters on telephone poles around town? This whole Art Angles, Art
Martyr, Art Marks thang?”
“Oh yeah. Someone was telling me about it. Pretty funny. It’s hard to
keep track of things when you are living bi-nationally. You know I
can speak two languages, like you.”
“Esse muy bien de saber. Il espanol. Si?”
“Yeah.” She leaned on the wall to gain focus. “So what am I?”
“I told you. The Art Lush.”
She jerked upright and pursed her lips.
“Well, okay then. I thought maybe the Art Lush, since you drink a
lot. But on second thought, you’re also kind of an opportunistic type
of artist. So maybe, the Art Gringo is better.”
“What do you mean, I am not opportunistic. I don’t think that’s funny. “
“Margaret, your art is simply copies of mexican papier-mâché dolls,
only in over-dimensional form. That’s kind of opportunistic, if you
know what I mean. There should be a hint of truth behind the name.
Art Martyr, Art Fag, Art Hole.”
“Who’s the Art Hole?”
“Icky.”
“Yeah. The Art Ass Hole would be better. That suits him good. And who
are you?”
“I was the Art Fag, then the Art Martyr …”
“That suits,” she huffed.
“But now I am the Art Marks.”
“Art Fag is better.”
“Already taken. That’s Bruce now.”
“Maybe you should have a double name, like the Art Marks-Fag or …”
“Hi Denver.”
Denver was happy to be saved from the Art Gringo-Lush although his
rescuer was the Art Diva, who was dressed in black from head to toe,
with her shoulder-length straight hair held back by a headband. “Hi
Belinda.”
“Show looks great. What’s happening tonight? Are the Geniuses playing?”
“No. They might be playing later on in the month. Who told you?”
“The drummer.” Her darted eyes past Denver, scanning the room for
someone more interesting.
“He said he’d do it?”
“No. He just mentioned that you’d asked. So there’s nothing happening
here tonight?”
“Yeah. My opening.” Belinda’s apathy disgusted him. “It’s an art sale
jamboree. You love to shop. Isn’t that enough?”
“I know your apartment. I didn’t know it was a piece of art,” she
stated and laughed coarsely, swinging her black vinyl purse at her
side all the while.
“You didn’t know it was a work of art?”
“Of course I did, Denver. I’ll talk to you later.” She tapped him on
the shoulder. “Great installation.” She made a beeline over to Linda
Czchevitza-Mecina and Astro Bob.
“She didn’t even say hello, the bitch.”
Denver felt a momentary sense of camaraderie.
“She is an Art Bitch.”
“Wait. Linda Chuchueetza-Mendocino is already the Art Bitch.”
“Well, you got that right,” she confirmed and shrugged her left
shoulder. “They can be Art Bitches together.”
“How ’bout the Art Witch,” Denver suggested.
“The Art Witch. That works. Get a load of her skin. It’s got a kind
of a greenish glow under this fluorescent lighting. Not very
flattering, if you ask me.” She turned to him. “Bathroom break. I’ll
talk to you later.” Margaret freed Denver of her company and within
seconds Icky and the Freedom had filled his personal bubble.
“Denver, look what I got. José gave me some dope as a gift. Freedom’s
already rolled a joint. Let’s go and smoke it in the Galaxy.”
“Yahoo. Here’s to the show.”
They clinked glasses to their success.
“Boy, Astro Bob is just rainin’ on the compliments, he loves the
postcards and the Fotoroids. He said he really likes the photo of the
obese lady at the swimmin’ pool and the gardeners doin’ the lawn in
front of your parents’ burnt house.’’
“He’s being his flippant and amusing self, and working the party. As
usual. Maybe he should run for Art Mayor,” Denver suggested.
“Fuckmother mother piss cunt,” a voice broke free from the babble of
light conversation.
“No. There’s already an Art Mayor.” Icky went to search for Natty in
the crowd.
Denver spotted April May, dressed in native buckskin separates,
looking larger than life. They called her the Art Statement, so named
because her résumé was eleven pages long, chock full of banal
artistic philosophy and a list of every minute act of art that she
had ever undertaken from childhood to the present. She was talking to
the woman with one name, Hossanah, the Art Hippie who always looked
like she had put on everything in her closet at once and gotten tired
in the process.
“Hey Natty.”
Icky arrived with Natural Childbirth and a jug-shaped bottle of
complimentary wine. “Hey, you stopped by. That’s great.’’
“Yeah. We’re doing our first gig, fuck, since we finished touring,
fuck, tonight.” Natty’s head jerked to one side. “It’s a benefit
concert for the free health, fuck, clinic, at the Townhouse, down the
street. We like, fuck, did the sound check and I thought I’d stop by.’’
“Glad you did. Just tell me when you want to do something here. It’d
be great, art music by the Art Mayor.’’
“Yeah dude, sounds bitchin.’’
“I’ll probably see you at the Townhouse after this winds up.’’
“Hi Natty. Hi Denver. Hi Micky.” It was Sheila Kwok, the Art Phoebe,
so baptized because of the campaign she had launched to encourage
people to participate in local art events instead of fearing them as
elitist symbols. It had hopelessly failed, however, for lack of
interest. People were not afraid of art. They just did not care about it.
“Icky.”
“Oh yeah. You changed your name. I love your Fotoroids, especially
the fat kid with the blow-up float, and the pool cleaner. Do you know
who he is?’’
“Sheila, this is Freedom.”
The two women shook hands.
“I like your dress,” Denver prompted.
“You like?” She said and twirled around to fully display her
creation. “This dress saved 200 gallons of water. I made it myself.
Completely out of paper. It’s amazing what you can do with recycled
paper nowadays.”
Denver spotted Robert slithering through the crowd, weaving his way
towards the group. On the way, he stopped to shake hands with every
acquaintance, and express a generic, ’Hi. How are you? Glad you could
come’. When Robert finally made it over to them, he smiled and said,
“Denver. You’ve done a great job. You too Icky. People are
interested. What a wonderful idea!’’ He smiled at the two women.
“Freedom.’’
“Hi. Nice to meet you.’’ He shook her hand and moved on to Sheila.
“Hi Sheila. How are you? Great dress. I’m glad you could come.’’
“I’m sorry Denver that I was a little skeptical at first. But you
proved me wrong.”
Denver and Icky accepted his compliment with a smile.
Robert waved at someone and walked off.
“That’s the gallery owner?’’ Freedom inquired.
Sheila twirled around and whispered something to Freedom before
wandering off.
“Denver, look. Catherine Lyon just walked in with her alter ego, the
Art Fag.”
“I forget who Catherine Lyon is.”
“You know. The chic who always wears sunglasses, the tin can
sculptress. We baptized her the Art Ho. “ Icky pointed to himself. “I
know the real reason she wears those glasses. She’s got a floatin’
eye and she looks pretty stupid when she’s talkin’ to you without the
glasses. You’re never sure which eye you’re talkin’ to.”
“I’ve always wanted to rip those sunglasses off her face. I didn’t
know they were there for a medical reason. Poor thing.”
“And she’s forever got a string of men hangin’ around her with some
faint connection to art. But most wind up as her clients.” Icky
chuckled. “I wonder how many men have her explodin’ pussy tin can
sculpture. I wouldn’t want such a sharp object around.” He took a
gulp of his wine. “Look at all these brand names.” He waved his wine
glass at the crowd. “All these collapsin’ shiny people.”
“Do you want to hit the Townhouse after this party comes into
bounds?” Denver held out his wine glass for a refill.
“Yeah man. I wanna go. Natty asked me to jam with him on the sax. “
He poured some wine from the jug of Chablis.
“Is someone playing outside? I hear drums.”
“Maybe. I hear something too. Let me go check.” He handed the jug to
Freedom.
“Hey Denver. Who’s that woman who just walked in?” She asked while
filling her glass, and then set the jug on the floor.
“Where?”
“There.” She pointed to direct Denver line of vision, “Dressed in
black. The woman with the cropped white hair, holding a bunch of
flowers. Don’t you see her?”
“Why, it’s Vella I-am-the-anti-christ Schwartzmann,” Denver
exclaimed. “I didn’t think she would come.”
“Wow. What is she?
“She’s the Art Boo.”
“No. What does she do?”
“Oh. She’s a fabulous artist. She’s got a show up the street at Big
Art, Big Hair, though I don’t think an artist of her caliber should
be exhibiting in a hair salon, even if it is her friend’s. She’s
museum quality.” He waved to Vella. “You know, it’s gotten so bad for
local artists that we are forced to undermine respect for our work by
exhibiting in beauty parlors.”
“Well, brother. I know what you’re talking about. It’s everywhere. I
could describe the same scene in every city. There’s no hope.
Banality lives on throughout the western world. History repeats
itself in perpetual redundancy.”
“So here are your dead flowers.” Vella looked up at Denver and
presented him with her gift.
“Oh, they are beautiful.”
“And look. I never unwrapped them. I bought them one time and forgot
where I left them in the studio. Aren’t they lovely roses? I thought
you would like them.”
“And they’re yellow.” He took the bouquet from Vella.
“And they’re yellow. How about that?” She patted the bouquet with her
blacked tipped fingers. “Matches your outfit.”
“Thanks Vella.” He bent over to give her a kiss on her powdered cheek.
“Hey Denver.” Roger approached with white-trash wife in tow, right
arm slung around her shoulders. “How come you didn’t invite me to do
something during your show? Fuck Denver, after all I’ve done for you.”
“Get over it, Roger.” Denver went on the defensive. “You haven’t done
any art for the past two years.”
“I think you’re stupid for not inviting him,” his wife spat out.
“I have a wife and kid to support. That’s why I fix cars.”
“Roger. Get over the fact that everyone owes you something.”
“Some thanks I get. It’s no wonder no one gets anywhere in this town.
We don’t stick together.” He shook his finger in Denver’s face. “Fuck
you, you art fag. I never want to talk to you again.” Then he walked
away, dragging his wife.
Vella and Denver looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders in
unison.
“What was that all about?” Freedom asked.
“Don’t ask me. I am always the last to know when someone hates me.”
He surveyed the gallery crowd. “Shit. Everyone here has a gimmick.
Look at me, yellow. Or take the Art Phoebe, that dress, or the Art
Kitty, meow meow.” Denver squatted to refill his glass. “And there
goes the Art Licker, Tom Brat.”
“You can say that again,” Vella piped in. “Did you know he got
$50,000 for the central library? That grant we all applied for like a
bunch of screaming yahoos, and then, as usual, SMAC gives it to
someone who’s not even from Sacramento.”
“Denver!” Icky came running up “It’s not Natty playin’. There’s some
protesters outside. They’ve surrounded the gallery.”
The four made their way to the front of the gallery and saw a group
of angry demonstrators beating on drums and chanting. Some
were lying on the ground, making entry difficult for those arriving. Confronted with what could be art, most newcomers chose to remain standing outside. An extra set of beats were added when Natty took out his drums sticks and started beating out an accompanying rhythm on the
Galaxy’s hood.
“Shit.” Icky turned to Denver. “I think we got a scandal on our hands.”
“Who is that guy? He looks like Elvis,” Freedom asked and snapped a
shot of Preacher Dan standing on the churchmobile.
“He does, doesn’t he?” Icky said and made his way outside to mingle
in the crowd, with the other three following in his wake. “Look at
the Art Phoebe twirlin’. Her dress is sure goin’. I hope it doesn’t
fly off.”
“Hey, Astro Bob is getting involved. I wonder what he thinks he can do?”
“Debauchery all around us.” Preacher Dan’s voice bellowed from the
speakers. “Sin and filth.” He waved his free arm over the crowd. “The
complete moral decay of our beloved Sacramento. But we have the
perpetrators cornered.”
Robert jumped up and tried to grab the microphone from Preacher Dan’s
hand but two members of the church blocked him.
“I think they’re serious,” the Art Lush came up and commented. “Maybe
you should of rethought showing those nude paper collages, you’ve got
all over the installation.” Margaret took off for center stage.
“Alleluia!” she yelled, arm raised in the air, wine glass in hand.
“We don’t have to take this filth anymore. It is a disease. Do not
continue to walk on by. It is time to stop in your tracks and say, ’I
do not want this filth.’”
“Walk on by!” Icky shouted and pushed his way closer to the center of
the crowd.
“Like some of you people have done by walking over those lying on the
streets.” He pointed to the art crowd. “You did not ask if they need
help. You only stopped and watched.”
“Stopped and watched,” voices from the crowd testified.
Preacher Dan felt the crowd’s attention gathering. “These people are
the cause of the society’s moral unraveling.”
“I am a sinner!” Icky yelled.
“Me too.”
“Me too.”
“Me three.”
Preacher Dan kept blasting away at his mission, and soon the entire
crowd was hooting and hollering, each trying to top each other’s
fervent support for the reverend. Unknowingly, he had whipped up a
mighty amount of enthusiasm, especially among those who were the
focus of the protest. Spontaneous performance art or religious event,
both artists and christians were enthralled by the sermon.
Margaret was in front of the churchmobile on her knees repeating his
every word, twisting her vocabulary until she was raving. Others had
joined in, lying prostrate, cuddling those near them on the ground,
or speaking in tongues. But Preacher Dan paused for a moment in
suspicion when even Robert was overcome and crossed himself.
Freedom had been moving around taking photos but suddenly felt
impelled to participate even though she had no idea why the Art Crowd
was being taken to such extremes. She took off her sunglasses, looked
up at the sky, unbuttoned her blouse to expose her left breast, and
started to sing La Marseillaise.
Others joined in beating out a rhythm on the Galaxy. A group of punks
were circling around the Art Phoebe, the Art Diva, and the Art Boo.
Sheila was twirling so fast that her paper dress actually did fly off
and she was soon reduced to a few dangling sheets of paper.
Taking the cue, the Art Diva suddenly unbuttoned her black blouse and
pulled out her breasts to expose them to the reverend, and shouted,
“I know what god wants.”
Vella, not to be out done by the Art Diva, lifted up her skirt, and
exposed her black lace panties.
“It is written,” Preacher Dan’s shouted, “We don’t need this
perverted art thing.”
At that point The Chosen Ones lined up behind Preacher Dan and broke
out in a protest song especially written for the occasion:
I got a family
and healthy kids
I want to keep it that way
don’t need no sin.
The punks skipped faster at the sight of exposed female anatomy.
Freedom stopped singing and melted into the crowd. Vella was now bent
over, her skirt over her head, black lace panties fluttering in the
wind. Preacher Dan was both shocked and excited by the opportunity
for voyeurism and the choir sang on:
there are perverts
who expose themselves
let’s get rid of them
send them to hell.
“Oh shit.” Icky slapped his forehead. “Look who’s singin’ up there
behind Elvis.” He nudged Denver. “It’s that girl I met at the
swimmin’ pool when we drove out to Lemon Heights and took advantage
of the suburban amenities.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“That girl on stage,” he said pointing, “the one standin’ with Elvis
at the mike.”
“The one you left me at the pool for.”
“Yeah. She’s the one with that stupid dog who tore up my shoes and
made me go barefoot for the summer.” He made eye contact with her and waved. “I never thought she’d be messed up with a Holy Elvis.”
“Is this for real?’’ Freedom was now behind the two, camera
positioned on The Chosen Ones.
“It’s for real.” They both nodded.
“Icky thinks he knows one of the singers.’’
“Which one?’’ Freedom snapped away.
take heed, take heed
this so called art thing
it’s not pretty.
it’s not what we need.
“Micky!” Crystal’s voice rang out.
Icky pushed his way through the crowd.
“Crystal!” Freedom cried out, and followed Icky to the churchmobile.
“Mom!” Crystal was obviously shaken by the sudden appearance of both
Icky and her mom. She broke stage presence, tripped and fell into
their arms.
“She’s your daughter?” Icky asked Freedom as they lowered Crystal to
the street.
“Yeah.”
“Mom! Micky! What are you doing here?”
Before pandemonium broke loose, Icky managed to state, “Um, I guess,
where you go you take yourself?”
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