Prompt: Describe Something

[Bmichael]

No storyline required - just a simple (or complex) description of a person, place, or thing.

[Bmichael]

There’s something uniquely different about vacant  boarded up, decaying buildings  , not in weed covered, trash strewn lots found in northern cities  but in grassless  patches of sand separated occasionally by ragged  palm trees  that look to have given up the  fight long ago and appear now to be merely hanging on. Even the ocean in the background behind them seems drab.

The street was wide , as were the sidewalks – too wide for the amount of traffic that they handled these days – a reminder of a different times.

It was 10 am and already hot. Few people were out  save for  an occasional elderly woman hauling a  two- wheeled bascart  slowly behind her - and little traffic at this end of the beach, except for frequent police  cruisers that slowed down and took note of everything.

The occasional groups of store fronts that were still occupied housed cheap bars guarded by rough looking men with big arms perched on bar stools, outside of open doors spewing  blues, reggae,  or salsa,  and led into darkness.

Dingy stores with dirty  cluttered front windows  and signs  proclaiming “carniceria” or “ferreteria”  filled spaces  between various ‘Tabernacles ‘of  religious and spiritual callings, while on second floors,  sheer curtains flapped wildly in and out of open windows.

On street corners, groups of unsmiling  latino men in guayabera shirts and straw hats congregate near smoking barbecue grills and domino boards, eying  suspiciously anything that moves through their neighborhood.

Once elegant , art deco hotels  now stand  in rows, boarded and fenced off with old newspapers , trash, and “Keep Out” signs pressed hard against the chain link by the ocean breeze.

I recognized one – from many years ago when I was  packed into the Ford Fairlane and driven  1100 miles  mostly on secondary roads, stuck behind  agonizingly slow moving  Army convoys and never did get to stop at Stuckeys for a Pecan Praline or see  Rock City.

In the memory of a twelve-year old, The Magellan was the epitome of luxury. A real hotel - complete with a portico, lobby with plants,  front desk with snooty clerks, and …on the beach.  The Magellan  was still on the beach, and still open though it’s appearance was significantly different than I remember…and not in a good way.  Upon viewing it after all these years, the word “flop” easily comes to mind.

Travelling northward,  the scenery began to change. The  narrowing road road narrowed with fewer vacant lots. More flops and shops, and more people on the street.

A few blocks further, and a semblance of normalcy appears –a chain drugstore on the corner, a phone store, and some ethnic food stands. Tourist motels, offering rooms by the day, week and month are everywhere. They look good-  successfully capturing the retro 40s and 50s look of the city –  at least on the outside.

Most are mom and pops – owned and operated by barely friendly,  tired folks who know they’re selling crap…and also know you won’t be back (unless you’re Canadian) …and never hesitate to call the cops.

The beach is 100 yards away – behind a sea grape buffer.

I like it and decide to come back later.

 

 

[Bmichael]

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know...the narrowing road, uh, narrowed...I don't wanna hear about it....

[Westerly_2]

Nice place, Bmichael, My kind of place. (Now I'll think of a place...or a person. Hmmm).

[Westerly_2]

                I still remember the valentine I gave to Bradford Peters in the eighth grade. It was sleek and slick and had a pair of plump red lips all set to kiss. Shopping with Mom at the drug store, I picked up a pack of common valentines for the rest of the class. (Teacher always said, “Don’t leave anyone out,” not that she could do anything about it. The most valentines always went to the girls with the bouncing curls and great luminous eyes, of which I was not one). Bradford Peters was one really cute boy I snuck looks at, a boy with freckles and curly hair the color of sand, and I’m sure he never knew I even shared the same room with him.

                I got him a special card, a tall expensive card with a shiny finish. On the outside it said in plain black print, “JUST FOR YOU.” And inside there were the pursed red lips, all puckered up and backed with a spring which pushed them out when the cover was opened. This special card I did not show to Mom.

                On the day of our class party, we pushed our addressed valentines through the slot cut into the top of the cardboard box, all decorated with red and white crepe paper ruffles and paper hearts. Someone was chosen to hand them out, and I watched as Bradford went through his pile of valentines until he came to my great adult-sized, serious valentine. His guy friends were curious: “Who sent you that?”

                He jumped back a little when the lunging lips accosted him, what you would call “taken aback” for real. His friends snorted and slapped him on the back. Naturally, I hadn’t put my name on it. I knew better than that; I was feeling a secret smile spread toward my burning cheeks.

[Bmichael]

So what started this thing was Jack Kerouac.

Checking out the K’s at the library, I found this big fatty called “The Portable Jack Kerouac” and took it home.

Turns out that the book was mostly excerpts of his works (none of which had I ever read and was only vaguely aware of) and full of editor’s notes about what they meant and who the characters were in real life, along with explanations and clarifications of mysteries known only to fans of the writer which was fine because I was really only looking for writing style – which Kerouac was famous for.

I also gained a bit of insight in to the man through his associations which included Alan Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, William Burroughs (who I immediately confused with Edgar Rice Burroughs…and wondered WTF he was doing hanging out with the Tarzan guy) Ken Kesey, and a host of other interesting and wildly sordid stanchions of literature brought together by the easy to understand and frequently slanted Wikipedia.

But it was hard to jump into some of these partials – mainly because I consider myself to be only “semi-intellectual” at best and some of this stuff seemed to be awfully…uh…brilliant. (code word for ‘too smart’)

I was able to settle on The Mexican Girl – which turned out to be a decent story, made better by some very fine, 90 mile an hour, delirious, descriptus Electric Koolaid Acid Testus – fun for the whole family wordage which reminded me a lot of my old friend Jay G. who actually talked a lot like the way that K writes which got him chased a lot especially the time when we got trapped in a blizzard in Shamrock, Texas in the middle of the night and pulled into an old Standard Oil service station bay and took out the tire chains which turned out not to be tire chains at all, but just a giant ball of chain that Stump’s ditsy gf THOUGHT was tire chains  bought enough time for the crewcutted attendant to get on the pay phone and call up his low tolerance for freaks  high plains redneck pals who showed up in a pick up and quickly exited and made their way towards us looking like a bad version of The Sharks because not one of ‘em was even remotely Puerto Rican and a  hell of a lot  uglier while I searched the bay for some kind of weapon but could only find  one old oil can which I  resolved I would use to poke their eyes out just before they killed us when Jay, who had become uncharacteristically silent said “B…give me the gun.”

I was just about to say “what gun?” when he repeated.

“B! Give me the fucking gun!”

Oil can in hand, I moved towards the Buick and started rummaging around underneath the seat. The Sharks froze.

“Aw jesus!” Jay stomped angrily to the car as the Sharks looked around uneasily.

I backed out and double gripped the oil can in front of me and stared at them while Jay threw a hysterical, screaming, hissy fit inside the car.

Those boys looked confused. They thought they’d come out for a butt kickin’ and hadn’t thought about a gun.

The Buick started up, Jay sat on the horn, the Sharks froze, and I dove into the back seat.  Jay stomped the pedal- the tires spun on the oil slicked concrete for a second, then caught and fishtailed wildly  as the car screeched toward the door, scattering the boys. I threw the can and caught one of them on the side of the head as we broke through and spun onto the highway towards Boulder.

[Carol T]

By Jack, I think you've got it!

[Bmichael]

It feels like a crapshoot, this art selling thing.

 I’ve heard them say “No…I won’t be doing St. James this year. Too expensive…$500 for a booth. I’d have to sell so much just to break even. It’s not worth it.

And so, instead, you opted for the annual mega church Fall Arts and Crafts extravaganza where your pretty cool stained glass projects are in direct competition with Raggedy Ann & Andy pumpkin patch porch themes – 25 bucks…2 for $40…buy ‘em by the sack.

Not worth it, you say. Not worth it to be part of one of the most highly rated art shows in the country? Not worth it to have your work seen by over 200,000 folks who bring money specifically to buy? I don’t get it, mister…you’re good - very good. You want a partner? I got $500 bucks. Let’s rock.

Yeah, there’s the 9.00 copper ring stand and the 1700.00 exotic wooden (trees I’ve never heard of…and can’t dispute) box instrument that when you take the wooden mallets and tap – but only after being qualified by the somewhat gruff artist (perhaps builder might be a better description) who is mildy surprised when he realizes that you understand open tuning and that it doesn’t freaking matter what keys you hit because it’s all in the rhythm – you cannot screw up –  and you quickly see yourself consuming mass quantities of the Blue Lady’s beer while making beautiful, nonsensical music reminiscent of Caribbean oil drums without out the tininess, but instead very deep, rich tones reminiscent of chanting, cave dwelling monks, that border on the sensuous, to the young lady who’s been following you around all day …”Hey, aren’t you with Van Halen? Can you buy beer?”

And then you realize that a crowd has gathered – drawn by the sounds of the large console version played by his associate (who he is constantly reminding to keep playing) but are looking at me – your Mr. Average Joe (hah!) as you deftly take the mallets and pound out the rhythm of (not the tune) to “I’m A Girl Watcher  (here comes one now)” and freeze the gallery.

Because anyone can do it. They just don’t know it.

“How much?”

Hundreds of dollars, he says.

Have a nice day, grumpy.

That was yesterday. Sadly, however, today (day 2) has been pretty much a washout due to heavy, persistent rain and more of the same is forecast for tomorrow.

As I walked through the streets of old Louisville, and the 750 plus tents, I was overwhelmed at the variety of exhibitors that confirm that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.

I gave up looking at only those things that I liked, which would be photography, paintings, musical instruments – minus the didgeridoo (there are various spellings of this wonder) because as enchanting as they are, they’re definitely a lease breaker - anything in tarnished copper, or leather ( bracelets, rings, wristbands, beer mugs), and that which is still to be discovered.

Passing by one booth, I was attracted by bright colors on paper. Modernistic flowery things with a crisp, sharpness that rival the best of my tools…and you did this by hand? With markers? So I read your PR, the photocopied blurbs “As seen on CNN (Cable Nonsense News)” and I think you lie and that you draw this stuff with a computer…or perhaps draw it by hand… photograph it…and then computerize it…but it doesn’t really matter because the end result is quite nice.

Across the way I see B&W. Oh baby, oh baby!

S’cuse me…pardon me… oops…sorry ma’am…is your little girl ok? Will five bucks take care of it? Wow… you probably should put some pressure on that…perhaps you should call 911…

Oh…not what I thought…but let’s take a look, anyway. Hmm…pretty dark stuff…in pretty bright sunlight. Might look better in, umm…a dungeon? Where is the artist? On break?

Older man enters the booth. Wearing the official booth tag. He ignores me.

While struggling to grasp this stuff a high pitched female voice exclaims “Ohhhh…I’m soooogladIfoundyou…PLEASE tell me you have a card! I just loooove your work!

I don’t…but I am genuinely glad she does. Lesson learned.

I like to find the artist at each booth. To put a face with the craft. Some smile and nod. Some nod. Some look away. Some are grumpy.

Looking for characters. None to be found. Everyone is in cargo shorts, tanks and tees, and flip flops, staring at tablets and Ipods, sitting on tall director’s chairs. Where is the young, starving artist, with one of those Parisian flat caps, multiple tattoos, black, pointy scuffed boots, and the bored, pained, pouty expressions?

Probably in France.

Je suis desolee.

There was one. Asian. My favorite. A painter. Nice stuff, but won’t go with the barrel furniture. She gave me a nano second fake smile which let me know in secret code that she really, really wants me. Probably is worried about getting home. No problem, babe. You can stay at my place for a few…years. I can cook…no, really…I can.

On the outskirts, a sense of familiarity. Boots. Cowboy boots. Right here in River City!

Howdy folks!

Stiff nods.

Aw, c’mon. I’m the closest thing to a freakin’ sale you’ve had ALL (expletive deleted) DAY…

OMG! These boots are…are…gorgeous! Are they…

“They’re custom” he drones, laying out the rules up front.

“Of course they are, which is why this pair is (gulp!) $1200 dollars…” as I seriously consider giving up my phone, gas and electric, internet, insurance, FSA,  a large percentage of the Blue Lady’s beer budget, and water for the next month.

Which brings us to the next, very important point.

Why is art so expensive?

I hadn’t thought about it very much until I brought some of my photography to work and hung it in my office. Amid some compliments, one person said “That one is really nice. Why don’t you run me off a copy?”

That’s when it occurred to me:

I had to buy the camera.

The tripod.

The attractive carrying case.

The computer.

The monitor.

The printer.

The ink.

The paper.

The software. (oy!)

The frames.

The matting.

The endless hours studying technique

The endless hours spent taking/processing the photos

The loss in mistakes…

And you want me to “run off a copy” for you?

I sincerely thank you for your compliment, but… (unprintable)

And so, as the sign on the beer tent exclaimed…

“Drink Beer and Buy Art”

Pay for the art, if you like it…haggle over the beer.

Your Pal, Bmichael

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Carol T]

Nice, B.  Many of your pieces leave me wondering how much is you and how much is artistic license, which is a tribute to your artistry.

[Bmichael]

Thanks Carol!

Artistic license...hmm...hold that thought. 

Be right back.

[Westerly_2]

Dang, BMichael! You mean there's something better out there than calico pumpkins and cabbage patch porch scenes? Dang, you say.

[Bmichael]

Now that I've had a chance to  think about it...probably not.

:-)