"Surfer's Point" by Tina O'Brien
By noon, the June Swoon was nearly burned away, and it was another day in Paradise in My Little Town. A double threat Saturday. A free lecture at the temporary quarters of the Art and History Museum of My Little County, on book arts (an art form I fancy myself semi-qualified to do and talk about) AND at the fairgrounds, a Tribute To Johnny Cash concert/event thingy. I ADORE Johnny Cash. I think he was one of America's Top Five Artists, any form you'd care to name.
So I went to the lecture first.
Afterwards, I asked an artist friend: "I have to ask you, as an artist: When you go to an "artist chat" at a museum (if you ever do) do you ever get so pissed off at the artist's line of bullshit that you ignore what might be good work and just walk out?"
I did that today. Now really, it was a wonderful day. At 2 pm, the creaky, ancient, bland County Museum of Art (and History, it's all one stupid ball of wax) had a talk by book artists in their temporary HQ. The main museum is under construction for the past year so the art is crowded into the first floor of the local County Tourist's Whatever. I can ignore that. And the leader of the discussion among 3 "book artists" was very good, and slides were shown and it should have been a love fest. Instead there were three "artists" I couldn't take seriously. There was one middle-aged white fat lady with whom I should have identified but she couldn't articulate why or what she did. Then there was this professionally Latino guy who through a terrible language deficiency made it clear that he was so much purer, more sensitive to cultural differences, that we should apologize for being dumb anglos. His books, while adequate, were not worthy of his claims (cultural preservation, not his main gig, he's a Serious Artist, the books were just a side line, and he was devoting all of them to his 7 year old son who couldn't even speak the language they were written it and he never addressed, in his role as steward for the globe, how he planned to remedy that linguistic deficiency) and one woman I really admired, psychologist by trade, who grasped the infinite possibilities of book art, but technically was nowhere close to being proficient. I mean, she couldn't finish her next project because she didn't know how to do coptic binding. I can do coptic binding in my sleep.
So... does this mean I'm an opinionated asshole or they are? I went there full of hope to find a community (I thought I was the only book artist in the county) and they were all so full of themselves I walked out and went to the restaurant on the pier and had steamed mussels and a glass of white wine to calm down.
However, it got better -- I'd been planning this day for weeks. Today was ALSO the Johnny Cash Tribute Music Festival. You know my JC fetish. I adore Johnny Cash, always have. So the county Fairgrounds (right off of Surfer's Point, the boardwalk, park, bikers everywhere, palm trees -- it's beautiful) had all these tribute bands, a hot rod show, I mean it was rockabilly without irony. I walked the mile from the pier and paid my ten bucks and wandered around. It was a trip. They were auctioning off chances to get your truck or van pin-striped. I saw so many trashy mamas and middle-aged guys in self-conscious black ... and the tribute bands! Every song began and ended (whether it was a JC song or just rockabilly in the flavor of JC) "God Bless Johnny Cash!" The crowd went wild. I had fun for about 45 minutes, didn't want to look at the dragmobiles or hot rods or cruise the "craft faire" or do anything but listen to Johnny Cash, who, it must be said, is dead. As a doornail. I realized I could go home and play "Live at Folsom" and be just as happy, and multiple amputees would not be hitting on me.
I am not making this up.
I must explain the Seaside Park Fairgrounds. Not only is this acreage devoted to the county fair, cat shows, gun shows. and Johnny Cash tributes, there is an Off-Track Betting site, a separate building with racetrack and other games you can bet on. I was there once. It was about what you'd expect. Horrible. Lots of beer and guys who either look like Uncle Buddy with the beer belly and the backwards cap or Old Uncle Buddy who spent a spell upstate and we don't talk about him. It was all horseracing while I was there, but I'd bet the customers would bet on anything, ball games. cockroach racing, dog fights. Ick.
OK, so I've left the JC festival and am walking back to the boardwalk and a good mile to the pier and my car. A guy buzzes up next to me on a motorized chair/scooter. I notice that only one hand is on the controls, the other shirtsleeve is limp. I'm cool with my differently abled brothers and sisters, it's fine. The face belongs to a guy maybe late '60's or early 70's. My gaze travels down. There are no feet on the controls. The pants legs hang loose. Wow, a triple amputee. He asks me "What's going on?" I try to explain the Cash tribute. He waves that off as so much noise. "No, I mean in THERE." He points, with his one hand, taking it off the scooter control for one giddy minute. "Oh, that's some kind of gambling den." "Yeah, I KNOW, but is there anything going on? Are they open?" "Uh, I don't know, I don't go there to gamble." "So where did YOU come from?" He gives me a saucy grin. I realize, fuck it, I'm being flirted with. By a triple amputee.
"Honey, I was listening to Johnny Cash!" Honesty is the best policy.
He kept smiling and waved as his little go-cart delivered him to the door of the gambling club. Bless his heart. Some women are crazy for amputees. I bet he gets action.
Me? I walked the mile back to my car and drove home. It was past 5 pm, time to deliver ice up to the third floor.
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