| OCR Text |
Show Pajamas by Randy Hanskat Of things that go bump in the street No bowsers, babies or budgies! If I were made President of the United States tomorrow, my first act of office would be to make the above sentence the official slogan and rule of next year's Art Festival. You see, people like myself don't leam. After working in a food booth during last year's festival I saw the crowds, felt the sweat, and realized what it must be like to live in Japan. But did I learn from that weekend and avoid this year's mess? Noooo. I didn't even try to hit the street in the morning, the less crowded period. Instead, I staggered through the masses in the afternoon, both days, hoping to school my brain and lessen my wallet in the name of art. I found myself at the mercy of three groups. There were the baby strollers. Everywhere you looked, or walked, were divisions of stollers, filled with babies, many of whom looked quite dead. At first I was pleasant about the tiny Panzerlike vehicles. But as the two days wore on and pedestrian traffic was jammed up, my nerves frayed. Then when my shins were slapped by an errant stroller which had a kid who was obviously of walking age in it, I questioned the intelligence of the parents out loud. Why bring such shrimps to the festival? Are they going to become cultured? Isn't it more likely that they will be trampled, or have globs of ice cream dropped on their foreheads by passers-by? My sick mind longed for a stroller soap-box derby, where all of the carpet crawlers were lined up at the top of Main Street and let go, winner getting a free trip to the hospital. Or what about a stroller demolition derby? Hmmm. On the same level as the babies, literally, were the bowsers! The bowsers weren't quite as detrimental to traffic flow, but did no good just the same. Since I am more fond of bowsers than babies I tried to be fair, but still I couldn't deduce why the small hairy ones were subjected to such torture on the streets. Could it be status? No, a squished Yorkie wouldn't impress many neighbors in Beverly Hills. Exercise? No, a stepped-on toy poodle doesn't get much exercise. I must admit I was glad to see Braxton, the world's largest St. Bernard, roaming the lower end of Main on Saturday. It occurred to me that he could take care of the stroller problem in no time. Finally, I think in the future some kind of weight restriction must be made to screen people entering the festival. Have you ever seen those signs at amusement parks that show the height kids must be to be able to ride a certain ride? Well, we could have some of those, only the width would be the deciding factor. Somewhere around a yard would be a good limit in diameter. Just think how many more people could attend the festival if the budgies stayed home! We're talking in terms of square footage here. Plus, sweat potentials. Budgies sweat more, so bumping into them can be very traumatic. Such negative reinforcement could be avoided, thus making the festival more enjoyable for the rest of us. With that beef stated, let's get on to aesthetics. The prize for the ugliest paintings in the festival goes to a booth on the west side of lower Main Street that sold Indian portraits. I mean I've seen better painting done by the numbers! Another "gag me" entry was in the leather field. I kept seeing, and gagging at, women wearing newly bought rust-colored leather tops. I later found the booth where they had made their purchases, looked at the goods, and recall thinking that leather was supposed to be sexy, not sickening! There seemed to be many other low points, with fewer high points this year, but booths like the trout man's were worth the trip to Main Street. I especially liked the , trout traps, a new addition to this year's papier-mache entries. And when not breaking your neck on the 'street demolition derby, battered between budgies, bowsers, babies and bozos, it was nice to step into Wyoming Woolens and see some grace in movement. The break dancers who spun and dazzled every half hour were a gas, and downright inspiring. You could watch the people leaving the shop after one of the exhibitions moving their hands or feet in an attempt at emulation. Even when I got home from the festival I entertained thoughts of trying a crab walk or two, but I knew better. Others weren't so timid, however. When I stopped next door to see my neighbor, Marie Mumby, I found her in the kitchen with my cat on the no-wax linoleum floor. Both were headspinning and gravity walking to their hearts' content, while the Gap Band blared from the stereo. It's funny how art affects different people ... |
