almost okay

My Dear Lyzako,

Ah, February...Valentine's Day...that dirty, Dirty time of year. It's hard to believe that a full twelve months have passed since the last Dirty Show here in Detroit. Remember that one? The one down in Eastern Market? The one you chose not to attend because of the possibility of unbreathable air due to a large herd of cigarette smoking poseurs? Smart man. Well, that one was Dirty Show 8, and this year's INTERNATIONAL EROTIC ART EXTRAVAGANZA!!!!!! - Number Nine, is quickly approaching once again, the drop off date this very weekend, Super Bowl Sunday to be exact.

I was lucky enough to get a painting in again, and will probably attend the Saturday night party on the 9th. That's the day of THE big party, the one where all the freaks come out. I'll let you know how it goes, but meantime, I'd like to reminisce about last year's show via an edited version of my mid-February missive to you written one hungover Sunday way back then...

2/11/07, 8:33 am

You were so right, my friend. I'm the first to admit my mistakes and I severely underestimated the amount of filthy, poisonous smoke that would be circulating in the room at the Dirty Show party. I spent most of the time I was there either holding up the bar near the entryway, inhaling occasional fresh breaths as often as I could while the doors nearby opened and closed frequently with the arriving throng of revelers, or standing against the wall to one side of the stage, where a doorway that led backstage there issued a steady stream of cool, sweet air. It seemed as though that, in addition to the spectacle of the art show, there was an intense smoking competition taking place, the weapons of choice ranging from the ever-popular Camel cigarette, to the more exotic (and artsy) Indonesian clove variety. There was also an occasional Macanudo, gleefully puffed at by a bearded, tattooed macho type tossed in for additional effect.

The air was blue and I found the atmosphere stifling as my buddy Mike and I entered around nine-thirty.

“Do you know where yours is at?” asked Mike.

“No,” I said, already having to raise my voice to be heard above the din. We made our way along one wall and I spied my painting hanging across the room, pointed it out to him. “Mine's over there,” I yelled.

As we neared my painting, a five-foot by two-foot oil depicting a cartoon Asian female nude deeply engrossed in thought, I looked at the accompanying tag and noticed that there was a small fluorescent red dot stuck near the selling price. When we were nearer and finally standing directly in front of it I did a quick double-take to confirm what I had only dared to hope. Yes, I told myself, that's the right tag, and yes, motherfucker, that red sticker means it's SOLD! Bear in mind, I'll only believe it when I have the money, but for the time being it is one of only a handful of pieces that we saw which did sell, and perhaps the most expensive item on the list at that, my asking price being $525.

I had already picked out a place to hang it here at the house when the show was over, the plan being to install it high on the wall in the stairwell, easily visible only from the master bedroom's ante chamber. I had a hard time believing that it would not be making the trip back here, and later, in the bathroom as we pissed in adjacent urinals, I mentioned the sale to Jerry, who was decked out in a cardinal red suit and black fedora.

“You sold mine,” I said to him with pride, “There's a red dot on the tag and I hope you're not fucking with me.”

“Congratulations,” he said, “I just pissed on my hands.”

The Men's Room was littered with empties and broken glass, and women were regularly using the stall inside due to the length of the line outside the Ladies' Room. Jerry washed up and disappeared into the crowd.

Mike took off after an hour or so, and my plan was to only stay until midnight, but I fell in love with this cute tiny bartender and couldn't take my eyes off her. She looked like a miniature Pam Grier in the face (I know, but it's true!), a crooked grin, sharp nose and slightly gap-tooth smile with a fuzzy mop of short natural hair, barely five feet tall. She was wearing ass-hugging black slacks held up by suspenders that crisscrossed her back, a sleeveless striped top cut low in the front and a push up bra that pressed her little titties together, up and gloriously out. She bent and stretched and served up the drinks with little humor, her tight little body looking fantastic. When she finally came close enough for me to say something I said, “You are cute as hell, you know.”

“What?” she said, not able to hear me.

“YOU ARE CUTE AS HELL!” I said, louder this time.

“Thanks.” Finally, a wide smile.

“Will you marry me?” I asked her with a grin. She just laughed. We talked for a while and she pulled out a can of 'Cocaine', an energy drink that was sponsoring the Dirty event, and popped it open. “You must have been a gymnast,” I said to her. She nodded, said something about 'when she was younger'. “This smoke must be killing you. It's fucking killing me.”

“It is!” she said rolling her eyes.

“Do you bartend anywhere else?” I asked her.

“Will I?”

“No, do you?” I reiterated. It turns out that she only works for Bert and does the special events there. “How's the Cocaine?” I asked. “Does it have caffeine in it?” She carefully turned the can until she located the list of ingredients and confirmed that it did. “Do you drink coffee?” I asked her and she nodded that she did. “Can I buy you a coffee some time?”

“I have a boyfriend,” she said to me with a smile, “I'll just say that.”

“Well, he's a lucky bastard, that guy,” I told her, “Make sure you tell him I said so, too.”

“I will,” she laughed.

“You have a great smile. It's nice to see. You know something always happens with boyfriends,” I went on, “He's bound to fuck up and I don't mind getting in line.”

“In line for what?” she asked, grinning.

“In line to buy you a cup of coffee.” Mini Pam laughed and I fell a little deeper.

The artwork was good, for the most part, and covered everything from photography to painting to sculpture. There was one photo of a long haired man sticking a pistol up a woman's ass and several paintings that featured childlike, bug-eyed females in all sorts of compromising positions, both nude and dressed in fetish clothes. I think the fetish nature of the majority of the work is what made it seem all the same to me. There were no simple nudes, they all had to be posing unnaturally in garish colored light, or fucking themselves with giant dildos. There was a fairly large square painting of a huge-cocked gorilla standing in tall grass, flanked by young not-so-innocent looking white girls.

In the crowd were women walking topless, men walking nearly bottomless (flabby pale ass cheeks on display), and fat white women leading skinny white dudes around by chains secured to collars around their necks. Leather, latex, feathers and fishnets everywhere the eye turned. Near naked dancers, both male and female, pale white bodies writhing with little rhythm in cages suspended above the crowd. It was pretty decadent, but I stayed until it shut down around two, just taking it all in, breathing the foul air, knowing I'd pay for it today and I am, working on just five hours sleep.

After I left, I heard jazz coming out of Bert's next door and ducked inside for the last two tunes, avoiding the cover charge. “I'll have a Blue,” I said after taking a seat at the end of the bar.

“It's after two, I can't serve you,” said the seriously cute, but humorless female bartender.

“How about a water, then?” I asked her. She gave me one, a tiny plastic glass more ice than water and I tipped her a couple bucks. I turned to watch the combo play their last song. There was a piano, drums, upright bass, tenor and alto sax. They were good. The room was filled with attractive black folks and the vibe was so nice it made me wish that I had been there all night instead of killing myself with smoke next door. When the band had finished their set I spoke briefly to a young man sitting next to me.

“I stopped in from next door at the art show,” I told him. He nodded that he understood. “I sold a painting.”

“Cool,” he said.

And it truly was.

Salut! and Warm Regards,
Rembrandt van Sherman

PS: Back to the present... don't tell anybody, but this year's entry is a rejected painting from two years ago, just painted over and retitled. I'll let you know if it sells. If not, I still have that same empty space on the stairwell wall to hang it.