What Fifty Bucks Buys You These Days
I do volunteer work as an editorial writer here on the staff of the Whimper. One editorial a week, thoughtful and fair, on a topic of concern or interest. It's challenging work, but I love it.
Why volunteer? Excellent question ... and an easy one for me to answer. When people read one of my weekly think-pieces -- on the subtle psychology of the mosh pit, say, or the coolness of the Internet, or my exposé on the Thomas Eagleton Affair -- they are immediately aware that I am a complete jackass, I know nothing, I am about as thoughtful as a tard. Mr. Clark says he wants no complete jackasses on the editorial staff unless they're not paid. So for me, for now, "volunteer" is the way to go.
Anyway, it was Open Mike Monday Morning down there at Me-Bar, and as usual I was whipping up a little buffet table magic and generally being a bon vivant, when I look up and: oh, yeah. The mike, up there on the stage, conspicuously "open," as per their promotion. I had never noticed it before. Hmm. Taking a deep breath, I mounted the stage and read to my fellow breakfasters my brief treatise on how I would solve the 2000 Electoral College snafu if I were king. When I was done, I took note of something remarkable. Check it out: I was -- and I'm serious about this -- not dragged from the stage and thrown into the street but was in fact the beneficiary of a polite round of applause. Applause.
What the ... ? I had thrown on a beret, and was holding bongos. Was that it? I had glanced knowingly at the audience, and used a wry smile ... was that it??
Well ... sort of. You see, in that venue, during that designated Morning, my editorial was art.
Art, man. That was it. The crowd dug art. Just a plain old digging of art ... a digging that happens to be protected by the Constitution.
And then I'm thinking: art. I love it. How do you get paid for this?
I went down to the next Taco Thursday WTO Riot at Westlake Center. Running in the streets, good times, and plenty of art conducted by pro artists of all kinds. I noticed one group, wearing T-shirts that said "Artists for Change," pelting Republicans with blood-soaked hacky-sacks and blocking Pine Street traffic with a rowdy kiss-in (albeit using sensible, Hollywood-style "air kisses"). I approached the one who appeared to be the leader of the tribe, and after a few moments of spirited kissing we introduced ourselves. He said he was Buddy Sprinkle, 33, artist. He asked me if I was a writer who would like to interview him for $50.
No I would not.
Sure you would.
Wh ... what are you talking about?
Oops! I had inadvertently begun interviewing him. Just before our arrests, we agreed to finish the interview the next day over a light brunch in Crack Park.
What do you think about art? Do you dig it?
I do. It used to be that I would have feelings about things, but the people around me -- passersby, the common man -- didn't know what those feelings were unless I told them.
Ouch.
But now I communicate my feelings using art.
And everybody wins. Let's talk about art. I used to think that art was nothing more than sad, sometimes inadvertently-funny attention-getting. But now I dig it.
(Long pause because that wasn't a question.)
How do you feel about that?
How do I "feel" about that? Hard to say. See, I communicate my feelings through my art. And ... I don't "feel" like doing art right now.
Cool. Who or what is Artists For Change?
Artists For Change is a group of high-consciousness, socially-directed artists who do art for passersby -- you know, the common man -- and then we demand their change.
I admire your work. What sort of art is it that you do?
We focus on areas of interest and concern and communicate our feelings about those in ways that are difficult to explain using art. I find it rewarding.
Man. I do not understand.
Now you're getting it. Art, man.
Man. What sort of art?
Hey, define art. Define artist. You can't.
Actually I can. You see, art is --
Who can say that a farm worker isn't an artist? Or the kid who works at Kinko's? Who can say?
Many millions of people can and do say so on a daily --
And I can tell you right now: those people aren't artists.
Absolutely. I bet they don't even know. (Consults notes.) I understand you're a member of Seattle's homosexual community. (Looks up from notes.)
Yes. I'm a gay man.
Man.
(Nods.) With modern improvements in tolerance, and better acceptance, there has never been a cooler time to be gay.
Is it true that AIDS has affected the dating scene?
Not for me. (We share a laugh.) I date women, incidentally.
Women?
Yes. Never actually had sex with a man.
But you'd like to.
No.
I believe that would make you straight.
Don't you fucking label me, man.
I bet you have loads of intercourse.
Oh yeah. Ohhhh yeah. Fuck yeah!
That is so cool for you. How about food? Do you eat a lot of food?
Fuck yeah, I guess. I eat pretty well. Meatloaf, chicken-fried steak. A lot of left-overs. I'm a vegan, but my parents are big meat-eaters, so I end up eating a lot of meat, which is great because I can be a vegan and still stay healthy.
So everybody wins. (Reads from notes, mispronouncing several words.) In the old days teens used the Cold War and the inevitable end of the world to justify their self-destructive behavior. Now that the Cold War's over, what do we do now to explain our sad, sometimes inadvertently-funny antics?
(Chuckles) What do you mean, "over," man?
Yes, the collapse of the Soviet Empire and the Warsaw Pact, and the dismantling of the machinery of global annihilation.
(Sighs. Scratches.) I really don't know what to say to someone like you. Jesus fucking Christ. I ... I wish you hadn't told me that. Um, the Contras.
No, they're --
Shut the fuck up, man. Fuck. Ouch. (Touches lip.) I say that word so often I've gouged part of my lower lip. Fuck. OW. Fuck! OWW! FUCK! OWWW! (Pauses.) Man. I don't know what to do. It's the coolest known word.
It sure is. How could a guy like me simulate the cool fucking appearance of an artist?
The key to being cool is, first, don't try to be cool. Just be cool. And if you can't be cool, like you, then, like, seem cool. Just ... don't try to seem cool.
Okay. (Tries to seem cool.) Oh, dang. I just tried.
Well, the less talented should pursue other fields. Get a job at Kinko's. (Laughs long and loud.)
(Listens quietly to laughter while eating 7-11 corndog.) Cool. So what's it like ... I'm sorry, I can't make out my sister's handwriting.
Lemme see. "What's it like being an artist? And please do not answer the way an artist would." Hmm. (Ignores question.) Do you know what the worst thing in the world is, man? The absolutely worst thing?
(Pauses, consults notes.)
The worst thing in the world is ... money, man. Money. (Shakes his head.) I do not have enough goddamn money. Now let me tell you something: some people come into the world as kings, and some people come into the world as king-makers. And that's what I need, man. I need to come into the world as a king. So I can quit this shitty art gig.
Wow. What sort of art do you do?
You tell me, man, you're the interviewer.
Th ... that doesn't make any sense.
Now you're getting it. Art, man. I'm making you think.
I ... I don't believe so. In fact I'm quite sure of it. I --
Come on, man. Of course you're thinking. You're trying to think of a clever answer. And then what you should have me say after that.
Wh ... huh??
I'm glad I have that kind of impact on you, man. I find it rewarding. But it's not going to fool anybody. For example, everyone knows you can't eat 7-11 corndogs. They give you gas.
Wh ... (Can't think of anything clever.)
You don't have a sister. And you've never been to Crack Park. Crack Park frightens you.
Shut up. I'm warning you. I'll turn off the tape-recorder.
You don't have a tape-recorder. Oh, and that bullshit about money? It's YOU who doesn't have enough money. You asked your editors for $50 to pay me for this interview, then you pocketed the cash and just made the whole thing up.
SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!
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