Putting the fartsy back into artsy OR "you’ll never feel my wiener"

Last night Jay and I went on a date night. I had the brilliant idea that we should do something different… something cultured and interesting and sort of high-falutin’ that didn’t involve eating or spending massive amounts of money.

So we get all dolled up and head downtown for the First Thursday Gallery Walk to look at art and pretend to be civilized.

The First Thursday Gallery Walk, by the way, SHOULD be called the First Thursday drive-around-and-around-forever-looking-for-a-parking-space-and-then-maybe-catch-a-gallery-if-you’re-lucky walk. But I suppose that’d be hard to fit on a placard.

While driving round and round we spot this one gallery that is absolutely overflowing with the young, the hip, and the beautiful. It looks more like a party than a gallery with music and wine and ENERGY.

“Let’s go check that one out,” I said to Jay, “it looks hopping.”

So we cross the street and weave through the masses of people to get inside where it is nearly impossible to move. People are packed elbow to elbow, jostling and shouting and laughing and glittering. They all seem to know each other. They are all so GLAMOROUS.

I begin to feel ill.

We push our way to the nearest wall to see what’s on display. And can hardly believe our eyes.

Is this a joke?

There on the wall is an immaculately framed and matted square of white paper, on which the artist has typed:

It’s listed at $3,500.

I look sideways at Jay and try not to snicker. His mouth has fallen open. “Thirty five HUNDRED dollars!” he gasps, “can you believe it?”

No. I CANNOT believe it.

I look around. It’s going to take a massive effort on our part to get in further to where we can view more art. And who am I kidding? This is SO not our scene. “Let’s get out of here,” I say and Jay immediately starts for the door.

As we walk through the dark streets toward Pioneer Square (where we’ll spend our time at less exciting but much more comfortable galleries), Jay says, “it’s settled then. I’m going to buy a ratty old typewriter and start whipping those out. 5 minutes to make and $3,500 a pop… think of the MONEY!”

I snicker, “Yeah. But instead of ‘you’ll never feel my breath’ I think yours should say ‘you’ll never feel my WIENER’. Because, you know, it would be edgy and you could probably sell them for double.”

(also the word WIENER makes me giggle)

High-falutin’ we are not.

But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?

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