Blue Collar Ballet Part Two: Venus de Milo and Gumby

Here's my in-depth analysis of art and culture. Please review it and let the knowledge pour into your consciousness.

Ballet.  All of the performers might as well be naked.  If I wore clothes that tight to work, or at a restaurant, or to church, riots would break out and a lot of people would get hurt.

Opera.  I wrote the Three Tenors and suggested in my letter that they consider adding a huge plasma screen to their stage for broadcasting football highlights or military films during their performances.  The Tenors sound better against a backdrop of images such as full-speed body collisions and exploding stuff.  Plus they could use the big television screens to scroll their song lyrics in English.  I haven’t received a response from the three “artistes.”  What a trio of stuck-up momma’s boys!

Paintings.  The images don’t move plus you can’t touch them.  Boring.

Pottery.  Come on!  There’s a barn named after the stuff.  Plus we’ve all made some of this crap in elementary school.  I saved my handprint ashtray.  And someday I might even take up smoking.

Statues.  These are less excruciating than other art forms, but only by a narrow margin.  Artists typically sculpt (art jargon) these things from a hard and brittle substance or something really messy.  That’s stupid.  Any smart person would choose the same material used to make Gumby figurines.  Museum patrons could then reposition the statue’s body parts while observing them, making the exhibit much more interactive.  Like on The Discus Thrower by Myron (artist’s real name: chuckle to self) and The Statue of David by Michelangelo – you could make them happy to see your wife, which is a compliment.  If artists where more progressive like me, then maybe bored museum visitor, Cliff Glack, would not have snapped and broken the arms off The Venus de Milo (fact-checked on Wikipedia).  Let’s admit the obvious – average guys like me are the only true visionaries walking the planet.

Modern art.  Now here’s a scam.  Take nine John Deere tractor tires, glue them together in disarray, spray-paint them neon green, arrange two dead chickens in the middle, stick a fork in each one and name the mess something esoteric like “Acres of Variance.”  Art critics would swoon!  Heck, the shape and texture of my foot warts contain more cultural value than most modern art galleries.

Overall, most artists of the world select their medium from a relatively short list of substances.  I’m a modern-day, art Nuevo type husband who might make a sacrifice and attend a few exhibit openings if galleries featured more variety then your basic plaster, paint and needlepoint.  I offer these alternative recommendations, in priority order: snot; frog lips; prime number pages torn from Sears catalogues; maple syrup mixed with raw chunks of chipmunk livers; anything lying on my teenage daughter’s bedroom floor; used nylons from librarians; and a mixture of Skittles, toggle bolts and Golden Corral meatloaf.

Of course, those are just my wild ideas, but bet the ranch that each medium already exists in some artist’s loft, somewhere.

Some parts of the country attract art lovers more than other locations.  My family and I live about three hours from Charleston, SC.  By most people’s standards, Charleston boasts incredible tourist attractions, in part because of the city’s cultural appeal.  By my criterion, though, this town of southerly charm bears several major flaws.  One, it’s old.  There’s way too much history in Charleston.  Two, hurricanes.  They mess up my hair.  Three, the city offers a grotesque supply of culture, at a sickening level that’s actually palpable. Charleston could attract a much heartier form of tourist, like me, by adding more miniature golf courses, Dairy Queens, Ponderosa Steak Houses, an alligator wrestling arena, the world’s largest stapler, go-cart track that winds through a 19th century cemetery and reenactments of witch burnings (okay, I do like a little history and culture).

As you may have guessed, I’ve escorted my wife on vacation to Charleston.  We toured and admired every dead thing (I think they’re called “relics”), every decrepit dwelling and statue (I think they’re called “historical landmarks”) and every gewgaw trap (people refer to them as “quaint specialty shops”).  I love spending time with my wife, so while my body toured Charleston and its culture, my brain vacationed in a parallel universe where courtyard fountains bubbled up Budweiser and where hovercraft-drawn carriages raced down cobblestone streets while chasing smarmy pirates armed with phasers.  Thankfully, my mutated neurons come in handy when they’re attacked by culture.

My family resides about 190 miles from Charleston.  We live in Charlotte, NC, a beautiful metropolis whose civic leaders promote that their citizens and corporations donate more money to the arts and cultural endeavors than any other city in America.  That’s a lame way to promote tourism.  I admire Charlotte for its semi-annual Gun ‘N Knife show, NASCAR and frequent sightings of Ric Flair.

(next post: "Chocolate Covered Chocolate" and Valentine's Day Gifting)