Every now and then, its important to get back to your roots.
As I write this, I am sitting at the long wooden table at Starbucks, getting the death stare from 5 old ladies.
Starbucks is crowded today, there IS no where else to sit.
But there was 1 chair left at the long table, and I can see why.
5 well monied older ladies are having a meeting of some sort and the middle chair on the right side was open, but no one would sit there because of the meeting.
But I got a blog to write, plus, I am a dick.
“Is this seat taken ladies?” Loud enough to interrupt several of their discussions.
I have my laptop open and booting up.
“We are kind of having a meeting.” The lead alpha female stares coldly at me for a brief second, spits that out, the goes back to her discussion.
“You won’t even know I am here.” I put my laptop down and put on my headphones.
Once again, into the breach.
The next 5 minutes are a study in human behavior, theirs and mine.
A lot of emotions are flying around for those sensitive to pick them up.
I am sensitive enough to pick them up, but I have this “Water off a ducks back” issue that makes me more than unhelpful in this instance.
Anger, outrage, shock, annoyance, they are all there.
Amusement, but thats just from me. So is a childish petulance, but that always seems to be in the background. I don’t even notice it anymore.
In a moment of asshole brilliance, I begin to blare old school punk rock thru my headphones, loud enough that they can hear it.
Black Flag, still pissing off the older generation decades later.
Judging by my so-so lip reading skills, the meeting has to do with an arts foundation.
The long and the short of it all seems to be that, while there are many talented young artists in some sort of grant competition this year, one of the ladies at the table has a son in the competition.
And it doesn’t sound like he is all that talented.
I made that assumption when the artist’s mother amde this statement:
“Talent is all well and good, but some consideration has to be given for local entrants.”
Ah, the not so subtle melding of art community gentrification and nepotism.
Predictable and sad.
The spoiled, rich artist’s name, (see also unemployed) Brian.
Doesn’t really inspire the awe as an artist’s name does it?
However, there is always the chance that Brian spells it in an unusual way.
I went to high school with a girl named Suzy who spelled it Siouxsie.
Brian, however, does not strike me as all that clever. (Basing this on mom’s slow intellect.)
Who may spell it Bria4n. (The 4 is silent)
The bottom line that everyone seems to be missing is, not everyone is an artist.
Some people, no matter how much they might wish it, just don’t have the gift.
You see it every year on American Idol auditions.
People who are convinced that they are the next Madonna.
And they don’t even sing well enough to get that ghetto trailer trash hoe, Nicky Minaj to vote for them.
Yeah, not a fan of Nicky Minaj.
Or Madonna, for that matter.
However, train wreck that Madonna might be, she is a study of both talent and longevity in an industry known for eating its young.
Finally, the art foundation meeting broke up, and everyone got up to leave.
One by one, they all glared at me as they left.
Gonna be a good day.