that's the spirit

maybe it's the cool weather, twinkly lights or fumes from my radiator, but whatever the reason, december has found me in high and magnanimous spirits (essential to finding success as a WHALES--yay moi!). and when recently i met an art critic at a gallery opening, my new joie de vivre worked like a charm.

a lovely fellow (he slunk around wearing all black and a permanent sneer), i invited him to drinks. as usual, i inquired about his work (men do love to talk about themselves and their work, no?). he said that he'd yet to write an unequivocally positive review. how long had he been a critic? over a decade. i thought this harsh--i mean, curious--and asked him to elaborate, and thus our delightful conversation:

he said, 'you may think it harsh--'

'not at all!'

'but what i aim to do is a community service. all these deluded, wannabe artists--they're wasting their time, they're wasting their lives--i wish to liberate them. they could be doing other things. there's a shortage out there: sanitation workers, truck drivers, teachers. they're always hiring at that home for people with disabilities--and who's better qualified to work with retards than self-deluded artists?'

i shrugged. 'who?'

'think about it: one person's shattered dream is another's ass-wiper. i should start a program; i could probably get some kind of medal.'

he was enterprising; i like that.

he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. 'i just had a thought and want to get it down.'

'work, work, work!' i said. (big smile.)

'no, no, this is my hate book.'

'hate book?'

'book of hate. i write hate lists in it--lists of things i hate.'

'cool beans.'

'like headbands on babies.'

eh?

'those skinny satin things people tie around babies' heads,' he said. 'babies have no hair, or next to no hair--why do they need headbands? it's cruelty; it's child abuse. it's like a tourniquet--it's sick.'

'i don't think they hurt; they're not tight--'

'who cares? they're dumb! form should follow function, and headbands have no business with babies--not unless we're talking the brood de sasquatch.'

'they're...decor, or something--'

'they don't have hair.'

clearly, he cared very much about children.

'and sleeveless turtlenecks!' he said as he scribbled.

'yes, save the turtleneck!'

'what are you babbling about? sleeveless turtlenecks: they make NO sense.'

'the t-shirt?'

'it's not a T-shirt--therein lies the problem. it's like...a worm.'

'well, i don't see exactly--i mean, why--'

'you want cold arms and a hot neck?'

'no.'

we sat there awhile, i with my whiskey, and he with his lists ('eye contact--not all the time, just generally'), then i invited him to a theater reading i was to attend later that evening.

'i don't do theater,' he said. 'theater is just a bunch of dilettantes. i'd almost do ballet. at least with ballet, they're committed: those kids never hold down a meal--and there's no faking a pas de chat--either you look like a cat, or you don't.'

'i LOVE ballet,' i said, then ordered another round and blew off the reading.