An Interpretive Dance About Abu Ghraib
Email this article to a friend 
Print this Article
21 Jan 2008 ›
9:45am
So you know how I went out the other night with Jasmine and Kelly? Unfortunately, they left the planning part of the evening to me. When it comes to activities, I tend to gravitate toward the most bizarre crappola I can dig up in the back of Time Out. Nine times out of ten, said
wacky activity is a complete and total nightmare. But for some reason I seem unable to learn from my mistakes. Perhaps it’s because going to lame events attended by lamesters gives me plenty to mock. And mocking, truth be told, may well be my only bonafide hobby.
This is really my longwinded way of saying that I took the two lovebirds to an evening filled with THE WEAKEST performance art of all time. What’s that you say? You weren’t aware there was such a thing as STRONG performance art? Good point.
The “art” consisted of the following ingredients:
a. Tragic nudity (repeat after me: it’s not performance art unless you’re naked)*
b. Spoken (ok bellowed) word
c. Hazardous (though wimpy) pyrotechnics (Kelly and Jas dug this part).
d. The senseless melting/mutilation of plastic green army men (pew).
*Lets pick apart a universal truth. Shall we? Why is it that the people we’d NEVER EVER want to see naked go to such great lengths to ensure that we do? Ever accidentally (ok you taped it) watch that HBO train wreck, Real Sex? I once saw my Pilates instructor on an episode. For real! Of course I quit taking privates from her, and eventually switched gyms. I couldn’t get the image of her naked, Tantric breathing out of my mind. For those of you unfamiliar, think panting dog.
But naked.
And middle aged.
In a really, really, really well lit room.
Shudder.