Images in Thick Paint

I get to the library and my brother reminds me that we have an appoint- ment at an art show. A friend that he had met at the networking party had invited him to see his show at the YUM Museum.

Honestly, I didn't want to be bothered. I knew that there would be alcohol there and talking that would eat up time. I didn't want to gamble in the least with my return strategy to the Box for awhile. Well, for at least ninety days. My brother convinces me to go. If things got to dicey for me when it comes to alcohol or it getting late, I can always bounce. He outlined a plan to 'stick and move'. To hit the museum and get back out, like ducks mating. Just say hello to Doran, his friends, and then leave. Sounded like a 'plan'.

I pack my gear and off we go. My brother stops for a portable. I pass, and instead get some potato chips and water. We walk down to 16th Street and stop in front of Yeshiva University. We stand outside scratching our heads for a moment, searching for the YUM museum. At looking at a sign off to the right, which read Yeshiva University Museum, we knew we were at the right place. Entering in we pass a metal detector, security guards, a coat check and well dressed patrons. We were the only ones looking as if we came from a baseball game. I was glad that I took a shower this morning, pissed that I wore re-treads.

We roam around, lost for a few moments, until we find Doran who instantly introduces OBSIDIAN to his friends in the art world, and neighborhood poets. I walk off and admire Doran's work. He appears next to me and kindly explains the piece that he's put together. A stunning piece of sculpture. Three dimensional, made out of welded steel. Flat silhouettes of a miniature man, wearing a hat, carrying a suitcase, walking. Many of him, walking atop full sized suitcases, partially opened, and rocks, both scattered about. It made you feel lost and wandering, which was the diaspora aspect of the work. 'The Traveler', duplicated over and over again, a nation of wanderers.

It was moving. From there, OBSIDIAN and I checked out other works. Some marvelous pieces of work by a painter that I forgotten his name. He used oil on cotton with very, very heavy brush strokes and thick, thick paint. So much so that the work was damn near three dimensional. So angry was his brushstrokes that unless you looked closely, you missed the faint images of people in his work. OBSIDIAN and I spent some time pointing out people and what they were doing in the painting. It was fantastic.

We decided that it was time to 'stick and move' so we headed for the door. On our way there we ran into Brenda our hostess from the party. She was elegant and cordial as usual. She was breezing though the art in search of the wine being served. Wine perked up OBSIDIAN's ears even though he was nipping on his portable all along. Now we were on the search for the wine with Brenda.

Suddenly a man with a booming voice walks through the halls, notifying the guests that the lecture was about to start on the first floor and that everyone was invited. OBSIDIAN was moved to go. He wanted to learn something new. Sure. I was not one to tempt fate a second time, and wine and lectures did not mix well with my returning to the Box on time. It was time for me to bounce. OBSIDIAN was torn. He really wanted to hear the lecture. I urged him to stay but I had to leave. I kissed Brenda goodnight, hugged Doran and headed for the door, OBSIDIAN in my wake. We exit, stage right, heading to Starbucks and discuss art. We also decide to go to MOMA tomorrow.

Time bleeds and it's time for me to head to the Box.

On the way there, I run into John the Janitor of the Box. "Hey, Hobobob, you're a wiz at computers right?" I wouldn't say that. "I've done something to my computer. Can you take a look at it?" He waves me over to his van where his laptop is open on the seat. He had a thorny monitor issue that needed the configuration changed. It took me a solid four minutes, but I had him back in full working order quickly. John was overjoyed. He thought he had royally fucked up his laptop, instead of just fucking it up. He slapped cash in my hand and patted me on the back. Then he was gone, and I headed on to the Box. Amazed how my simple love of computers was still generating money for me.

I get upstairs to my bed, open my laptop, blog and IM. Igor is overjoyed on his bed. What's up Igor, I'm dumb enough to ask. "I flipped out at my housing interview," he says with a broad smile. "I told them that they can shove their TC up their ass, and that I didn't fucking need or want them. They were pissed, and Dave..." his social worker, who was also present. "...went berserk. He was so pissed with me for crashing and burning right in front of the hospital administrators. It was amazing."

I laugh. He fucked up his TC interview and he's happy. He doesn't know that these sonsa- bitches here are going to slap fire down on his ass. He doesn't realize just how bad he's fucked himself. Hopefully they'll go easy on him because he's slow. Or just foreign.

Like a phantom, Vanessa the Tech appears at the end of my bed. "Ohhh, Hobobob, can you come into the tech office?" Sure. I get up and follow behind her into the tech office where her and Mr. Franklin are. "I need you to blow into this breathalyzer." What? That's so sweet. It's time for the snap testing. Would you take my word that I'm clean, I ask. "What?" Vanessa asks, "Have you been a bad boy?" I'm on the straight up. I blow a clean 000. "That's good, Mr. Hobobob," Mr Franklin says, reclining on a chair. "Keep up the good work."

I return to my bed, relieved. I could have fucked this up today. If I would have snagged a portable, or sucked down some wine...I would be in a world of shit right now.

It will be two months before I'll even think about alcohol.

Think I'm kidding?

Hobobob