In Search of a Masterpiece—Fiesta Hermosa

Fiesta Hermosa, the largest arts & crafts fair in Southern California, is free. I love art! So this weekend my wife and I, along with several of our closest destitute friends, rode the shuttle to the Pier, which is over half a mile from where we live—well past the L.A. maximum walking distance. Puh-lease, what are we, marathon runners?

Our shuttle—I use the word loosely—was anything but loose. I believe the words school bus were printed on its bright yellow surface. At five-eight, I had to turn partially sideways to keep my knees from fusing with the forward passenger’s vital organs. The squeeze, however, did bring some clarity to the anorexia issue. The body-image problems of our nation’s youth are not the result of being bombarded with images of gorgeous women whose thickest body part is a bleached tooth. It’s the tiny bus seats. They practically scream “fatty.”

We exited the “shuttle” on Pier Avenue, ecstatic to unfold from the upright fetal position. Instantly we found ourselves facing booths for Puppy and Kitten adoption (which now requires a more thorough background check than for human babies), a back-support gizmo, and the Republican Party. We sauntered forth, nearly certain there would be even more great art ahead!

My friends were hungry. It had been minutes since they’d eaten, so it was understandable. We hobbled on to the food booths a few blocks down and bought some grub. I managed half a Cajun sausage before reason set in. Once everyone was sated, we set forth on our earnest quest to behold great art. Here’s what we saw: three chiropractors, seagrass hats, Nu-Skin beauty products, reading glasses, chair massage, clothing, assorted means of tanning, aromatherapy, ocean booties, shaved ice, candles, swimsuits, and organic power bars. Move over, Picasso.

Many of the women were clad in bikinis, and it was obvious to me they had been victims of bus-seat treachery. Poor perfectly shaped things. I felt overwhelming sadness as I stared and stared and stared. My wife finally had to pull me away before my heart was completely broken.

We had art to see! So, we went down to the end of the pier and listened to a band play songs I had hated in the 80s. The band was fantastic; they performed the music flawlessly. I know that because I still hated it. And, yes, I’m that old. Shut up very much.

The band took a break. Dang. Is there really such a thing as too much Bon Jovi? We strolled out to the beach, dipped our toes, rested our art-seeking bones awhile. The day was delivered directly from heaven via UPS. United Perfection Service. People come here, to our home, on vacation. We must be doing something right.

Rested and ready, we headed back to the trenches in search of a masterpiece. Perhaps it was our new sunny dispositions, courtesy of the Pacific, but we stumbled upon art almost instantly. Most of it was…drum roll please…wonderful. There was awesome metal sculpture, tasty pop art, earthy Native American stuff, and paintings of sundry styles and subjects. One cool old guy displayed textured scenes of Europe he’d painted with a knife. Brilliant too. I could have bought one for seven hundred. But I was already out twenty for food and another fifteen for a zebra switch plate (a necessity, according to my wife). Adding another seven hunjie to that seemed somewhat ill-conceived. After all, I didn’t want to set a bad example for my friends. Impulse buying is a killer. Plus, I was a tad short…about seven hundred dollars.

When at last we practiced body origami in the shuttle and rode back to the high school, I reflected on my day. Though there wasn’t a ton of art at the art festival, and though I’d suffered some minor heartburn, sunburn, and walletburn, a profound realization came to light: it was time to drink! Oh yeah, I also realized I’d had an amazing time with people I love. And that, indeed, was a masterpiece.

We’re off to Sea the Wizard

Apparently there is a new maximum height restriction for Jedi knights: three feet. Once more, this new breed feels it’s necessary to brandish their neon lightsabers all over the place. Constantly.

At least, that’s how it appeared Saturday night on the beach during the free showing of The Wizard of Oz in Manhattan Beach. Don’t Jedi Knights know that lightsabers are very distracting? I mean, grow up, for cryin’ out loud.

In spite of that, it was a perfect night for a Beach Film. (Can we agree to call them Beach Films ™ KIRK MILLER, INC.?) A pleasant mist wafted off the Pacific, cool sand nestled between our toes, and an eerie orange moon backdropped the blood-curdling cackle of the Wicked Witch of the West. Hundreds of locals and…those others…eased back on blankets and view-blocking beach chairs (uh, hello, is it stadium seating or THE BEACH?), and watched Dorothy struggle to find her way back to Kansas. Kansas! The girl is in a magical land full of fascinating people, and she wants to go back to freakin’ Kansas. Seriously? Fine, Farmer D. Later. We’ll just be here flying and getting wishes granted and stuff. And by the way, the dog stays.

While we’re on the subject, the movie has changed a lot since I was a boy. Back then it was tremendously impressive. The Lion didn’t dress in pajamas, for one thing. Nor was the Tin Man’s face covered in discount silver spray paint. And the scarecrow didn’t have an inappropriate thing for Dorothy. Okay, let’s not go there.

I have other issues, as well. Ding-dong the Wicked Witch is dead? Isn’t it a little morose to be so chirpy after murdering someone? Sure, go ahead and be glad she’s dead—secretly. She was wicked; I get it. But singing and dancing seems a bit…detached. Exhibit two: the Scarecrow gets severed into pieces by evil flying monkeys. Perfect time for one-liners? “Well, that's you all over,” and “They sure knocked the stuffings out of you, didn't they?” Dude, that’s my torso over there. My torso! Think we could can the stupid jokes for a few seconds, Hannibal Lecter? Then there’s the sage advice from the Wiz himself: “…a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” Talk about flying in the face of every spiritual teacher who has ever walked the earth. Basically a formula for neurotic approval seeking and brown nosing. Really enlightened. On the other hand, he’s a short guy with a Napoleon complex trying to pass himself off as a giant, all-powerful, smoking head. That might have been a clueski right there.

All that aside, the Beach Movie ™ KIRK MILLER, INC. made for a terrific night. My unfortunate friends from unmentionable non-South Bay cities had a blast. I basked in memories of childhood (positive ones, for a change). The crowd laughed and applauded—there was no alcohol, so it was quite possibly genuine. And afterward the Mini-Jedi, most of whom were probably seeing the film for the first time, turned off their bright green and orange lightsabers, nestled into their mommies’ arms, and dreamed of yellow brick roads, fuzzy dogs, and true-blue, warmhearted friends somewhere over the rainbow.