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.
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