- WHO WAS AT GALLERY Chicago?
Your standard, predominantly senior-hipster crowd. A performance artist who, am told, used to get naked and smear himself with mayo and ketchup, a guy in drag with his (her?) flamboyant dreadlocked black performance artist friend, an old Navy Seal (who almost drunkenly broke down in tears while relating to me how he’d been ordered to kill women and children in Third World countries), a lady multimedia-whiz/programmer/art instructor who's 40something going on 16, a rotund mustachioed character who styles himself a "Count" and speaks in a British accent (who is actually the cousin of the Navy Seal, it's said), a sequin-wearing poet/artiste of a certain age who -- well, I'll tell you about her in a moment.
But this was one of those nights when the mix of hormones, the carnival-like atmosphere and natural chemical libations and inhalants was just right; when things that ordinarily wouldn't've happened did; or is it, that the things that ordinarily would've happened but for our everyday inhibitions?
The Count -- who says he is descended from the Brits by way of the Melungeons -- insists that the U.S.A. are illegitimate, still owned by the British Virginia Company.
The retired SEAL -- who tells me he has been to Bohemian Grove in a private security capacity -- repeats his claim that "The Great Owl" predicted the elder and younger Bush's electoral victories, but had said Dubya would lose the upcoming contest.
"How does a white stone owl 'tell' you something?" I query. He declines to say.
"Metaphorically, you mean?" I probe further.
"Yes, not literally. They have a vote."
This was news to me, since in all the exposes I'd read to date, there was never any word of any votes being taken on any official matters.
Although I try to draw him out further on his Grove knowledge, it seems he still takes his secrecy oath very, very seriously. It very well could be he is not as "retired" as he says he is.
The 50something sequin-wearing poet/artiste starts rambling (it should be noted, we've all been imbibing various types of booze as well as smoking some kind of herb that Lee brought) on some kind of metaphysical rant that starts with "You're the middle of the circle ... "
So I say "but from the perspective of infinity, we're all in the middle of the circle."
"But what if you wanna get beyond the center -- fly out into space and see the edge?"
That one has me stumped. So I decide to take the convo in a whole different direction. I adopt my "seductive" voice and come up with the corniest lines I can muster.
"Well speaking of outer space and all, I'd love to make you see the stars, baby."
She giggles like a fourteen-year-old. "Oooh, so how big of a bang is this gonna be?
"Like the original...only bigger!"
"So. Tell me some poetry."
"Baby, I'm a poet of the senses."
During this conversation, something funny is happening. Her skirt keeps falling: once, twice, three times her skirt falls off. It's a good thing for her that she wasn't going commando that night.
I have no idea what the malfunction is, but I can't resist quipping:
"See, I can even talk you right out of your clothes!"
We tease, almost kiss, just feeling the groovy vibe, the wine, the herb, the music ...
But I pull myself away from her to go pour another drink.
She comes over toward the table where I'm at and, somehow, trips over my feet and winds up on her ass on the floor.
I try to help her up, but she refuses to get up. "No ... you come down here!"
At this point we'e teasing each other silly. By now, the other buzzed/stoned guests are watching us and having a laugh. Our lips are almost meeting again ....
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