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July 20, 1977 - Image 33

Resource type:
Text
Publication:
Michigan Daily, 1977-07-20

Disclaimer: Computer generated plain text may have errors. Read more about this.

Wednesdoy, Jufy 20, 1977

THE MICHIGAN DAILY

Page Twenty-One

Nightmares on Memory Lane

(Continued on Page 9)
i'll-." She groaned. She sweat-
ed. She strained to pull her
enormous belly out of the seat.
It was only wood, after all, and
it protested mightily.
'I think," I said, "I see a
stand across the street where
someone else -is selling kitties.
Perhaps I'll just go over and
have a look-."
That did it. She flew out of her
seat and grabbed my sleeve.
"You can't buy her kitties!" she
s c r e a m e d. "They're cheap!
'iey're-"
"That's right," I said, "they're
only seventy bucks for the large
sizes-."
"But I painted all mine by
hand!! She-uses craft kits!"
Swiftly I reached over and
scraped some pink paint off the
kitty's nose. The number seven-
teen clearly showed through.
"Just as I thought!' I said tri-
umphantly. "Paint-by-number!"
"No, no, no!" she cried, al-
most sobbing now. "Buy these
kitties! Hers don't even have
glitter glue ..."
So much for Maynard Street.
I then ventured out to Liberty;
a street fortunately named, un-
der the circumstances-for that
is precisely what the so-called
artists had taken with aesthe-
tics.
To my left, gilt-encrusted wire
figurines of couples doing un-
speakable things. To my right,
couples in halter tops and cut-
offs doing unspeakable things.
I was appalled.
One bearded, overall-sans-shirt
clad gentleman approached me
as I wended my way down the
sidewalk.
"Yes?" I inquired pleasantly.
He motioned me to come close,

and I complied; he said, in con-
spiratorial tones, "I have pas-
tels."
"Pastels?" I echoed.
He waved his hand and mo-
tioned for me to follow. Around
the corner, there were rows and
rows of pornographic pastel
drawings:
"This one," he said. "This one
I know you'll like."
I craned my neck as he went
thttmbing through the canvases.
He pulled out a canvas, all done
up in browns and reds, very at-
tractive, really, and I compli-
mented him on the work.
"An abstract right?" I asked.
"Quite nice-enjoyable; pleasing
to the palate-hut not what I
was in the market for, exact-
ly-"
"Look closer," he said, urging.
I peered over, and suddenly the
random shapes took form. It was
a woman, apparently a prosti-
tute, in the midst of soliciting
what appeared to be an appre-
ciative customer. The whore had
enormous breasts.
""Like that?" he said, licking
his lips..I was horrified. "I call
it-A Sale of Two Titties."
"You what?" I echoed hollow-
ly.
"You heard me-quite the lit-
tle Dickens, isn't it?"
"You pervert," I said, under
my breath.
"Pervert? I? I simply happen
to be engaged in the practice of
selling people what they want."
"Who wants this sickening
crap?" t shouted.
"Hypocrite," he said, curling
his lip. "I know your type. You
think nothing of The Autobiogra-
phy of a Flea, or the adult-read-
ing section of Cominunity News-
center. But honest artistic ex-

pression-no, that's too much.
You pig?"
"I just don't care for it," I
said stiffly.
"What about the First Amend-
ment? What about free speech?
You are violating my constitu-
tional rights by not buying this
portrait, and denying me access
to public circulation. Pig! I'll
sue!"
"Ytsu do that," I said, and
walked awav. As I looked back
down the street, he was shaking
his bony fist and screaming,
"I'll see you in court!"
The corner of North U and
State deserved no mention; a
mere rummage sale, really. On
East U, everyone was doing
squeeze-bottle spin-art and so-
cially realistic puppets, and dar-
ling little trinkets that couldn't
be had for under three hundred
dollars. One woman was selling
handmade Albanian - I didn't
catch the word - garments,
and they looked something like
serapes. "Made from 100 per
cent combed yak fur," she said,
nodding agreeably as I went
past.
It was, as mentioned, a hot
day; I went to a stand to buy a
drink of some sort. They were
selling a combination of pineap-
ple and green pepper juice. Deli-
cious.
Then I approached Mecca.
South University. The competi-
tion booths. A treat. This is
where the real high-class types
hang out.
I was approached by one such
shortly after I stepped onto the
hallowed ground. He wore a
beret, had a pencil-thin mus-
tache, and one gold earring on
See NIGHTMARES, Page 23

Itunting for bargains all day can be exhausting, so this shopper
decided to drop off for a little snooze.
Graffiti-an alternative art

the left (whatever that means).
out to be gay.
The elevator in the LSA build-
ing also provides some chuckles,
since it travels somewhere close
to the speed of sound. The graf-
fiti ranges from anger (SLOW
THIS THING DOWN) to desper-
ation (TOOOOO FAST).
For fans of the anti-war genre,
there is still a big STOP THE
WAR on the back of a house on
South U. and a vaguely discern-
able VIET CONG WON along the
side of the Union. Better catch
these artifacts while you can-
most places have ten year re-

painting programs that will eli-
minate it by 1981 or so. The Uni-
versity alone spends $5,800 an-
nually to gloss over the stuff.
- But, you say, graffiti's not art.
It's just scribbles.
That's what they said about
Picasso too, and a number of
other geniuses. Granted, it does-
n't take too much to grab a
spray gun and paint DESTROY
ALL MONSTERS on the side of
a brick wall. But which would
you rather have-a spray paint-
ed brick wall or a foam-rubber-
and-coat-hanger sculpture that
spins on the end of a stick? e

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