8- The Michigan Daily Summer Weekly - Wednesday, July 28, 1993

Art Fair pits
ignorant versus
angry in epic
confrontation

Ann Arbor exists in its own realm of space and
time. The speed of the minutes that pass here
measure differently than those across the rest of the
planet. Time is on a rigid cycle in the Diag and its
outlying areas, and it is a cycle with which only its
year-round student residents are completely flamiliar.
The cycle, for those whose lives are not at the
mercy of its rhythm, is thus: in the span of the fall
and winter terms, the town seems to travel through
space at the speed of light. Never enough of it. Don't
blink or you might miss a month. Then April blows
through leading us to the abrupt halt that signifies the
change, our own p.c. version of daylight savings.
The students here identify the coming of spring
term, therefore, not by the University's printed
schedule, but rather by the jerk of the city as it shifts
gears (imagine doing 80 down the expressway and
then casually popping into reverse - that's the jerk).
To continue with this automotive metaphor, spring
edges along in third, and it is not until summer that
the natural progression of Ann Arbor's time zone
slows us down to a mellow first gear that some days
leans moretoward neutral.
This pattern occursassmoothly asthe planets
circle the sun. It exists as a part of the indigenous
student population. We embrace it andmakeitour
world. It becomes us, and only one evil force can
disrupt the mellifluousparadigm.
They call it Art Fair.
Art Fair is to students what kryptonite is to
Superman.It drains us, stealing away all our strength
and special powers. No longer can we walk the
quickest path to class, roller blade through the Diag,
leap the West Engine Arch in a single bound. Barely
even can we breathe the air of our beloved city lest
we choke on the fried food particles that further
desecrate the place we call home.
Were the Art Fair explorers to know the traumas

that we the student-residents go through when they
flock into our town, perhaps they would take more
kindly to our presence. But as no one can understand
the phenomenon until they become one of our own
the tolerance of the Art Fair goer for the student rub
thin.
"Get the hell off your bike," shouts one wander-
ing browser as I try to get to work on time through
the throng of invaders. She must have forgotten in all
the sweaty excitement that am the resident, and
never should a guest treat her host so shabbily. "I live
here," I respond powerfully, in heartfelt attempt to
remind her of her place in my world.
Even those who should have the Ann Arbor
know-how to know better fail to stand tall by our
side during this trying time. Our friends. 'he ones
who've gone home for the summer. "I'm coming up,
and I'm bringing everyone else. We'll all stay with
you, sleep on your floor, use your bathroom, eat your
food. And we can all walk around Art Fair together,
in a really big group." Can you say "See you in
September?"
But we the summer resident have each other to
Ican on,andlean we do, as complaints slip throug9"
apartment walls from Washtenaw to Packard, giving,
us a rather needed respite from conversationsabout
the horrible heat and humidity.
And then it is over.
The tourists flock home. The artists pack up. The
barricades go back to the AAPD. We feel good about
our town again. We feet good about ourselves. The
maker has been met, the wall has been climbed,
Goliath has been slain. We have fought the
kryptonite and, like Superman before us, we have 0
been the stronger of the two parties.
The student residents let out a collective sigh and
Ann Arbor slides back into neutral to glide by the
rest of summer. Kryptonite and Art-free:

" TEXT BY*
DARCY LOCKMAN
PHOTOS BY-
MARTIN VLOET
EVAN PETRIE