One time when we flew
from Las Vegas to Los Angeles,
short flight, early on a Monday morning,
there was a guy behind me boasting
as he crammed a splatter-paint canvas
into the overhead – he’d been at the
Blue Man Group show the night before
and they’d given him the artwork that’s
created spontaneously at each and every
gig. This was the 34th Blue Man Group
performance he’d been to and his 15th
painting.
It was a longer wait for bags at LAX
than the entire flight-time.
I thought about the guy’s room in his
house where he added paintings. Working
his joe-job Monday to Friday, then hitting
up a quick flight down to Vegas to hopefully
get himself a new painting, see the same show
and maybe score a free drink. Back in time
for work on Monday morning, provided
he travelled light enough to cram everything
up in the locker above you.
Did he keep his toenails in jars, in the room
with all the paintings? Was Karen Carpenter’s
solo record on a loop in the room with the paintings
he fluked every second or third show in Las Vegas?
Was there a bearskin rug? Was there a beer-stained
tablecloth that was never ever changed? Was there
barely a woman’s touch in Buffalo Bill’s den when
a new painting covered an old punch-hole in the
room no art-dealer would ever want to see?
We had breakfast in Venice Beach, after finally
getting our bags. I ordered the worst coffee I’ve
ever had and counted myself lucky to have enjoyed
two shows by Blue Man Group. I do my own
crappy artwork. My room is clean. The coast
is clear.