CONTEMPORARY FOOD ART

My friend and her fiance know how to cook. Actually, I suspect that it's mostly her fiance who cooks. The meals always look amazing, but I have developed this strange fetish about turning their culinary beauty into sick-looking pieces of contemporary art.

First and foremost, I am not a huge fan of what some people consider "contemporary" art, and this is coming from someone who much prefers modern looking thing: furniture, dishes, silverware, decorations... A few years ago I decided to visit the Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA) and discovered that many artists (not all, but far more than one would ever suspect) pass off absolute bullshit as "contemporary" art: a chair stuck to a wall, a ream of paper glued together piece by piece, magic marker lines on a canvas that a kindergartener could've done better. Sorry if you're a contemporary artist, but I'll be honest enough to tell you that you probably suck.

And I suck, too, which is why I am so fascinated with turning my friend's food into art.

I'll be honest enough, too, to admit that my art career started with weather radar images, particularly thunderstorm imagery, and my art sucks, too. My art is improving, though, because I am using a stylus now, so I'm not embellishing free-hand on my phone any longer. The food is a fabulous medium as long as I stick to pictures and don't actually try dragging my hands through any of it, although that has distinct possibilities, as well.

I'm waiting to be discovered. If my friend's fiance continues to cook and post pictures for my entertainment, I may have enough fodder for my own show at the ICA. If that happens and I get my own exhibition, I'll invite all of my friends and I'll hire my friend's fiance to cater the event. Imagine that! People could watch the artist and muse working live!

Oh, well. An artist can dream, right? In the meantime, I hope those two don't mind my thoughtless and completely tacky renditions of their otherwise fabulous meals. Maybe someday we'll all be famous together!

THUNDERBIRDS . . . AGAIN!

I don’t watch network TV anymore. Actually, considering what a TV junkie I used to be, I don’t watch much of anything anymore. I cut the cord with cable TV about eighteen months ago and have been a semi-dedicated Sling TV viewer ever since. I have access to Hulu and Netflix and some other apps. (I downloaded PBS so I could watch Poldark because, holy smokes, have you seen Aiden Turner in that show?)

I am completely happy that network television is failing. I’ve had a serious burr up my butt since Jericho was cancelled (even though we and thousands of our closest friends express-sent tons, and I do mean tons, of peanuts to the CBS headquarters in NY and LA and managed to save a second season).  I’ve even been skipping Wicked Tuna and Pillow Talk and my other reality TV binges, have not watched a single Hallmark movie, and have gone days without turning on the television at all.

This morning for some reason, though, I decide to see what’s on the telly. I skip past my usual favorites and head on down the list of obscure Sling TV channels. I am passing the grid-view listings at record pace when my fingers suddenly come to a dead standstill.

My God. For real? Are my eyes truly seeing this? It cannot be. It must be some terrible remake. There is no way on this wonderful Earth that Sling TV could possibly be privy to this. And yet … I turn to the channel it states, click on, and …

It’s the original Thunderbirds.

As I type this blog entry, I am suffering from déjà vu because I seriously think this scenario has played out before. But, I cannot help myself. I am entranced and watch the show. It’s full of intrigue and clever writing and sass and mystery and suspense and humor. I actually laugh out loud at the plot line at a point where it is supposed to be funny, not because it’s cheesy bad.

Best of all, it has MARIONETTES. That’s right. This is a doll show.

That being said, the show was one of the best animated series to ever hit the airwaves. It’s all about a guy and his five sons who live on an island, I think, with a rich London agent lady and her strange manservant, and each of the sons is responsible for a different Thunderbird specialty air/space machine.  The animator (or marionator?) later worked on Bond films and two Superman flicks, so this is no small-potatoes outfit. He is also quoted as calling the 2004 remake “a load of crap.”

Regardless, watching this show has been a wonderful throwback to some of my youngest, fondest memories. The show ran for one year, 1965-1966. It’s absolutely campiness at its finest, and I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone with a television. But, you won’t get it if you only watch network TV – another reason right there why I hope the Big 3 fail.

THE BRITISH AREN'T STAYING AT THIS HOTEL

I’ve always wanted to spend the night at a hotel in Boston, overlooking the skyline, but considered it an extravagant pipe-dream. After all, I live a mere train ride away from the city, and I’m in and out of Boston multiple times a month for mere entertainment purposes.

However, my daughter’s wedding (small and Covid-safe, thank you very much) entailed a chance to stay overnight at the Revere Hotel. The Revere is a shout-out to Paul Revere’s much touted and largely thwarted ride from Boston to … as far as he made it … warning the colonists that “The British (were) coming!” A block away from Boston Common, I suppose it’s a rightly fitting moniker for the hotel.

The décor of the twenty-four story hotel is all 1775/1776 Americana, and I freaking loved it. The rooms are all Revolutionary artsy and there’s a life-sized art deco metal sculpture of Revere on his horse in the lobby sitting area that is the absolute coolest thing I’ve ever seen in a hotel. Even the spotless rooms bore eclectic touches – artistic lamps, paintings, sculptures, etc.

The small after-party took place on the seventh floor roof-top deck that looks down and out to the city and up to the rest of the hotel. We didn’t have the typical tourist’s skyline view of Boston, so out-of-towners might’ve been disappointed not to be immediately facing the Pru and the Hancock Tower, but those of us who truly love our city knew exactly what we were looking over.

In the morning I hoofed it about two minutes to the Arlington T then rode the nearly empty subway to North Station and caught the early train home (an hour early … thank goodness I decided to buy the ticket before getting breakfast) and ended up walking through a car show near my house.

The funny thing was when a woman in Boston asked me about a particular T line service, I must’ve looked like the native I am because I immediately responded with, “Well, you can get as far as Haymarket, but the orange line isn’t running to Oak Grove from North Station because they’re redoing that stop, so get off at Haymarket if you’re heading any further.”

Holy crap, where did that come from? And now I have to wonder, did I call it Haymahkit? Sometimes when I’m in the city, I forget that the alphabet has an “R” in it unless the word actually starts with R. Hmmmm, does that make it the Reveeyah Hotel?

I often do Boston “like a tourist,” and I suppose I am one since I don’t actually live within city limits. Now my wish to stay in Boston as if I really am a tourist has been realized. I guess the only thing left is to take a Duck Tour. Yup, I’ve never done that, either. Tourist trip re-do, here I come!

BINDER CLIP FOOTBALL

How do you keep entertained at a Mexican restaurant when there is only one server for the entire restaurant?

This is a serious question. Folks, you never know when you might have to survive in the Mexican Restaurant Wild. Oh, sure, you could drink margaritas (of course, we do), but that’s not enough. It might be a half hour before the server returns to your table. Maybe even forty-five minutes.

Binder Clip.

That’s right. You heard me. You need to bring along a mini-binder clip.

I find one randomly stuck inside my sweatshirt pocket. I must’ve put it there from work or something. Anyway, I put the binder clip on the table and immediately start flicking it like that plastic frog game, the one where you squish down the frog’s butt-end and it leaps across the table.

The Binder Clip Football Game keeps us entertained the whole time we are there, about ninety minutes, having a few drinks while waiting for TAKE-OUT food. Yes, we are waiting for a TAKE-OUT order.  The best part is that we entertain those around us, too. The binder clip sails across our table, on to the floor, over the booth backs, into the far window, past the register, into our cleavage, across our shoulders, into our foreheads, into the tortilla chips . . .

Honestly, it’s cheap and satisfying entertainment. When we go to leave, a woman three booths away says, “You two sounded like you were having so much fun!”

Should we tell her? Who would believe us? Will people judge us when we admit it? Oh, what the hell.

“Yes, we were. We were playing with a binder clip.”

The expression on the woman’s face? Priceless. The hour-plus of enjoyment we got from the game? Also priceless, but, even better, memorable.