Trials of Larry: The Offishul Evil Genius

We're not outta the woods yet - the verdict doesn't come down until August 12. But as of yesterday, Mayor Larry's influence-peddling trial is all over but for the gavel slam. Done. Like summer barbecue. Or your back, say, after falling asleep on your boat in the sun, whilst contemplating a mayoral candidacy over a beer or two.

All we citizens have to do is kick back on the patio for another month and let the assorted smog from burnt hot dogs, journalists' Blackberrying thumbs and lawyers' overheated brains dissipate into the ozone, while Mr O'Brien sweats it out in his secret lair exclusive penthouse.

As an occasionally black and white kinda coyote, I really appreciated the lawyers' summations.

Prosecutor Scott Hutchison faint-praised main witness Terry Kilrea as "hardly Machiavellian." Then Larry's best-money-could-buy defense guy, Michael Edelson, did his darndest to paint him up as some kinda evil genius.

Which on the evidence, compared to Larry, he may be...

Performance Art

Stopped by Gallery 101 on Friday night with a few friends to see Not Tonight Honey, an art show that promised to include performance art.

By the time we arrived, we had missed three performances, but we stayed long enough to catch at least one.

We may have caught two. One of the gallery's bathrooms had a closed circuit TV camera in it with a monitor out in the gallery. At one point, a woman went into the bathroom and on the monitor we could see her pacing back and forth waving her arms. I wasn't sure if this was a performance or perhaps a private display of tension or strong emotion.

But we definitely caught one full performance. The room got suddenly quiet while I was in the middle of expounding on something. We had missed a young woman disrobing and then kneeling in front of a set of candles and water bottles filled with a dark liquid.

The woman lit a candle, said a prayer, whipped herself a dozen or so times on the back with a flogger and drank a bottle of the liquid. Then she lit the next candle and repeated the process. Her back was getting bright red by the fourth candle and the fourth bottle. It occurred to me that she was drinking too much in too short a time for it to be healthy. That is when I realized that a part of her ritual that I thought was silent prayer was actually regurgitation into a large container.

I decided that I didn't really want to see any more of the performance and walked out to the Gallery's back deck. The others who had come with me, Aggie, the Disheveled Waiter and Woodsy had apparently also seen enough.

We had a lively discussion about the performance and performance art in general. But I am left with several questions including:

1. Are nudity, self-flagellation, regurgitation and religious iconography passé in performance art?
2. Or do you need at least one of those elements so that people will know it's art?
3. Are the levels of self-harm and audience discomfort directly proportional to the quality of a performance art piece?
   

A significant birthday

It is time again for us to to wish the Fifth Muse a happy birthday.

When we Irregulars set up shop back in the cybercretaceous era, we were all about the Muse - we even called her "ours" in a proprietary way, although she wrote compellingly about her life for, well, the whole Net. Frankly, it was a bit of a drama. But we felt engaged.

We also saw a need for comment and occasional nudges along the way, if she chose to accept them. We filled it in our fashion, which is mainly solid individually, enthusiastic certainly, but perhaps anarchic collectively. (And no, ma'am, it was never entirely about finding a date, although that issue figured prominently for you. I digress. Again. Imagine that...)

The Muse (wisely, we think, although we miss her) withdrew from semi-public anonymity to live life rather than blog about it. We're no longer party to her thoughts, but hope that she's still keeping a journal. Someplace quite private would be best.

Oh, we still hear occasional snippets about her life. She's around. But following her lead, we don't pry, and these days we chance only upon random items. Let us just say that she, like most people, has had good times, bad ones, and a triumph or two to which we have raised quiet glasses.

The Elgin Street Irregulars have obviously moved on too. We continue, likely less impassioned without her. The first great fling is always the most memorable... But we wish her well, and hope she has a decent date now and again. Happy Birthday, Muse!

No place like gnome

Cedric celebrated Canada Day by hanging a patriotic banner in the window of ESI European headquarters in Florence.

All is peaceful today. But not so last night.

The tiny troll had a run-in with the carbinieri after guzzling a bit too much maple syrup. Seems he tried to climb the faux David statue outside the Palazzo Vecchio, alarming passersby.

Having discovered what a poor climber he is, I think the syrup is now stashed safely out of his miniscule reach.

Bring on the holy tacos

Yeah, yeah. I know Michael Jackson posts are already about passé. But I've been busy. And even at 3,500 feet, where the air is rare, the horizon blessedly wide, nightly howl-ups with my coyote brethren loud and yappy, and the Internet is dial-up and crappy, the King of Pop's sad death did not escape my notice.

Neither I'm sure, will the ensuing tawdry burlesque. It is, after all, one of the Independent Observer's favourite states for a reason.

Jackson's life was pure tabloid: a slow-motion circus train wreck. How would his dying change things? Especially with Joe Jackson, the ever-classy Rev. Al Sharpton, a cawing murder of publicity-hungry lawyers, the odd cellphone-camera totin' ambulance attendant, carpet-bombing Fox News 'reporters' and hordes of opportunistic alleged insiders, all gyrating out of the worm-riddled woodwork.

I'm not cynical or anything. Ummm, okay, maybe a little... I digress. But I figure we have only nanoseconds - maybe less - before the end game.

Which, if I read the signs aright, will be sightings of Jackson and Elvis, still alive. Eternally cruising the American heartland together in a white '68 Cadillac, leaving humongous tips with awestruck night shift attendants in isolated Seven Eleven gas stops. Who will sell their amazing stories to tabloid TV.

After that, it's a short inevitable hop to tales of corn tortillas adorned with the King of Pop's likeness. Blessed with miraculous powers. Oh, and steep admissions for supplicants that wish to bathe in their curative aura. Later to be hawked on eBay for thousands of bucks, and displayed in a highly legitimate casino museum on Sunset Strip.

Which reminds me. My breakfast Fritos this morning? I chanced upon this amazing silhouette of Michael Jackson on one of the chips. Hallelujah! I'm pretty sure it cured me. Of cynicism. Oh, yes. It's a freakin' - and I use that term advisedly - miracle! Bidders...?