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Owned By TIP • OUT Magazine
CONTENTS
Publisher Jimmy Murray Editor Jimmy Murray Contributing Writers Dustin The Tool Carl Herd Morgan Riherd Photographers Hugo Pedraza Kenny Haner Angela Morales Art Director Mario Trejo Advertising Sales Jimmy Murray Sergio Vazquez Joseline Borjas Jose Umana Distribution Ismael Garza
On The Cover Model: Sabrina Sin Photo: Kenny Haner - www.subsociety.net
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Alexsias And Gina
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Carissa
-Submissions will not be returned unless requested and accompanied by a S.A.S.E. Tip-Out reserves the right to revise any accepted material to fit editorial guidelines. Submission implies the work is original. Those submitting bear the responsibility of any copyright infringement. Some products and services available herein should not be purchased by minors. The articles and editorials are meant for entertainment purposes only, and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Tip-Out, its affiliates and or subsidiaries. This publisher in no way offers any recommendations, endorsement or guarantees of any kind in regard to any service, product or person advertised or mentioned within. Therefore Tip-Out and its publishers may not be held liable or responsible in any way for any actions ensuing from advertising. Tip-Out and the original typeface creation and logo configuration are copyrighted representations of the Tip-Out trademark owned by Tip-Out Magazine. Copyright 2010 © No part of this publication may be reproduced without the written permission of its publishers. The Tip-Out logo design, was created by, is copyrighted and is the property of Tip-Out Magazine. Tip-Out Trademark is owned by Tip-Out Magazine. The publishers reserve the right to refuse any advertisement for any reason including, but not limited to content or design with no further responsibility than a refund of any payment. The publishers assume no responsibility for errors and/or omissions, or inability to publish due to mistake or any other reason caused or suffered by themselves or their subcontractors. Such an occurrence will not constitute a breach of any contract and the publisher will be liable for only the price of the ad space and may at their option run a “make good” ad of the same size in a subsequent issue. No right to discount or credit will be given. The advertiser is solely responsible for ad content and photos and/ or art work submitted for their advertisement and shall indemnify and hold harmless the publisher from photos or art work run in their ad due to copyright or trademark infringement, lack of proper releases, slander, libel, unfair trade practices etc. The advertiser also assures and takes full responsibility for keeping all records as to the age and identity of all models in submitted photos as required by law. First copy of this publication is free. Each additional copy costs $2. Send questions, comments and submissions to: Tip-Out 823 Algregg St. Houston, TX 77008
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Bartender Of The Month
Model Of The Month
10 Chicken Wing
TIP • OUT Ink
12 2010 Body Art Expo
Advice And It’s Many Perils
14 Abby Hillhouse
Pinup Of The Month
16 Ice Houses And Being The 21st Century
Advice And It’s Many Perils
18 Wake, The Small Sounds, And Vintage Mojo
Music Review
20 Houston Art Car Parade
Theatre And Arts
JUNE 2010
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BARTENDER OF THE MONTH
ALEXSIAS & GINA Of Babes Cabaret
5614 Hillcroft @ Westpark Houston, TX 77036 Photo by Hugo Pedraza
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MODEL OF THE MONTH
CARISSA Of Sometimes Love Couture
www.sometimeslovefashion.com Photo by Kenny Haner - www.subsociety.net
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TIP•OUT INK
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In the 1920’s Soviet archeologist Sergei Rudenko excavated a series of burial mounds in the border regions of Russia near China, Mongolia, and Borat’s Kazakhstan. Sergei toiled in the Pzyruk Valley of the Ukok plateau in the high Asian steppe of Siberia’s Altai Mountains. This region is migratory crossing point in the steppe which humans have used for hunting, trade, and travel since the beginning of it all. Sergei unearthed the remains of ancient Scythian chiefs, leaders of an Iron horse riding culture that traded and fought the Greeks, Persians Romans, and Chinese. Our closest historical link to the ancient Indo-European tribes who were the direct genetic, cultural, and linguistic link to all the nations of Europe, the Middle East, West and Central Asia, and the Indian sub-continent. So what if he found another buried dead person, that happens every time they try build a road anywhere in Europe, Middle East or Chicago. Why does a magazine devoted to loving all things Houston care what a dead commie found in the middle of frozen nowhere?
Photography By Hugo Pedraza
Aside from the oldest pile rug ever found and a massive funerary chariot, three of the chiefs discovered in the mounds had mummified. Their leathery skin preserving their 2600 year-old tattoos, a chronicle of lives long since snuffed out. Using what archeologists think were bone knitting needles, ancient artists tapped charcoal into ornate waves and swirls that ungulate into birds and horses, mythic figures, and abstract imagery. The work is of a degree and skill that rivals any modern artist. Tattoos that allow that allow a glimpse into our misty mystic primordial past where inked skin was imbued with supernatural power and cool.
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From ancient bone needles tapping natural dyes by word of mouth and patient explanation over the millennia he tattoo artist passed their craft from master student, till one became the other and began the cycle again. Across the continents and time their knowledge twisted and turned in artist hands to become the luck bringing coy and dragon of the orient; the power of the Samoan warrior; through India and celebrations of dharma and karma; to Arabia and reflections of God’s love; and back to the West through sailors exploring the edge of the world and even onto to the arm of the George V, King of England. These whispering winds of history blew through Houston last May thanks to the 2010 Tattoo Body Art Expo and TIP • OUT was there to catch the fun. Artists from as close as Westheimer and as far away as Japan gathered to celebrate, talk shop, share the love, and best of all to ink skin. Unrivaled style and skill were on display and contests were ready for the taking. Anything tattoo related one might want, from ink, gun, and needle to rock music, t-shirts, and a cold beer to dull the throb of an artist’s toil were on hand. Tattoo artists and their walking canvases have a reputation in our society for being out there , a bit wild, and on the edge of society. But like most stereotypes, what you think and what is true does not meet. Straights happily mingled with the freaks, their kids playing together in the aisles, admiring the work that makes suburban neighbors run the other direction. As you walked between the booths and the cricket buzz of electric needles doing their duty, some faces would contort in discomfort others remained beatific, almost penitent, as the artist froze a moment in time on a patch of bare skin. Curious onlookers would drift past, lingering for a moment to watch the evolving work, cringing a little in sympathy, before moving on to the next work in progress. Men tended linger when a pretty young stretched out drawing the ire of their dates. Yet still people watched and marveled the ancient power of the tattoo still undeterred. TIP-OUT
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PINUP OF THE MONTH
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ADVICE AND ITS MANY PERILS
ICE HOUSES AND BEING THE 21ST CENTURY By Dustin the Tool It’s the small quiet places that make that make a city an institution.
Every region on Gaia’s bosom, every nook and cranny of this mudball we’re destroying on a daily basis, even down to the damn neighborhoods, has it’s signature tavern. London’s pubs, Paris’ sidewalk cafés, Tokyo’s karaoke, Munich’s gartens, Prague’s haus’, New York’s closets bars, Nairobi’s masandukuni’s, volumes would be needed for the table of contents alone to be truly just. Bars are as diverse and wondrous as individual people, even if they are only the pomp and circumstance of getting shithammered. Ah the wasted genius of humanity. The Republic of Houston, being a world-class city, has its own signature watering hole. The humble little ice house. Long about the turn of the century, the turn of the twentieth that is, Houston was a wee burg of 44,633, surrounded by smaller villages. The Heights, Bellaire, and West University to name a few. Used largely as a portage point for cotton shipped out of Galveston, as dangerous its reputation often proved to be, it was mostly sleepy, hot, wet, and boring. By 1930 the population, thanks to oil, more than doubled to 138,276 and we graduated to merely hot, wet, and dangerous only. After water and food those folks wallowing in a black gold rush needed one thing. More than liquor, more than cigarettes, more than whores, all those good people needed ice. The Romans, Israelites, ancient Germans, all the people around before pants were in fashion, used to pack snow into deep holes and dark caves for use in the hot summer months. Fredrick Tudor and Nathanial Whyte made a killing in the early 1800’s harvesting ice in New England and shipping it to the tropics for rum runners and piña coladas. By the time Houston was entering its golden age, American brewing and their investment in commercial refrigeration had taken over the job of distributing ice from the Yankees. Some would ship ice directly from the brewery to the customers,
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though Houston’s hot climate and flat distances threatened the longevity of the product. Enterprising businesses and individuals set up small neighborhood way-stations to store and distribute ice from. Constructed from little more than a roof for shelter and a room size cooler, these ice houses served a nascent Houston and her burgeoning thirsty population. After being diviners of God’s nectar of manna, brewers are businessmen. So it’s no great leap of logic to conclude that with that first shipment of ice a few cases of ice cold beer went along with it. Soon men and women were gathering at ice houses looking more than to extend the shelf life of their leftovers and milk. By the time Frigidaire relegated the ice industry to natural disasters and weekend cook outs, beer was already the salvation of quite a few of Houston’s little ice houses.
Several Johnny-come latelies up and down booming neighborhoods try to catch the romance of the ice house and blend it some kind trendy horseshit that all the vacant goldbrickers love to suck up with a straw. Aside from questing for a piece of ass, I’ve long given up trying to figure out why most people frequent the trendy spots in the first place. I may blast people for their political views and their choices in drinking establishments, but I cannot fault them for the decisions they make of the love they take. As much as I may try I am incapable of fully understanding all the reasons I come to my own decisions on my personal preference, much less someone else’s. If they don’t hurt anybody or get anybody else’s way who am I to criticize. Herein lies a paradox in my governing philosophies. I can’t fault a person’s freedom of choice, except that the choices they make are degrading the culture and unique color of my city in favor of some prefabricated atmosphere. The least they could do is hang on for at least enough time to see the babies conceived in their bathrooms actually born. Instead they dry up blow away like a turd on a summer sidewalk in a matter of months leaving a vacant building, broken promises, and busted dreams. The transient nature
of trendy joints is a pernicious assault on the live and let live goals I pound from my pen. Something deeper is at work here than the shallow spat between dirty indie-cool and yuppie pressed success. Deeper than the American counter-culture battle between those that embrace a conformist work ethic and those that cleave to a bohemian artistic come as you are ethos. In many cities, I’d imagine most cities around the world save Tehran and few other backward hellholes, one can walk to a nearby watering hole and slake your thirst with others seeking escape and camaraderie. Despite popular opinion in the rest of the country Houston is not one of those hellholes. I would venture an educated guess that before the war, especially prohibition every home in Houston had a libation station close enough to reach by foot like so many of the older cities of America still do today. Somewhere along the way post-war Houston lost a bit of that character so many other cities take for granted. Thanks to insane growth, the automobile industry’s cannibalization of our transportation infrastructure, people took to the habit of driving everywhere, and the local spots begun to dry up one by one. Mix our unique take on zoning and the massive neighborhood fluctuations that take place during breakneck growth and it’s no wonder Houston has such trouble putting down roots. Growth and fluctuating demographics made the tug of war between these two ends of America seem especially acute in our city. It’s hard to start making a life with the kind of people you want to surround yourself with if in 5 years your neighborhood is completely different than when you moved to it. Small businesses have a harder time making relationships and people don’t feel drawn to the quiet corners of the city. We have to start making the changes to make us great. Don’t get me wrong, I think Houston is poised to become America’s 21st century city. Much in the same way New York took on in the early 19th century, Chicago in the late 19th century, and Los Angeles did in the 20th century.
If Houston is going to be the next city to leave its cultural imprint on the US and possibly the rest of the world then it is up to us to build a culture worth offering. I don’t the mean the highbrow big ticket draws like professional sports, theater, opera, symphony and other once a year trips. These are institutions used by the rich and elite as a part of the masturbatory pony show of oneupmanship that seems to be a part of their genetic code. I’m talking about the culture of the glue that holds this city together, the working stiff that slogs through hell everyday to put food in baby’s bellies and blankets on their backs. The culture we rely on every day, every week, every month of every year to give us a couple hours respite from the grind of daily life. The corner bar, the little cafe’, the used book store in the shabby store front, the little stages that draw bands you never heard of from the far off reaches of Pasadena and Katy. It’s the small quiet places that make that make a city an institution. Business men and women I beg you, go find those dusty small places on the back streets of our neighborhoods. Make something unique and new where we can come together, share a cold one, and hash out our city. A place where we can eyeball strangers for a bit before slapping them on the back and buying them one of the bishop’s fine brews. Right now cookie cutter fly-by-night establishments designed to suck as much money from our citizens in the shortest period of time and plastic national franchise trademarks are not going to do the job. Houston ice houses are the glue that holds the city together. One of the few places where a doctor and a roughneck can saddle up next to each other, knock back a truly ice cold Lone Star, and figure out how to make our city great. It’s time seek your local one out. And if there isn’t one, become the person that put it there. Remember, should ever want to buy me a drink, I’m sour one on the corner with an ink stain on my hand. Make in a bourbon and soda, hold the straw. You save the straw, you save us all. TIP-OUT
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MUSIC REVIEW
WAKE, THE SMALL SOUNDS, AND VINTAGE MOJO By Carl Herd Even though I carry a damn phone with me everywhere I go, every once in a while a call can still surprise me. While cracking open a fine evening with my lady one such call came through. It was Wake, a shadowy figure from the dark corners of my music fandom. One of these days I’ll be sure to tell you the story. Over the years I’d call and leave messages on his antiquated answering machine about whatever show I thought he might be interested in. He rarely called me back, likely already having plans to make it to the shows I assume he hadn’t heard of. On the off chance he’d call to invite me out, it was usually because I’d never heard of the band or had no idea about the show in the first place. A couple of weeks ago Wake called asked me to come to hear the Small Sounds with him. It wasn’t “Hey I’m going to this show, make it if you want.” it was true request for man-date to see music. This is what made the frantic call he gave me so out of place. Never before had he asked me to come along. The Small Sounds have been knocking around off and on since the aught five or so and were old friends with Wake through all the guy’s previous bands. Wake has caught a few of their regular gigs at the Continental Club, Walter’s on Washington, Sid’s Lagoon, the typical spots one would take in the band’s particular view of musicAmericana. This was not a band that Wake would need my partnership with, this was a band he’d long loved, and should merely wait for me to show up at the venue without his prompting. Taken aback, I’d assumed something terribly tragic had happened and Wake just needed a buddy as we all do from time to time. I groaned audibly, filled with dread, and understood completely when he told me where we’d be taking in these favored sons of Houston. Anyone who’s lived in Houston for longer than two-weeks is familiar with the famous corner of West Alabama and Shepard. An old classic theater just ripe for the Alamo Drafthouse is the most prominent resident of the corner. Houston’s first Whole Foods, the old Cactus records, the old Record Rack, one of the best Chinese restaurants in Houston’s history, the Hunan Dragon Inn, were all former occupants. Whole Earth Provision, Dimitri’s, Cycle Spectrum, all longtime Houston retailers, are still there. One block north of West Alabama is Kipling, namesake and the previous home of a favored Houston music spot, Rudyard’s. Rudyard’s is renown for finding excellent small and local acts, and big acts before they are big (ie. The White Stripes, Silversun Pickups, the list goes on and on.) As a result they outgrew their original digs on Kipling and moved to their current location on Waugh. Rud’s is place that both Wake and I are inmate friends with, Wake even more so than I. Several joints
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have moved in and out of their old spot, few stayed long, the current occupant is a bar called ‘the Vintage.’ It was Wake’s feeble utterance of this place which set us to apprehension.
Recently a whole slew of bars and restaurants have opened up, which I have no interest in darkening their door. These phenomena started in Little Dallas (Midtown) and jumped the bayou over to Washington. They usually have cooler-than-thou one word names that that require a definitive article to emphasize them. Might often be centered on a theme, and have highly stylized interiors and exteriors. Gaggles of single yupettes in shiny tops, high heeled boots, and painted on jeans that cost the same as my car payment come and go, as popped collared ex-frat daddies and young professionals follow them around, letting go of mountains of cash, to pour drinks first seen on Sex in the City, down their throats. I’m not criticizing here, I’m just different. My kind of place is dirty and seedy, with questionable clientele that ingested various chemicals to make it to their various states of inebriation, criminally cheap beer, and loud live music. So long as you side with love and are a peaceable person, you’re OK with me. But in the interests of full disclosure, one should know where Wake and I are coming from. Wake and I sat on his dilapidated couch taking in a few pre-show libations and debating whether or not we just wanted to wait a week or so until they were on home ground for us at the current Ruds. We even debated whether or not we needed to put on shirts with collars. Wake said we needed to check and see if the Ruds mojo was still evident in the place and that us being kicked out for our poor fashion sense would be a badge of honor we could proudly wear. I convinced Wake to change into a pair of pants and we were on our way. We hemmed and hawed the whole way over making plans and simulating counter attacks to any social parry and thrust we might encounter. Mostly we didn’t want to look like a couple of douches. We parked easy and were audibly thankful for the spare crowd we could make out through the windows. I immediately felt a pang of guilt for the band. We weren’t at this place for our self-determined cool, we were here for the guys. When it comes to the band the more folks that can hear them the better. Thankfully the Vintage kept the low key feel of Rud’s and a generous patio up front gave plenty of room to enjoy the spring air. More people were outside than in, but I knew that had little effect on whether or not you could hear the band. The young professional crowd outside and in were a little suspect of our appearance. Not sure if we were lost or just cops who picked the wrong disguises to mingle. Wake got hearty howdy from the band by name, relieving me quite a bit. It gave us
the kick of cool we needed to survive our fashion choices. An attentive barkeep delivered our glass at astonishingly reasonable price and band kicked of their second set. It was not three minutes into the second song when the night really started Just to our right a girl upright and seemingly in control before was suddenly a heap on the floor. Her friends huddled around her, but no one seemed too terribly alarmed. The band finished their song and went into an impromptu intermission out respect for the young woman.
two patrons left inside the bar as they were trying to clean up. We had a nice chat with the band and patrons outside. Being vets of venues where mysterious smells are not uncommon, the band was ready to get back inside and rock, though out of respect for the more tender stomachs they waited for the room to clear a bit. One the poor girl’s friends tried to assert she had a heart condition. Kudos for trying to save face for your friend, but seriously I doubt this lady’s doctor wants to treat her heart condition with massive quantities of alcohol.
Wake and I drank on.
Fans finally ferried the funk out of the bar and the band set to cooking the house. Most of the Small Sounds sound is a delicate mixture of country and rock. Tommy Ramsey’s soft electric pianos and excellent tender tight playing are the core which the band straps itself to send you soaring on a sonic high. Lead vocalist Holden Rushing not only has an excellent lead singer’s name, but a set of gravelly pipes that are the perfect counterpoint to the pianos. Craig Feazel can push and manipulate a steel guitar with the ease that most walk to the corner, making a deceptively difficult instrument look and sound easier than it actually is. James Thompson is all over the place using lap steel, sweet banjos, and singing guitars adding those bits of flourish and color that every band needs. Paul Beebe and Mark Riddle on drums and bass cement the solid unwavering center. It’s a good thing there were not a lot of people at the show, because I get the feeling that their show aren’t going to be spare for long.
She eventually woke from her stupor, slightly slushy, and even seated she was none too steady. By now only the bartender, the young lady, and couple of her friends remained. Well, them and Wake and I, watching the whole fiasco unfold. Besides, ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ was playing over the sound system, and the barkeep was telling everyone in and out of ear shot that he did not serve that woman one drink. You can’t plan this stuff any better. Having been in her shoes before It was apparent to me what was going on with this poor young thing. Her remaining friends, at least the ones that remained inside, had enough sense to take the ice water left by the bartender. However they did not have enough sense to roll her ass up and throw her in the car to get her home. They instead called and ambulance. By the time our daring do paramedics showed the crowd inside thinned to an eager few degenerates, likely the type of people that hold us up on the freeway gawking at a car wreck, and the medics outnumbered the patrons. The degenerates do not include Wake and I of course. We’re journalists here to hold up our end of the Fourth Estate. The professionals quickly took her vitals and came to the same conclusion I had. The chief paramedic was so concerned about his patient that he and Wake got into a long conversation about the beautiful Gibson SE on stage waiting for the band to return. Just as they strapped her into stretcher A-516 she was protesting that she did not want to go to the emergency room. Poor thing just needs better, or in the very least, more intelligent friends. With a quick pop the paramedics raised the stretcher up to action TV rolling height. Immediately the girl turned four shades of psychedelic and let rip the fun of her evening all over the floor. Gallons of cosmos erupted from her and hit old wood floor with a smack. The paramedics jumped back and were obviously thankful that she did not let it go in their rig. Once the smell of used booze smacked me around the olfactory I knew the mojo of Rud’s was squarely intact. Finally Wake and I retreated outside, though not due to the smell. To us the Vintage now smelled like a real and proper live music venue, but rather because of the conspicuousness of us being the only
Their album surprised me a bit; it’s quieter than when they’re on stage. It opens to a quiet haunting tune, Somervell, that I tend to start over just to hear them lead me back in. I always wanting them to rock out a little more and I feel like I’m missing Paul and Mark a bit. Not sure if this is my personal preference coming through or by Tommy’s design. Either way it didn’t really matter because I burned a groove in my Ipod listening to the album over and over again. Most of the album is soft and lyrical with odd song structures and crazy cool lyrics. Though they could never be mistaken for soft rock or the ouch my vagina hurts sound of Coldplay and James Blunt because there is fury smoldering beneath every song. I imagine that’s why I wanted them to let loose. The two standout tracks are Leave Virgina Girl and Don’t Walk Away. Go to Cactus or Soundwaves and buy this album now. Not only would you be doing some talented musicians a favor and supporting local music, but you will look so cool to your friends for “discovering” them. I promise I won’t tell where you heard of them. Wake and I settled back with our generous drinks from a fine bar and a wry smile crossed his face. “Don’t you love it when a place and a band come together?” I failed to mention his previous anxiety, cause he was right. He usually is. Sometimes it pays to be stupid. TIP-OUT
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Theatre And Arts
By Morgan Riherd
The Houston Art Car Parade needs little introduction. And not just because I trust you can read three letter words and deduce what an ‘art car’ is. If you’ve lived in the Houston area in the last oh, 24 years, you’ve probably seen a few of these fantastical contraptions wheeling their way through our fair city. In the event you have been living under a rock (lord knows it’s hot enough) and seen neither rooftop nor tail light of this outlandish display, let me give you a run-down of what it takes to be a contestant in this annual tradition: scrounge up 30 bucks and something, anything, that rolls. No kidding. Ok, well mostly not kidding. Your rolling anything must be decorated and you have to promise it won’t explode yadda yadda yadda, but basically, there are no rules. This year, aided as always by the Orange Show’s minimal restrictions and total artistic freedom, the 300 plus entries ranged all over the creative spectrum. Your faithful writer, aided as always by one shot too many of
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tequila, wandered in after 50 or so entries had gone by. This of course meant I missed seeing the 2010 Parade Marshal, Dan Aykroyd, but I lamented for only one or two Ghostbusters lines until I was distracted by the cavalcade of crazy before me. Cars, bikes, and steam breathing T-rex! Oh, my! In the interest of full disclosure, I wasn’t just hung-over, I’m also terrible at directions. Telling any normal human that a parade was on Allen Parkway should have been enough. “It takes up entire street, Morgan. You can’t miss it!” Well I’m here to tell you: Yes. Yes you can. After some creative I-don’t-spendenough-time-downtown driving, I parked at the edge of town and did a zig-zag jog, camera and headache in tow, until I crashed into a small section of the 250,000 spectators. Normally you can find a good spot with some creative wiggling and well timed ‘excuse me’s,’ but not today. I don’t know about your section, but mine were the elbow jab throwing, evil glare sort. Understandable as they’d staked claim
to their good viewing territory hours earlier and I, pompous as ever, was attempting to usurp their rightful prize. I opted to screw everyone and sit in the street. Yeah, I’m that bastard. For my fellows who do not lack willpower and foresight, able to rise earlier than noon, let me recommend getting there a few hours before the parade rolls. The cars line up along Allan Parkway before hand, allowing the general public to get up close and personal to the cars and owners. If not, have no fear. The cars look the same from the side of the road as they do when you shove your face against the window, and this way you don’t have to talk with some of the more eccentric entrants. I’m labeling here but really, sometimes you wonder. I was surprised by the sheer number of participants rollerblading with their cars and sorely disappointed to see no one but the giant unicycle guy fall. Besides not satisfying my video game generation need for bloodshed, there isn’t a single thing you can say against the Art Car Parade. Even if you did manage to
grumble up some choice words for the people who Scotch taped construction paper cut outs of oblong shapes to the sides of their car, the sheer whimsy of the event would have smothered the ill thoughts instantly. It’s the sort of event that’s hard to describe to others (“No, he was in this Porta-Potty but it wasn’t, it was a car. Totally awesome.”). It needs to be experienced. But if you’re too lazy to go downtown next year to such a family friendly, BYOG event (the ‘G’ stands for goodies which most translated to booze anyway) then at least enjoy the pictures, you fun-hating bum. Oh, and one last thing: I am officially taking donations of things on wheels that don’t explode. Just kidding! No, seriously. Official Art Car Parade info: http://www.orangeshow.org/art-car/
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