Silverfish on the Rocks

It was a quiet day in Freddie Beach. Sun and summer seemed to have arrived with an undercurrent of permanence that had not been felt since the last time Freddies shook the webs from sandals and shorts, only to be walloped by another damn snowstorm. But I digress. It was a quiet day in Freddie Beach, a Friday, a beautiful sunny Friday, not a payday Friday, but a Friday nonetheless. And the sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Freddie Beachers were singing and dancing in the streets. They were dressed ribbons and bows and happiness. The sang of sprouting life and melting snow. They danced the dark dance of death to the Winter chill. They ... hmm ... I'm not doing a good job of getting to the point, am I? OK ... here's the scoop ... Silverfish, the Freddie Beach collective of the most talented photographers on the planet (and if you disagree ... take it up with my 250 pound psychotic gay cat Pico who's a big Silverfish fan) staged a photographic exploration iof geological forms, near and far, at the Charlotte Street Arts Center tonight. It was pretty damn impressive. But, not one to be an art critic (like Pico), I won't talk about the art. I'll talk about the event. It was cool. There was punch spiked with LSD and Manna from Heaven. There was roasted boar and Peking Duck. Lambs and Vestal Lady Bugs were sacrificed to Fred, God of Beach. The wine was fermented from the blood of a thousand sweating pine nuts. And there was ... WhiteFeather and Lori. Unfortunately, their heads were trapped in the staircase and they missed most of the exhibit, even though Lori had two excellent photos that made rock come alive with earth meaning. This is what Lori looked like after the staircase drained the color from her body ... Chris Giles, old friend who picked me up at the hospital after my brain transplant, stands before one of his works. Notice how the entire section of the Arts Center has been drained of color by the staircase? This is why I avoid stairs, and you should too. This is Marie ... She avoided the staircase but drank several glasses of the LSD-laced punch. She won't remember being at the exhibit, but three days from now, she will remember where she parked her car. Maybe.