More updates soon on some current projects
It was a moonless, shitty-spit night when Andrew Jerz first stumbled through the plate glass doors of the otherwise fairly reputable establishment that is Soulfire Barbeque in Allston, USA. When I say he stumbled through, I mean he literally crashed through, shattering almost all of the glass, but he didn't mind as the tinkling teardrops of smashed sparkles pitter-pattered on the shoulders of his soggy coat, and he shook the sharper pieces off of his clothcap before wringing it out. It was raining pretty glumly out there, which's what had ultimately forced Andrew's entry into the joint in the first place. I don't remember if it was open or not, but Andrew had somehow become some-kind-of-drunk, or at least some form of substance-induced mental delirium, by eating way-too-many McDonald's double-cheeseburgers around the corner; the manager of the establishment had cut him off --- they would no longer serve him 'till he'd gone home and thought about just how much Lean, Finely Textured Beef Product a human body could possibly handle in one sitting. What kind of country has this become?
And so it was in this state that Andrew slopped up to the bar at Soulfire Barbeque, little chinkletts of glass still dusting his shoulders as he ordered, "whiskey, please." There was a strange, bearded man behind the bar and he was making some kind of mischief with a toilet plunger that Andrew didn't really want any part of, "you'll have to order something to eat with it, we can't serve drinks here without food...and we're only allowed to make mixed drinks, no straight shots of hard liquor," (what kind of country has this become?) and Andrew replied, "I don't care how you do it, just make it happen." The two strangers locked eyes for a moment, as the odd, bearded fellow stopped plunging the sink for just a moment in deep thought --- and then his eyes lit up.
Two minutes later, another slinky fellow with a beard materialized from within the kitchen with a fiendish grin. "Who the hell're you?" "Name's Erick," he replied, "and I'm a slinky fellow with a beard," and he slid a plate of something and an empty tumbler across the bar to Andrew, who stared in confusion for one moment. On the plate was a single slice of thick, Texas toast, "what of the whiskey, you bearded freaks!?" But Erick and his cohort, Ian, just smiled knowingly and nodded encouragingly. With a hint of disdain in his eyes, Andrew cut into the toast with a fork as the two slinky fuckers looked on, and a golden-brown fluid trickled from the bread as he sliced. Andrew started in disbelief, and the bearded folk just continued to smile and nod. Andrew picked up the bread and wrung it out like a sleet-soaked scally-cap into the empty glass that the duo had so generously provided. Andrew had his whiskey, and all three of them had beaten the powers that be in this increasingly rule-burdened and fascist CEOcracy that used to be the once free and great United States of America so few years ago.
Naturally, they got to talking about the decline of everything that was good and Holy in this world, and somehow reached the conclusions that Andrew should be doing live painting in addition to showing a compendium of his recent works in an upcoming show that the two had been putting together.
While you're there, don't miss the rare in-person-appearance of an anthropomorphic website, the ever-snowballing-in-popularity Boston Arts Underground conceived by friend, professional seamstress and avid clarinet enthusiast, Sam! She'll be there dishing out all kinds of funky swag, I'm sure.