Kitsch, Inc.

It ain't art until somebody tells you it's art. That's the first thing you learn in this business. A lot of hearts and heads been broken along the way to find that simple fact out.

I first saw froggy-boy about 15 years ago. I said, "Whoa! Stupid lookin' frog!"

Last time I said "Whoa!" and last time I said "frog."

Fast forward to 2002. Now I got "culture." When I see a freakin' handcrafted piece of claptrap I bite my tongue. Hard. Harder if there's money on the table. So hard this time I'm quietly nursing a silk hanky blood red because if I say any more I'm likely to get my lights turned off for good. Hey, it's BYOOTIFUL. That's all I got to say.


The kitsch art scene requires two things: Plenty of alcohol, and something else which presently escapes me.


This one gal turned my world upside down. I guess it was the beginning of my end. She was a nasty thing, a teaser in a Pocahantas sort of way. Butch yet graceful, like all them hard-edged Indian chicks seem to be. Stoic. My bosses had designs on where they could best use her; they talked about store fronts and waiting rooms, but she caught the glint of my eye and we had a connection - behind the scenes, if you will.


Don't get me wrong: I never felt I could hold a candle to a full-on carved Indian. Every time I took a second look some chickadee had already sidled up to occupy the territory. Them carved wooden bastards had all the luck.


But there was always this one guy in the kitsch-art realm who seemed to personify everything I felt and thought. My lord, my master; my alter-ego perhaps. El presidente de los nachos y las cervesas. I never questioned him, and I never faulted him. Goodness knows, I never ridiculed him. As the bodyguard and consiglieri, the best I could ever do was respect him. Which I do till this day.