She's Got a Ticket to Ride

Art After Dark

Wed, 30 Nov 2011 02:48:00 -0500

Free cocktails and art? Sounds like a great way to pregame for a Friday night.

My roommate and I drove up the dark curvy road that leads us to the Cincinnati Art Museum for their Halloween installment of Art After Dark. A few happenin’ curators decided to create the recurring event, which is held Friday evenings where the museum stays open until 9 pm—giving artsy people a chance to get tipsy while talking about the brush strokes of Bosch and whatnot.

Unfortunately my afternoon cat nap that mid-October afternoon went into overtime, which led us to only have half an hour to wreak havoc on this lovely soirée.

We rolled up into the museum parking lot at 8:30 pm; a bored, but rather friendly parking attendant greeted us through the booth window. We waved, and the attendant then gave my art-partner-in-crime and me a puzzled look. I guess he wanted more than a wave hello.

My roommate’s car window was busted, meaning it didn’t roll down—meaning, I had to climb to the driver’s side backseat to speak with this young lad in the booth.

I fumble across empty coffee cups and magazines to the backseat window; my dark hair is now disheveled and fallen into my face like a dark brown curtain. I roll down the window, looking like Cousin It in a blue-velvet blazer peeking out of a Lexus in dim parking lot lighting.

“Sorry dude, we don’t have a front window,” I say through tuffs of hair blanketing my face.

The attendant stifles a giggle, “It’s okay, I’ve seen worse…but uh, we close soon. Are you sure you want to pay $4?”

“Isn’t this free?” I retort before the attendant can finish the last syllable in “dollar.”

“Parking is $4. Doesn’t matter what time it is. Sorry.”

He hands me a ticket after a moment of confusion— we were trying to line me in the backseat window up to the parking ticket booth, and then we hustle into a parking space. $4 for 30 minutes means we’d have to milk as much of this museum as we can.

There were no more cocktails. As a matter of fact, many of the people were walking out the large wooden doors as we were running to get in.

Among the crowd that had gulped down their last drop of sample-sized cocktails, I noticed quite a few dressed in their Sunday best—flapper style. Black tassels swung at the knees on dresses on a few middle-aged women. A couple men sported port-pie hats.

After taking pictures of mannequins wearing 1920s fashions when weren’t supposed to, listening to scholarly art teachers banter over the Harlem Renaissance, and avoiding the elderly security guards so we could be the last ones in the building—a petite grey-haired woman with pursed lips kicked us out while we were looking at a mummy coffin.

We hopped in the car with the busted window and rolled back up to our buddy, the parking attendant. He asked for our receipt for the paid parking ticket, and we have him a pouty face. Somewhere among the 1920s sequins, Egyptian jewels and Japanese sculpted jade, lies a $4 parking ticket yet to be paid.

By Sidney Cherie Hilley

Top Shop: A Glam Rock Queen’s Dream

Tue, 29 Nov 2011 23:37:00 -0500

Word on the Chicago street told me that there’s a store filled with leopard print, purple velvet and combat boots that blasts sonic indie rock like Crystal Castles and Foals… and it’s from the UK. Dear God—someone either get me to this store STAT or buy me a pacemaker.

The same infamous weekend that I spent learning the transit system of Chicago ended up being the opening weekend of Top Shop, a retailer that only pops up in major cities and features styles such as underground glam.

It was quite easy to find the place. The practically all-glass storefront commands its own corner on North Michigan Avenue. Colossal prints of Kate Moss look-alike models cover the sides of the building. The models look fierce and gigantic—looking up at one of them makes me feel like I’m looking up at a T-rex in leather platforms.

Inside makes me feel like I’m at a David Bowie concert in Soho, circa the late 70s. I’m handed an official Top Shop pink and black water bottle, because I guess they’re used to their customers breaking a sweat walking from room to room each filled with a different theme of clothing. I walked into one section that I’m going to dub the well, dub-step (no pun intended, or was it?) room. Neon spandex and florescent yellows and greens nearly singed my eyes when I tried to look at a couple pairs of tights and sneaker combos. But every outfit screamed rave scene—perfect for the Electric Daisy festival in Vegas, baby.

Another part was a shout-out to the 90s grunge scene—Hello Courtney Love before she went postal in the early 2000s. There was an area draped in long lace skirts, with leather jackets in colors you would only see in an Italian vineyard—olive greens and mauves.

The store also held an Alice in Wonderland, back-to-childhood appeal. The store’s name was displayed in various places in lit-up box letters that resembled a toddler’s alphabet playing cubes. The vibrant clothes were hung from metal rods juxtaposed from one another at different positions on the wall.

Top Shop encompasses edgy and quirky ensembles for a girl who wants to look tough, but is really just a kid at heart. My college-girl funds meant I could only afford a black and gold necklace, but I’ll be back soon for my Courtney Love garb.

By Sidney Cherie Hilley

"Art is What You Get Away With"

Tue, 29 Nov 2011 02:09:00 -0500

Andy Warhol was a god. Now, I know that many people use that reference for a plethora of celebrities that spark their heart to beat a little faster. But Warhol was a god because he manipulated so many other fascinating men and women who were the gods and goddesses of the ‘60s and ‘70s into iconic works of art—all while he still lived with his mom.

Sorry, I’ll try to step down from my psychedelic-colored soapbox.

Back in ’09, the Ohio State University held the Other Voices, Other Rooms art exhibit at the Wexner Center for the Arts. As soon as I heard that the same paintings, prints and films by the static-induced-white-haired man I grew to love in the fifth grade were going to be just two hours away—I knew I had to find someone to drag to Columbus.

After explaining to my friend that Andy was more than just Campbell’s soup cans and bananas, we embarked on our journey.

We’re greeted in the lobby of the art gallery with a gigantic portrait of what many would say is the quintessential Warhol; a pale face with light striking the highlights in his luminescent skin, chiseled bone structure and choppy white hair that looks like a vacuum hose took a liking to his mane is casting his pensive grey-green eyes at us. It’s like he’s daring us to come and take a look at his work.Slightly further into the lobby is another portrait, Andy’s alter-persona as a saucy, curly grey-haired woman in candy red lipstick stares through the poster screen. His shoulders are bare, just like many of his portraits that show the vulnerability of his being. I look for a moment and realize he kind of looks like an extra-pale, cat-eyed Betty White. Hmm. He could have been a stand-in on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I think to myself, and then I carry on.

Down what seems like a never-ending hall is a video timeline of Warhol’s steps to stardom. Small television screens are embedded in the grey-carpeted walls along the hall, and black studio headphones are hanging at each screen. Ahead of us, a couple of people were silently listening to the historic footage of Warhol’s journey. I noticed many of the show attendees were wearing snazzy blazers with thick rimmed glasses. Hmm. I didn’t realize there was a dress code.

I learned quite a few things strolling through the time warp of home videos of Mr. Warhol. He wore a lot of black and white stripes, smoked a lot of cigarettes and mumbled with a rather dry, matter-of-fact tone. But one fact stuck out to me through the rest of the exhibit.

I didn’t realize he painted with his ass.

One of the last television screens held a black and white video. A woman in some fine French attire and another man sat watching with such intrigue as Andy Warhol held a paint brush between his two cheeks and proceeded to well…paint.

What I found more interesting was the fact that the snazzy blazer-ed people that had witnessed this video before me showed no sense of shock. There were no giggles like pre-teens watching American Pie for the first time. I suppose that’s one of the aspects of the art world that remains true even over the span of decades—letting people be who they are and run with their eccentricities.

By Sidney Cherie Hilley

Bumpin' with the 99 Percent

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 02:37:00 -0500

photo from funlimited.co.uk

Good ol’ Twain said that Cincinnati is always 20 years behind the times. But I think this time we need to give the Nati a little more cred—a mere two weeks after Zuccotti Park turned into a confetti of pop-up tents and cardboard signs, Cincinnati followed suit with their own Occupy protest.

Number 17 on my bucket list has always been “participate in a protest.” So once I heard about Occupy picking up some momentum in the Queen City, I realized now was the time to take out my red sharpie, cross-out number 17 and get some picket-action going on.

But first, I had to do a little research.

I turned to my trusty media steed, the Huffington Post, to absorb the lingo I would need to know in order to go balls-out on one of these protest. I kind of treated the process like when I get ready to go to a concert, I download (oops, I mean stream online) all of the music so that I know at least all of the smash-hit singles of the bands. So, I had to at least know the smash-hits of Occupy Wall Street.

After reading a few headlines and watching some video of those “college hooligans” playing a game of Woodstock circa ’69 in the park, I contemplated bringing my guitar. A lot of the components for Occupy looked just like a Friday afternoon at Bonnaroo—tents plus beards plus acoustic folk plus blazed-out twenty-somethings equals music fest and/or protest.

Except for one difference.

I browsed an article on The Huff that talked about donating supplies given to protesters, how nice of people to donate food, sleeping bags, blankets…swimming goggles…? Oh shit—to make sure they don’t get pepper sprayed? Ohh. What am I getting myself into?

At least I have some welding goggles.

___________________________________________________

My driver (okay, roommate) Tina and I barrel around the turn onto Garfield from Vine Street in a silver Lexus SUV on an October late afternoon. We had just perused the racks of vintage clothing store Atomic Number Ten in Over the Rhine, and after dropping 20 scholarship dollars on a vintage Fendi handbag, the only plausible after-shopping activity was to stop by Occupy Cincinnati, of course.

We park the luxury vehicle next to the infamous Izzy’s sandwich shop, with the little logo of Izzy in his paper restaurant cap smiling down at us while he’s holding two gigantic corn beef sandwiches. With my new Fendi bag swinging at my side, Tina and I stroll through Garfield Park up to Garfield Statue, the Capitol Building (okay, statue) where Congress (okay, protesters) meet for official business. They meet at 6 pm sharp, or whenever they can get off work, every day.

At first all I can see is a lot of beanies, combat boots and flannel. But this isn’t an Urban Outfitters Fall catalogue shoot. A large man with a thinning hair line holds up a sign written on cardboard ripped from what looks like a Husman potato chip box that says “Honk for 99 percent. If 1 percent— shame on you!” With the exclamation point using an “x” to mark the period. Perhaps the “x” used added even more emphasis, enough to put shame on those rich bastards to stop their Wall Street Trading.

About 20 feisty protesters are sitting and standing around the monument, eyes and ears intently focused on a woman in olive green and purple pants. Her frizzy grey fro wobbles from side to side as she introduces the agenda for today’s meeting. She says that we’re having some special guests—lawyers willing to represent the people who were arrested the previous Saturday night for their peaceful protest.

Suddenly a gigantic flock of hands jolt in the air, wiggling their fingers like jellyfish tentacles.

At this moment I’m not sure if I’m at a séance or a protest, and I look at Tina with a quizzical do-you-think-we-look-out-of-place look. She hides behind her Jackie-O sunglasses and is too busy taking out her camera to take some snapshots. She wants to add the pictures to her “Fall” photo album on Facebook.

A short, grey-bearded man in a bandana and cargo pants approaches us with some print-outs. He asks us if this is our first meeting, and before we can say “yes”, he’s handing us papers on the Occupy Wall Street jargon necessary to be a participant in their endeavors.

“Okay, so if you agree with what the speaker is saying,” the man grunts with an enthusiasm muffled by his cigarette habit and yelling at the one percentile,

“You put your hand in the air like this.”

He proceeds to thrust his hand up in a swift motion, creating a little gust of air, and wiggles his fingers feverously in the air.

“Then if you kind of agree with a statement but you’re not all for it, you stick your hand out in the middle like this.”

His hand juts in front of the slope of his gut, and he wiggles his fingers in the same frenzy as the latter.

“THEN if you disagree with something the speaker is saying, you do this.”

Same hand. Same wiggle. But this time his hand is pointing to the pavement.

Premature Holiday

Sun, 27 Nov 2011 13:38:00 -0500

Never have I seen so many turkey hats, glitter and faux fur.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving marked a day for Cincinnati families to head to the Greater Cincinnati Holiday Market at the Duke Energy Center—meaning a day of overly-priced-plastic-glitter reindeer, multiple transactions from the ATM and honey-roasted almonds. Fortunately, these are all of the ingredients for a fine afternoon for women of the Midwestern suburbia.

I walk into the massive airport-like vicinity of the Duke Energy Center, where people are rushing around like they have a flight to catch. In reality, they’re just trying to rush to buy glitter Christmas ornaments; because it’s the week before Thanksgiving and apparently that’s when Christmas season begins.

Or for some, Christmas season begins with the rev of a motorcycle engine. Across the gigantic hall of silver and red decorated evergreens, lies the Motorcycle and Bike Expo— where the opposite of the suburban moms are tipping back brewskies and Jack Daniels, wearing bright orange and black Harley Davidson shirts, and instead of kitten heels, these women are wearing their husbands motorcycle boots. Had I any idea that I could hob-knob with some real grease heads for an afternoon instead of fawning over feathered cocktails hats, I would have traded my holiday ticket in for biker ticket stub in a heartbeat. But my bright red ticket was waiting for me, and it was free. Damn previous commitments.

As I walked down the red carpeted halls, all I can smell is caramel and almonds—which is much better than the gasoline and horse dung smell that I had to take a whiff of on Fountain Square. A couple hicks holding a lead rope to a Clydesdale with gold painted hooves were trying to make a buck doing carriage rides around Cincinnati. Because golden painted Clydesdale hooves scream Christmas.

The large convention room is bustling. Kids are whining for toys they’ll never really play with and the elderly are cooing over they’re whining grandchildren. Suburban women, likely from Indian Hill, are dressed to the nines while they tote their husbands around snacking on soft pretzels.

I walk from booth to booth, scanning the goods to see what kind of things I’m supposed to purchase during the holidays. I see the typical holiday party essentials…cocktails dresses, sparkly jewels…corn hole? Oh, it’s corn hole with Santa’s elves painted on the top. I had no idea tossing red and green bean bags into a plywood square helped celebrate the birth the Jesus. And apparently, so does soap that smells like cotton candy, and chia pets.

I’m looking at some faux fur evening jackets that looked like former beavers covered in sequins, when an overly enthusiastic Chinese woman waves me to her booth. Everyone else has been passing her and the rest of her friends at the Shen Yun dance company booth, so I oblige and walk over to say hello.

She hands me a bright orange brochure with an acrobatic Chinese woman playing a bongo-like drum in mid-air. I look intrigued, so she continues her presentation.

“Look look!” She says as she flips through a photo album that I think was entitled “Complete History of Chinese Dance and Culture: Volume One.” I’ll never know for sure, since it was written in Chinese.

“So much history! So much history!” She says as she frantically flips through every vibrant photo of gold and green costumes, dragon-y backgrounds and people arranged in an Asian-style ballet.

After what seemed like 20 minutes, but was probably 10, I told her I look forward to seeing the Shen Yun show at the Arnoff Center—and I do. I tell her that I enjoy absorbing culture, everything from Chinese dance to corn hole.

by Sidney Cherie Hilley

Back Pain and Weak WiFi: A Megabus Experience

Fri, 14 Oct 2011 02:43:00 -0400

September 2010 was my first transcendence into the $20 round-trip world that is the Megabus. My memories consisted of a seemingly short trek to Chicago, and on the way back I sat on the upper deck to look out a grand window to see the cars so tiny below me, and I reminisced on the eye-opening weekend that had just past.

But that was 2010.

If you “Google image” the Megabus, a picture pops up of the bus with a little white thought bubble that says “Welcome to Hell.” The Megabus isn’t actually Hell per say, but my 2011 trip demonstrated that it’s quite likely that this is the vehicle used to take you to the underworld.

*************

9 am. Sunday, September 11^th. We don’t know how to get back to Union Station, and much like the rest of our trip, Chicago transportation simply looks like fourth grade scribbles on some trifold matte paper, with a deep dish pizza coupon on the side. With that in mind, we had to wake our “host” aka our drunken friend who let us stay for the weekend. As I nudged her back into consciousness, I asked her how to get to the Megabus stop. She mumbles something about left over mimosas in the kitchen, and tugs her leopard print sheets over her false eyelashes that have descended from her eyelids to her cheeks in the wee hours of her slumber.

Plan B. MapQuest. I’m running down Michigan Avenue in Wicker Park adorned with red and blue luggage bags looking like a Christmas tree in leather boots, and I’ve already smacked a couple Chicagoans as I try to weave through the Sunday brunch crowd. Meanwhile, my friend is so far ahead that I have to squint to find her all happy-go-lucky— pulling one duffle bag with wheels. I feel like the fat kid trying to run the mile in 9^th grade phys. ed. class.

T-minus 45 minutes until the Big Blue departs back to Cincinnati. I’m panting and wondering why the hell I’m wearing a scarf in 79 degree weather as I stand on a platform waiting for the Blue Line train to take us to…

“Wait. What stop do we need to get off at?” I ask my travel compadre.

“Dude, I thought you had the MapQuest paper.”

I pat my pockets and heave a gust of crisp, yet soiled train station air. My pockets are empty, and so is our side of the platform.

“I think we missed the train.”

******************

30 minutes, $13.78 and a Jamaican cab ride later, we’re on the Megabus.

Apparently, Cincinnati is the place to be on a Sunday. The 81-seat double-decker bus with a giant dollar sign plastered in yellow and blue was jam-packed with Queen City destined passengers.

My travel partner and I are used to what we call “first class” Megabus traveling. Meaning we think we deserve two seats. Call it self-centered—but I carry a lot of snacks. For some odd reason, these other passengers didn’t get the memo of our need for sophisticated travel. We were forced to only a mere one seat. My chips were getting crushed, and my bananas bruised. I was then sentenced to munch on crumbs and mush for the next three hours.

A little over half an hour into the voyage, people began to settle into their temporary travel pods. Some dozed off. Some plug into their headphones. Others stare out the window like they’ve never seen 17 Ford Focuses zip down a concrete road.

My little neighbor to the north, on the other hand, took zoning out to the next level. The seat ahead of me emitted a sound that I had not heard since 1999. Billboard Top 40, dreadlock-twirling nu metal blared from the seat right in front of my face.

I retaliated. I took out my ear buds, cranked the volume and tried to let Dan Auerbach and that other dude in The Black Keys send me into a serenade of soul. No luck. “Howlin’ for You” was drowned out by the growls and mediocre double bass coming from the only United States citizen that still listens to Korn.

As I attempted to distract myself by checking my e-mail on my iPod, I discovered the ad for FREE WiFi is just a sticker on the side of the bus. I’m sure if you flip it over; the other side says “Just Kidding! That’s why you paid $5 to ride this bus!”

Deceived by false ads and fresh-out of Advil for my throbbing back, I put my chin and my hand to lean on the arm rest. I hate to admit but yes, I was pouting.

Except the pouting ceased three seconds later when I locked eyes with the Korn-blasting, Mountain Dew chugging creature heavily wheezing in front of me. The guy was staring at me, through the grey, confetti-colored seats like a two year old playing peek-a-boo at Perkins.

Except this boy was 39.

By Sidney Cherie Hilley