Article and Photos by Dave Desimone

Located just outside of downtown Cleveland, the Clothcraft factory (AKA the Read More Books Building) was operated by the Joseph and Feiss Company from 1846 until 1997. It was one of the oldest manufacturers of men’s wear in the country and one of the oldest businesses in Ohio.

The Joseph and Feiss Company became known for its application of progressive ideas to its factories in the early twentieth century. Managers worked to make the production process more efficient so that clothing could be produced more cheaply and quickly. At the same time, company leaders did much to improve the lives of employees as well. Many of the company’s workers were recent immigrants to the United States and were able to find well paying entry level jobs. They offered free medical care for workers as well as the opportunity to take classes in English and other subjects. The company also operated a library where workers could go to borrow books or to have a quiet place to read.

The property and buildings were sold in 1998 to Beachwood, Ohio developers Ameri-Con for $100,000 with plans to turn the space into condominiums. The project was abandoned shortly after it began. Twelve townhouses in various stages of construction are now boarded up. Another developer purchased the blighted property in 2008 with the hope to resume development of the stalled condominium project. As of now, it appears very little progress has been made.

The building is widely referred to as the “Read More Books” building by many observant Clevelanders because of the massive painting along the roof line by legendary New York City graffiti artist Bookman; AKA Booker; AKA Beans; AKA Bones; AKA Readmore. The building also includes graffiti works by Monster Steve, ASERT, HECK, BEERS, and a slew of other Cleveland and Midwest writers. At one time there was a very large Shepard Fairey OBEY GIANT stencil on the water tower that has since been painted over.

Architecturally, the building is not all that interesting on the inside; however the massive amount of windows provide ample light for photography. A second building on the site was not accessible due to the fact that the first floor had started to collapse.

Story and Photos by Bridget Callahan

Okay… so let’s just say one was to have gone to that Greek restaurant last night. That one in the middle of the CSU sprawl that looks like it’s either a restaurant or a dog fighting club. And you might have walked through the back door of the kitchen, like you’re someone, and it gave you a little bit of a power trip. So you drank a little more than you should of, especially that weird imported liquor that was made in someone’s backyard in the old country and probably peed in by goats.

Then somehow, who knows – you’re over at Lava Lounge spending your monthly gas budget on martinis. There was that guy you were talking to who fights for fun in badly lit back rooms, and you remember telling his friends you totally knew the scariest place on the railroad tracks (cause you’re so hardcore right? Drunk girl?). There’s a blur then, of car seats and running out of cigarettes and that Darude track that drives you crazy when you hear it, for various nostalgic and socio-economical reasons. And then, here you are.

Here being somewhere, in the weeds with bugs – ticks probably. You’re lying a few feet away from the railroad ties, under the shadow of some thick leafy greens. The gravel and dirt is hot, the air is hot, but the shade you’re in is cold.

Scrambling to your feet, it becomes absolutely apparent at first glance that you are in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere being a relative term. There are buildings, and a street, and Downtown is visible in the distance. The real thing that starts a little panic in your throat as you look around is the lack of houses. In fact, none visible, not up the hill. Not down the hill. The open concrete makes you want to scurry into the nearest open door, like a sad little city cockroach. Why are you here? Where are you? Which direction is the lake? You do remember that it’s Sunday, right?

The first decision is up or down. Down the hill are warehouses as far as one can see, and they are all probably empty except for security cameras. So up it is. Assuming you’re still in Cleveland, there should be houses nearby. As you start to trudge up the street, a pattern of McDonalds bags and beer cans lights your way, like a bread trail back to fast food, and thusly civilization.

Up the hill you start to wonder if this is Cleveland. It’s looking a lot like Atlanta, or anywhere in the industrial South.

There’s a forest of weeds, vines, and trees overhanging everything. The streets are broken up, disused. Asphalt lying in dangerous chunks haphazardly. Every block or so is one house, maybe two. One with a sign saying “For Sale, $100” and another actually quarantined off the main road with giant concrete barriers – like a #$%^ zombie pit!

There’s evidence of homeless people, but where have they all gone? There’s no one around, and nothing to walk to. Even the trash looks ancient. It’s so abandoned, even the abandoned people don’t live here anymore.

So okay, let’s turn around and go down the hill towards daylight and open streets and buildings. Maybe there’s no one there on a weekend, but there’s the possibility you can flag a car down. You haven’t seen a car this direction in twenty minutes. It’s hot down in the valley, but at least you can see where you’re going. Briefly there’s a thought that following the railroad tracks would be a good idea, but think about where those tracks go. You’d have to follow them all the way to Steelyard just to find something besides the backs of factories. And it’s probably not the safest thing to walk miles down tracks through nothing but bridges and empty land.

Forty-five minutes later, having walked and walked and walked, you’re getting nowhere. Two cars have past, but neither would stop for you. You don’t recognize any street signs (I mean, really, isn’t Harvard everywhere?). You start to think maybe it might not be such a bad thing to just find some empty shack and stay there for while. No rent. No one would even know you were there, for months probably, if ever. You passed some rolls of aluminum earlier, you could use that to tarp up a wall or roof. You could probably also figure out a way to steal electricity from these power lines, and sell scrap for money once a month. Adopt a stray but loyal mutt who protects you, like that girl from Island of the Blue Dolphins – an urban hermit, basking in the lonely spirituality of desolation and industrial decay.

Luckily, as you stand there in front of this shiny blue heatstroke fantasy, dreaming of your future utopia, the security guard starts to come to the gate. And you get to make a phone call.

Above: Cyril Jackson

Living in the burbs, I’ve often noticed that once something closes down – be it a bank, a fast food joint, or a department store, its rarely resurrected to look the same as it once did before. Build something new, watch it thrive, let it die and decay, bring out the bulldozers, and repeat. That’s how they do it out here. It’s a healthy business, birth and dying. There’s a lot of money to be made, and that’s why the suburbs are as soulless as the Wal-Marts that litter their land. But on the rare occasion that something is left for the vultures, there is always a chance that someone will reclaim the space and make it their own.

Above: Dale Hendricks

That’s what happened on a desolate stretch of land bordering train tracks in Brookpark, Ohio. The foundation of a building that once produced light bulbs lays beneath a stretch of power lines that move into the distance clear to the horizon. Blackberry bushes line the edges, deer move stealthily through the tall grass, and the sounds of skateboards cracking the cement shoot through the air. On any given day, you’ll see Anthony Koch, Dan Gaspar or Ryan Kral resuscitating the giant slab of cement with metal railings, parking blocks, and even more cement. They’re masons and artists, shaping man’s forgotten waste into something useful, something vital. If someone won’t do it for you, then it’s time to get off your ass and do it yourself. And for the time being, that DIY attitude is paying off quite nicely for skateboarders around Cleveland.

That’s what is so admirable about skateboarding. No matter how corporate and mainstream it becomes with energy drink commercials, the X-Games, and Tony Hawk, there’s also people like Dan, Anthony, and Ryan who are keeping the original intent and spirit of skateboarding alive. No sponsors, no filming schedules, no worries—only free will to do what’s wanted and the enjoyment of something mutually created.

Above: Adam Aziz

Who knows how long the place will last. It’s on a piece of land that’s indefinitely in limbo. Maybe it’s the power lines, or maybe the trains that blaze by only 80 feet away that keep it vacant—but none of that matters. What matters right now – Saturday afternoons with the grill blazing and friends shredding, and weekdays with a toolbox and a pickup truck. These guys exist to express themselves and create. They make situations a little easier, whether you’re in the city or out in the burbs. They are artists, they are punk rock. They’re doing their thing and making some of our lives a little easier, one nail at a time.

Above: Ryan Kral

Artist: Ron Copeland

It was promoted as – “an eye-popping exhibition featuring the work of eleven emerging artists from Stark County. The work will literally fill the Museum’s main gallery, floor to ceiling in the style of the Parisian salons of a century past, but with a clear focus on cutting-edge art of today.” – and the Stark Naked Salon definitely followed through on the billing.

It was my first trip down to the Massillon Museum, and was well worth the hour drive. Upon arrival, the hang was definitely not of the small town variety, but in fact, much more creatively displayed than many shows that I’ve attended at similarly billed museum exhibitions in large market, international cities. The details and concepts were well thought out by curators Alexandra Nicholis and Dan Kane, who indeed brought together a talented group of “fresh” artists who were able to fill out the space and achieve an overall impact, disserving of a museum setting.

The exhibition was reflective of our post-industrial landscapes, even though no actual landscapes were actually included…many of the works were painted, stenciled and drawn upon found objects and successfully conveyed a sense of decay and rebirth. But again, it was not just a hodge-podge of random works – each artist’s display worked toward an overall impact, instead of merely throwing together a collection of disparate pieces…almost every section could be looked at from a distance, and enjoyed as a cohesive larger work in itself.

Ron Copeland’s display was a prime example of how an artist can look beyond a single, small work’s own identity, and connect it to the whole. He continues to excel with his hangs, which resemble something akin to a floating mass of stylized trash floating down the Cuyahoga River…remnants of billboard slogans and unidentifiable pop-culture iconography run through it all, stenciled and spray painted over shredded wallpaper, brown paper and plywood…a bucket of house paint hanging from a string of twine was a particularly genius touch.

Artist: Scot Philips

Another high point of the exhibit was Joseph Close’s anarchistic, yet highly organic use of almost every fine art technique under the sun – from large scale metal sculptures to finely drawn illustrations, his work defies categorization and holds surprises at every turn. His centerpiece (composed of piano parts, telephones and various other found objects painted and drawn upon) showed a mastery of three dimensional form, walking around the work was a constant pleasure filled with vague social comments strewn out along an ever changing line of perspective.

Also featured, was the art of Steve Ehret (covered in Pink Eye #5). A ceiling to floor black and white graffiti piece tied his various monsters and other strange imaginations together, which despite his finely rendered technique, still captured the vibe of the streets.

It’s a really positive sign that a museum like this was able to move into the 21st Century and truly capture the vibe of all the exciting art being made by local artists in the area. Their exhibition was a huge success in every way (bringing in more than 1,200 people on opening night alone) and provided a ton of much disserved exposure to all of the talented artists involved.

For more information on the Massillon Museum, visit them online at www.massillonmuseum.org

Article and Photography by C. Esper

One of the aspects of graffiti that I enjoy is that it’s usually found in long forgotten pockets of space. Cleveland in particular has a plethora of abandoned buildings and decomposing work sites that tell a tale of a once mighty industrial powerhouse that has suffered a turn for the worse. Driving around town, most people just ignore the wreckage of our glorious past, never stopping to get out and poke around a bit. Graffiti has risen up to reuse these spaces as impromptu art galleries, mostly showing their work to the homeless and each other.

The foundation is one of these places. Located just off of West 25th, it’s a mix of concrete floors and walls that mark the spot of a once huge and industrious factory. Long ago abandoned and partially torn down, what’s left is an ever-changing graffiti display and a rough concrete skate spot. Just standing there and taking in the size of this overgrown concrete footprint, it is hard to imagine what this city once was. Graffiti artists long ago adopted this area and I have been going here for years watching the progress of our local street artists. Along with the walls and floor being covered with art, I have found painted tires, doors, and even whole cars. If you are interested at all in this city’s past, do yourself a favor and go explore some of these old warehouses and abandoned places. Not only can you get a palpable sense of our shared history but you may stumble on some great art too.

Now if anyone out there gets the bug and starts to explore, here are a few pointers. Try to ride your bike or walk if you can (so cops don’t find your car and come looking for you). Watch where you step, because there will probably be lots of debris about. Be aware that some of these places serve as other people’s homes, so be respectful if you come across anyone – I stumbled upon a tent city under a bridge recently. Last but not least, document anywhere you see graffiti and email me at x1944x@gmail.com so I can document the spot. Happy hunting!

To most people the concept of Professional Wrestling seems like an oxymoron, but to others it is a dream they are willing to chase down the sewage drain and across the globe. Decked out in neon-spandex or bedazzled costume gear called “gimmicks, these men and women give their bench-pressed all to putting on the best show possible. Through formal training, through pain and injury, through hours upon hours of labor, the men and women of AIW taught me about the personal dedication and love that is all part of being a pro-wrestler.

For those of us in the 20-30 age range, the mention of pro-wrestling triggers a strong feeling of youthful, late 80’s nostalgia. Perhaps even a few readers are now skeptically eying their old school Ultimate Warrior plush dolls, wondering if this is the time to pursue their own Mickey Rourke (botox gone bad) version of “The Wrestler”. Well, lace up your grappling boots and man your mutton chops…get ready for a glimpse into the gritty world of Absolute Intense Wrestling, Cleveland’s premiere wrestling underground.

Heavily influenced by early ECW (a wrestling organization from the late 90’s renowned for their excessively bloody, violent, anything-goes style) AIW was founded in 2005. Since then, they have been steadily building a cult following by putting on the wildest and most creative matches imaginable all around the Cleveland Metro area.

With several training schools in the area (the largest of which is in everyone’s favorite suburban slop-hole, Elyria) many would-be hero’s of the ring sign-up for a prolonged period of relentless training, at times working directly under a pro-mentor who teaches insider tricks of the trade. Now, I will be the first to admit that I had no idea that wrestling school existed…I just assumed they popped out of the womb drop kicking shit…but upon inquiry, I discovered that training consists of more than just your run of the mill weight lifting, incorporating aspects of theater, gymnastics, yoga, and martial arts. These courses normally run the better part of a year, taking place for several hours a day. Many of the wrestlers I spoke to fondly recalled the time they spent traveling around with a group of other wrestlers and doing clean up, taking down the ring, and other stuff that is customary during the training period.

As I discovered from the wrestlers themselves, getting your ass beat with a two-by-four is a lot more complicated than it looks and the threat of serious injury is always lurking with every leap from the top rope. Although admittedly choreographed and loosely scripted, the pain, as they attest, is unquestionably real. Indianapolis based wrestler Drake Younger almost lost an areola to a florescent tube, Vince Nothing sustained a broken pelvis (in a match with the Necro Butcher, who appeared in the Darren Aronofsky film previously mentioned), John Prohibition (famed for his character in the X-Box game – Backyard Wrestling, which he was never paid for) endured a concussion with several days memory loss, Hailey Hatred cracked an orbital bone “but nothing too crazy”, Christian Faith is covered in scars from hardcore matches conducted with broken glass and barbed wire…in fact, everyone I spoke to mentioned a variety of injuries, everything from broken feet to elbows so dislocated that they flopped lifelessly as the audience observed in horror or even – with joy.

[View with PicLens]

Needless to say, by the time Absolution Four (the equivalent of Wrestlemania) began, I was half-drunk and all fired up to witness everyone in action. Upon arrival, I saw several Tailgaters stapling barbed-wire to a three-by-six piece of plywood board. My initial thoughts were – “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” and “this is gonna rule”!

The night’s advertised events included a flag match (Latin Crime Syndicate VS. Homeless Handicap in a fight for the right to fly their nation’s flag), a dog collar match (“The Passion” John Thorne VS. Hailey Hatred), a “Table, Chairs, and Ladders-OH SNAP” match (Faith In Nothing VS Young Studs), as well as a “Bring Your Own Weapons” Championship title match where the audience was instructed to bring whatever they wanted (Jimmy DeMarco VS Drake Younger).

Once everything got underway, not only was I impressed by the level of acting ability the performers had, but by the fact that anyone in Ohio was that athletic. People were diving off top ropes, back-flipping, round housing, strangling each other with chains, throwing each other effortlessly against plywood boards covered in tacks and god knows what else. Their body types ranged from washboard abs to tubs of flub, many easily topping 275 pounds with statures that were at least 6’6”. The more blood that was poured, the crazier the antics, the more involved and ravenous the crowd became. At one point during the ladders match, the ring became a sea of steel as audience members began hurling their chairs into the ring. Announcer Denver Colorado proudly declared: “This is like a scene from a Jewish Ghetto”. The whole time I couldn’t help but think “this is completely fucking insane…” and soon thereafter the crowd began to chant “holy shit”.

From several hardcore aficionados, I was told that Cleveland fans are often referred to by other fans in the circuit as “drunken thugs”, known across the Midwest for their lewd and out of control behavior, more often than not, becoming a part of the show itself. At this juncture, allow me to stress that AIW is not for the politically correct. Chants of “emo-faggot” and “go back to Hot Topic” were rife, along with cries of “make my sandwich” at the appearance of AIW’s lead female wrestler, Hailey Hatred. Whether or not this is some bizarre manifestation of suburban male ego-tripping angst, I’ll let you be the judge…but even ten year old kids were shrieking “you suck” at any small mistake, nearly frothing at the mouths. The crowd itself was composed of a rather surprising mix of people from both genders and all races…which goes to show you, a love of violence really is one of the most basic ties that bind humanity across the board.

As for me, I’m pretty tough (at one point I contemplated the stage name “Kike von Dyke” for my spoken word performances since it pretty much sums up everything anyone needs to know about me)…so if offensive or twisted humor is not your bag, I would not suggest this. AIW is not out to re-create some high-brow rendition of “Les Miserables”, save that shit for the high school auditoriums…this is straight from the gutter, backyard style, bar room brawl-esque insanity. For a $10 ticket, you get all the beer you can guzzle and every episode of Jerry Springer ever recorded, rolled into one three hour bonanza of hyper-violent entertainment. These events are in your face, and as Jason Gory so aptly pointed out – “UFC guys don’t go into the crowd and start fighting each other”.

One of the largest arguments I hear as to why people do not attend pro-wrestling events is because it’s fake…well fuck, the matches are arguably just as real as the season five finale of Survivor or anything else on “reality” TV. The Duke, who traveled all the way from his home in Atlanta Georgia, shined some light into the reality – “It’s all entertainment, everyone’s here to enjoy it, but wrestling has a stigma attached to it that some people just can’t get past. People don’t think it’s real, but ask any of us tomorrow how we feel. I just got done half an hour ago and 50% of my body hurts”.

In a culture that is so fixated on fake reality, how can someone judge the merit of these individuals who give their all into making sure others have a good time? The level of artistry I witnessed, along with the sheer amount of energy put out by the AIW crew is something in itself to be admired…the relentlessness with which they pursue their objective is more than could be said of a lot of bullshit “artists”, who can barely pass as gallery doorstops.

Now, before you drop this magazine and attempt a flying elbow off of your garage roof, why don’t you go check out the Absolute Intense Wrestling website at aiwrestling.com and check out a video…you won’t be disappointed – I sure wasn’t! Their next event is set to take place in September; and given that my car isn’t repo’ed by then, I hope to see you there!

Thanks to everyone at AIW for letting me come down and have a great time, especially Aaron Brauer (manager of several wrestlers and a team) who took the time to share some of his expansive knowledge and show me the ropes!

I’ll now sign off with my wrestling name: Little Orphan Annie

In 1938, certain forward thinking individuals at Lafayette School began an educational radio station, designed to integrate technology into the classrooms. The Cleveland Board of Education took it over months later, and the radio station became the first non-commercial FM station in the country. For forty years it broadcast as WBOE, until the schools started their financial tailspin and shelved it in the 70s. They let go of old 90.3, and in 1984, it became WCPN. So, wandering these hallways is essentially wandering the birthplace of Cleveland Public Radio, the infancy of the station I listened to every morning on the way to school.

The school was built in 1919 and stayed in business into the mid-90s. The exact year the final humans migrated is a mystery. They simply disappeared into the ether of blonde new bricks and plastic playgrounds. If we approximate the last known student as vanishing in 1996, that means they have only been gone for 13 years, if that. Why does it look like it’s been vacant for decades? In 1993, the school failed to pass inspections, so the decay and rot were already well entrenched. But the final blow to this 89 year old institution was the Great Board Massacre of 1999, also known as the Chalk Rebellion.

A School abandoned by its colonial masters becomes a hotbed of civil unrest.

Fed up with the unfair taxation and resource control exercised by the conservative Furniture Faction, the chalkboards, who had long considered themselves part of the Ceiling and Wall Coalition, staged a dramatic failure of a coup. The first shot was fired by a corner chalkboard named Blacktop. In a display of bravery that would be talked about for years, Blacktop tossed (shrugged?) his rotting erasers at a group of surly desks congregating in a corner of the music room. The desks, a group of rusty fascists, tolerated no dissension from the structural masses, and retaliated with unusual force, hurling themselves against the chalkboards with the hatred of fanatics. The overwhelmed and under-armed chalkboards were soon overcome, and most of their number destroyed. The few remaining ones became desk sympathizers in a desperate attempt to protect their pride.

The battle was over; the balance of the empty classrooms had already been tipped. Word spread through the air ducts of the chalkboards’ destruction, and fed a fervor that had existed in the ceilings for years. In a long series of deadly strikes, the building waged war against its despotic contents. A few of the more famous battles included the Ceiling Tile Attacks, in which the Styrofoam heroes threw themselves down from the rafters like kamikaze, covering the escape paths with musty impenetrable litter. There was a well coordinated ambush of the aristocratic, haughty, judgmental Piano, leaving that bourgeois bastard shattered and silenced. And of course, no one talks about the Lafayette wars without mentioning the legendary Roof Bomb, the final offensive which drove the desks from the school forever, of which the ethics are still being debated.

The artifacts of this longstanding war can be found everywhere – skeletal remains of desks, a sad heap of piano wires. The beached carcass of the roof has fallen in and folded like an ancient parachute, its rib cage exposed to mites and mold. In stairways and corners, one can see the tattered remnants of fleeing textbooks, reminding us that there are always innocent bystanders.

The fabrics of Lafayette have reacted differently, according to their social standings. The working class carpet never stood a chance. Its plastic fibers have melted into a red slurry of mud and plants. Walking across it is like walking across an open wound. You want to cover it with antibiotics, mulch, and love. The virtuous stage curtains have withstood the test of time with almost perfect success. Except for the dust, they are still dreaming of the Music Man. The lonely couches and chairs sit still in their chosen rooms, each alone in its own thoughts, sympathetically listening to the rats tear out their stuffing for rat babies. They are the holey hermits of this building, believing escape lies in the acceptance of fate, and the ignorance of worldly things. Perhaps this is why the chairs and couches escaped banishment with the bookshelves. They’re not troublemakers.

The real tricksters of the post revolutionary world are the coat racks. They hide in the unused hallways, waiting patiently like angler fish, snagging their prey. Be careful to give them wide berth, they rip and tear at anything that passes, edible or not. The hallways they live in are conspicuously free of debris. Nasty little things, they have overrun the dark places, breeding like cockroaches.

And there is plenty to feed on. Birds dart in through broken windows and holes. Insect life is thriving, little ones and big ones. The floor of the main hall, with its cryptic Olympics emblem setting the tone, is becoming a regular empty lot ecosystem, full of competition amid the quickly collecting soil. Mushrooms thrive on the leftover carcasses of the chalkboards. It’s a beautiful place, like most battlefields are.

In keeping with a running undercurrent in Pink Eye, we’ve decided to include a few outstanding landscaping trends from the summer of 2009 in everyone’s favorite progressive city – Cleveland!

CHAIN-LINK FENCES
Nothing screams “sophistication” quite like a chain-link fence. With its subtle, minimalist color scheme, strong lines and post-industrial panache, these links of chain are like having a modern sculpture in your very own front yard….in fact, the most famous architect of today – Frank Gehry, is actually a huge proponent of chain-link fences. Cheap yet durable, the chain-link fence is not only a marvel of modern style, it’s also useful! Unlike their wooden rivals (which tend to block out views of your beautiful lawn) chain-link fences allow your petunias and lawn-gnomes to be on full display to the public, while also keeping the dog from getting loose. Incredible!

RECYCLE GARDENS
For the green, sustainable progressives out there, we offer up a fine example of a “recycle garden” (pictured to the left) – which is actually very easy to start, a breeze to maintain and is sure to impress the neighbors with your greener than thou, earth friendly philosophy. Just sit on the front porch drinking 40-ouncers and watch your garden grow! After 200 years of decomposition, you’ll finally begin to reap the benefits of your apathy, and sleep with a clear conscious knowing that you’ve done your part to reduce your carbon imprint on the planet.

Stencils are usually not focused on a name as is the case with most graffiti, so they are free to cover a lot more subjects. Stencils often depict characters or people, although they can be political in nature as well. Anyone familiar with Shepard Fairey (OBEY) or Banksy, knows what stencil art is truly capable of.

While stencils aren’t as popular here as in other cities I’ve visited, I did manage to uncover a few local treats for your viewing pleasure. I came across good stuff on the east side and the west, although special mention goes out to the area around the Cleveland Institute of Art, apparently, where the students are busy after hours trying out what they’ve learned in class. Many stencils I found were only one color, although there were some with multiple colors, which is a more difficult process.

Another positive of using a stencil to apply public art is that you will produce the same results every time and quickly, because the detail is already done, so you can throw them up and keep moving much faster than if you were out painting in the field, so to speak. Covering more ground with less exposure to risk is a win-win for any guerrilla artist out there.

In the last issue I asked for any artists out there to let me know where the fresh new stuff is going down, so I can try to get it documented in Pink Eye. I am now opening up that opportunity to everyone reading this issue. Don’t be a passive observer anymore, get involved with this city’s street art revolution and tell me what you see out there. My email is x1944x@gmail.com. I expect you all to hit me up with some street art you have seen so that it can be shared with all of our readers. The gauntlet has been thrown down; let’s see what you got Cleveland!

Drunky McPisserpants, Doctor Pee-Pee, Pants Off Pete, Drunky McStagger, Crash, and That Annoying Drunk Guy. You go by many names, and we all know you.

You think no one notices when you make your way for the booze at any given art reception in town? You think no one knows of you as simply – “that ass-hat”? Or that your fashions from 1985 combined with your 6th cup of Crane Lake don’t make the gallery goers wary?

It has been going on for years. You go through the art reception listings for the month, plot out your strategy, and in no time are being an overall abrasive jackass that no one finds charming. Frankly, I’m tired of it, we all are and we keep an eye on you and your unpredictable tendencies.

Hey, I love to get drunk, who doesn’t? But you know what the difference is between you and the rest of us who like to drink at art receptions? We don’t cause a scene that involves nudity, bladder control issues, or trespassing. Oh Doctor Pee-Pee – that’s my pet name for you – how is it you didn’t learn your lesson when you were arrested for taking your pants off at an art reception; the time you got covered in shaving cream because you passed out in the middle of a gallery; the time you passed out and pissed yourself in a gallery basement; the times you get up in artists faces and spit while you talk; the times you needed to be escorted out; the times you stole the wine key, or the whole bottle and ran off; the time you ended up on a gallery roof and it took 4 people to get you down?

Doctor? Can you do me a favor? You have ruined two of my own art receptions, and I’d really hate to have to punch you next time I see you, or have you arrested – yet again.

Here’s the deal, I don’t know your story, and I doubt anyone cares, but you know Sapell’s Grocery? Dude, they sell a 12 pack of Black Label for $6.00! I mean you can buy one of those and a bottle of Crane Lake for yourself, and stay home! Now doesn’t that sound like more fun than waiting in line to suck down 14 sippy cups of cheap wine while everyone rolls their eyes in disgust at you? I knew it would.

Yours (not so affectionately),
– Arabella Proffer

Illustration by: Michael Wohl