Last year, Henry took Chooch and me to some goddamn flea market in Ohio that was supposed to be some sort of God’s gift to junk-riflers. Every time I would see something I wanted (which wasn’t often), he’d be all, “THEN WE HAVE TO CARRY IT ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE CAR.” Well, excuse me, geriatric. And I love how he slapped down $3.50 for a fucking jar of horseradish with no hesitation. It was a decidedly non-fun outing. But I did convince him to barter on an old Coke crate and you know he bitched about it all day because poor, weak Henry had to carry it back to the car, poor baby.
A short time later, I painted the inside of it.
“1 Apple, 10 Of Us”
I stare at it a few minutes every day and it drives me nuts because it just doesn’t look done. Then this morning, it hit me. Artificial grass. It needs artificial grass.
Then I will finally be able to make Henry attach some wire shit to the back of it, so it can hang from the wall and constantly remind us all of that horrible day at the flea market where I walked for miles with a broken toe and Henry grumbled a lot and wouldn’t buy us a puppy.
In other non “fake art” news, I went on a field trip to the pumpkin patch yesterday with Chooch’s class and it was pure, unadulterated terror, from the bus ride all the way down to the song we learned about dirt. I will maybe write about it tomorrow, but I will be honest – I’m a little traumatized.