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(Miss)Adventures in Gal-hopping: Do I Look like Your Ho?


Okay, so the other night I decided to go gallery hopping, as there were a slew of openings I wanted to make it to. Of course, due to my many misadventures I accomplished very little of what I set out to do.

Was finally forced against my will to see Andy Warhol/Supernova: Stars, Deaths and Disasters, 1962-1964 at the AGO. Surprisingly, for me, the works themselves were very impressive. However, the exhibition itself was more akin to a white dwarf than a supernova. Best part was leaving the dronings/gushings of Cronenberg to go see Kim Adams' work in the next room over.

Trash Talk--Thursday saw the kick off of Alphabet City Festival 2006: Trash with a variety of events around the city. We went to the opening of Unholy Alliance: art + fashion meet again at the MOCCA. The premise: scraps of trash are made into art/fashion.

While I loved many of the pieces, especially Kent Monkman's, I'm not sure how to read the painted ladies who acted as eye candy. Talk about skin tight. Now, I could be erudite and bandy expressions such as post-colonialism, essentialism, Orientalism, the paragon and the gaze into pithy prose, yet in doing so we could lose sight of the fact that for this night at this art party there were two really hot chicks paid to look and behave like wallpaper, and bored out of their minds doing so.

I do recommend catching Future Species: Steven Meisel | Makeover Madness also at MOCCA until November 14. The photography was chilling, dahlings.

We topped off the night at The Gladstone, where if the art is a bore, the karaoke is sure to entertain; and when I left I my merry friends there, I made a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong neighbourhood. Wrong move. I make it a habit never to travel alone, let alone late at night, as I easily get lost; therefore, I was desperately trying to connect back to Bloor under the assumption all roads lead to home when a man in a car pulled along side me. He looked like a creep so I started to walk in the opposite direction to give him the hint I was not interested. When he took off a moment later I thought he got the point, so I continued back North.

Now I'm deeper in the woods, so to speak, and the street is desolate. A few minutes later, there he is again, alongside me and now waving. I pick up the pace. He drives on only to circle again and then leave just as I start to sweat. The next time I saw him he was doubling back and parking his car across the street. I broke out into a sprint, knowing it was miles before the next set of lights.

When I'm almost out of breath, I run into a "lady of the evening" who is about my height (with her six inch heels on) and my complexion. When I warn her about the creep, she's pretty sure its okay and he's looking for her. A case of mistaken identity, which makes me feel better he isn't a serial rapist, but not until I get home and tell my friend who laughs his head off at me. (It's even funnier when you know what an art-nerd getup I had on).

photos taken at the mocca

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