You ever go to one of these groovy tourist towns like Santa Fe, or Sedona, or Eureka Springs, Arkansas, where they sell genuine folk art paintings of cows wading through a stream and necklaces with turquoise roosters painted on em?
Wouldn't you expect some 85-year-old Ozarks lady with wrinkly hands to be selling this stuff? Or maybe an 85-year-old lady and her 92-year-old whittling, fiddle-playing husband?
Nope. You know who sells this stuff?
Retired cab drivers from the Bronx.
Displaced homemakers from Detroit.
Neo-hippies from Seattle.
It's a little strange the first time it happens to you. You're wandering around the in the crystal-paperweight store, going, "Look, honey, a hickory ashtray in the shape of a mongoose. It must be some kind of local tradition."
And then some guy from Encino says, "My nephew made that. He's a junior at Bennington College."
I mean, if it's a native crafts store, where are all the goldurn NATIVES?
And why are all these unemployed insurance adjustors living here in the first place? What did they do, take their grandma's inheritance and buy out a few pig farmers?
"The wife and I love it here. We came here six years ago on vacation and decided we'd stay."
This is generally how the story goes.
Every once in a while I go to the Telluride Film Festival, held ever Labor Day in Telluride, Colorado, and it never fails that SOMEBODY doesn't buy a condo, get into a land deal, or try to start a business there--somebody who, three months ago, DIDN'T KNOW THE PLACE EXISTED!
People are doing some serious drugs out there. Either that, or these are people who spent the first 50 years of their life making NO friends, and so they don't give a flip WHERE they live, as long as it looks like something out of National Geographic outside their floor-to-ceiling mountain-chalet picture window.
Which is all right, I guess, except it's kind of disappointing when it comes time to buy that wild-mustang sculpture carving in the window. Somehow I was hoping it was carved by a guy named Buster who wears overalls and actually once TAMED a wild mustang.
Don't tell me. Buster is in the Bronx driving a cab.
Ain't America great?
And speaking of people with too much time on their hands, this week marks the long-awaited premiere of "Romeo: Love Master of the Wild Women's Dorm," the movie that asks the question, "How large can one man's ego be?" This flick was written, produced, directed, and edited by Denis Adam Zervos, who also sings a really bad lounge song called "I Will Be Your Romeo" that he also WROTE. The premise of the film is that Denis is such an irresistible hunk of man meat that every woman at UCLA wants to sleep with him, and so he's never able to study for his classes because he's too busy doing the old Prehistoric Bed-Spring Hustle with the entire female population of El Lay.
Obviously, my kinda guy.
Denis is so famous, in fact, that his roommate gives guided tours of his bedroom, and charges five bucks for guys to actually touch his bed. Unfortunately, Denis ends up falling in love with the plain-Jane bookworm who introduces him to Shakespeare, and pretty soon the flick descends into roller-skating montage sequences. Yuck.
One of the best movies ever made for less than forty bucks.
No dead bodies. Seventeen breasts. (All are the dreaded stunt breasts.) Gratuitous musical plant-watering. Whipped-cream Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Denis Adam Zervos, as the plant-loving hunky dimwit who says "No way am I wearing weird Minoan underwear"; Leigh Decio, as the take-charge ROTC girl who likes to pin Denis to a massage table and say "Are you ready for a workout?"; Kathleen Robinson, as the human sexuality major who likes to do a LOT of research, for saying "You? You're functionally illiterate!"; Tom Fahn, as the hustler roommate who sells cologne and magic condoms; and Mary Kelly Blad, as the wallflower movie usherette who finds true love in the arms of a dimwit.
One and a half stars.
Joe Bob says check it out.