I'm sure glad I got my haircut for the art show

Ah...art. The word brings many different thoughts to many different people. For me, I think of art as one of the finer things in life. It, along with music, architecture, and literature tend to outlive generations and societies. It is something I strive to understand and appreciate, and while I'm no expert, I do know what I like and what I don't. When I think of an art exhibit, I do have a picture of what it will be like and what I should expect. I expect an open space with complimentary lighting to highlight the various pieces. I picture finely dressed people mingling about staring at the works and determining in their heads whether it is art or not by asking themselves if they could make it. Knowing I was going to an art show tonight, I wanted to look my best. I went out and bought a new shirt with gift card money and I went for a haircut so I would be sure to look upper middle class. This leads to a new rule I learned about art, which is always research the art show fully if you find out about it on facebook. As it turns out, the art shows I have as a stereotype probably don't use facebook heavilly as a communications outlet but that doesn't keep other types of art shows from using it. This partictular art show was at a bar named Fubar...that's right...Fubar. A quaint little establishment located off the campus of SLU on Locust in St. Louis. The target audience of Fubar happens to be the scene that associates itself with all things punk. As I gazed around the establishment people watching the patrons, I began to draw several conclusions of what I saw. I noted that I had to be the only person without permant body art or unusual piercing. In fact, many of tha patrons had tattoos to such an extent that all I could think was how silly they are going to look once they find themselves in a retirement home. Regarding the art, I was somewhat disapointed in the pieces, minus a couple which caught my eye. Most were of a slightly graphic nature that would have caused a lesser man of fortitude a relapsing case of disturbing dreams. As I left the smoky abode, I could not help feeling a bit frightened by what I saw, yet strangly sympethetic to what had just occured. Individually out on the street if we were to see these people going about their day, we would probably think they were freaks or at least in a stage in which their parents would not approve. Having the tables turned on me, it was interesting to see how comfortable everyone was in their element, which I suppose is a commonality we all share.