Headed up for a few hours on Saturday, dropping out of the party every now and then to get some respite from the sun. And by "dropping out of the party," I mean "dropping into the bar/restaurant scene." Brewer's Art, City Cafe, Joss. A trifecta of Mt. Vernon perfection.
Honestly, though I know it pains thousands of hard-working artists to hear, the best part of Artscape has got to be the people. It is a coalition of every single archetype of character in Baltimore City, and I'd wager to throw in an "AND BEYOND!" there too. I spent the entire afternoon rubbernecking the attendees.
But, in what can only be described as 'freakish luck,' we happened upon a Puerto Rican gentleman who had been imbibing for the better part of the day (if not the better part of 2011, sounded like) who proceeded to explain to us why his (white and half-his-age) girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) tried to run him over with her car.
It was suggested without the slightest hint of braggadocio, without exaggeration, and just plain and straightforward: "My girlfriend, who I love with all my heart, tried to run me over with her car."
"She found a Russian in my shower."
This was most certainly a story we wanted to hear.
It turns out that said attempted vehicular manslaughter was the result of the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) coming home and chancing upon a scenario that involved the makings of a romantic dinner and a girl (who was not, in fact, herself) taking a shower. Upon said discovery, the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) stormed out of the apartment to the garage and attempted to peel away in a fit of (rightly attributed) anger, whereupon the gentleman (who was, at this point, being refused drinks by the clearly-perturbed bartender) inserted himself between the automobile and his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart)'s escape route and nearly found himself pancaked by the grief of the cheated-upon.
But why, we asked, was there a Russian girl in his shower?
Naturally, clearly, plainly, we did not understand the needs of this man. We could not conceive of the idea that he could love his girlfriend with all of his heart and still feel the need to stash away a Russian chick in his shower. And cook her dinner.
The two, he insisted, are separate issues.
Apparently it was common sense to him. Perhaps not to us. Or to his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart).
But even better than this story was the company he was keeping at the bar: a young, fete'd-out paaaaaarty boiiiii with the brightest blue color contacts I'd ever seen in my life, who was cruising the bartenders in between telling us stories of growing up in New York City proper ("Whatever, I have so shanked a bitch before and I'll do it again!") and his dog (who is, apparently a "ghetto Jack Russel terrier" with "his own wine tasting").
You cannot make these things up.
Oh, and there was some art and stuff. Culture and whatnot.