storeeze

“Two photo ops, dinner at the house and Ron Carter at the Bistro. Be here by 5:30.” I was late. We raced to St. Louis U and hurried out of the wind and cold into the rarefied atmosphere of the Beaux-Arts. A lady with a charming smile handed me a brochure. Richard found me at the Pinot Grigio and round cheeses. “Can't take you anywhere!” Was it my blazer-baseball cap ensemble? I finished the tasty stuff and drifted into the Michael Eastman Retrospective. Large photos, curiously dead (no people), nicely framed, an architectural feel. A cactus resembling a building ornament. Horses with a human countenance. (Why the long faces?) I asked Richard, “What about the sheep?” “We don’t have time.” Wham! Across town and two flights of steps for 70 Years of Martin Schweig at Webster U. Richard was all-in for Schweig. I tabbed Eastman.  Richard’s house was next. Pineapple chicken in the crock pot. Stretching on the sofa to Paul Butterfield. Sibelius after dinner to think it over. The Bist...

“This is it?” asked Charline. “The map showed just beyond Fox Park,” replied Charlie. “Are you sure?” “Heard about it from a friend.” Unnoticed and unobserved in the swirling snow, Charlie and Charline stepped around a pile of rubbish in front of a snow-capped warehouse in Old Soulard. The heavy iron door clanged open to a large glowing cavern. Condom on Your Tongue boomed from the walls. Nude models in body paint roamed the floor, stirring the pot for the grand opening of Naughty Gras. Charlie gestured. "Now this is what I’ve been talking about.” “Why don’t we just leave?” “Yours?” “Oooooh no. We can stay here, I suppose. I have a treat for you,” taking off her coat and gloves. “Dang! I’m shocked by what you can fit in a Winslet!” “ You don’t like it?” “No, you look sexy. Can you breathe?” “Barely.” Four hundred revelers had flocked to the bacchanal, away from the veil of everyday life: sexy art and sensual costumes, a urinal crafted from a female figure, an eye staring out fro...