Friday, August 27, 2010
Art Is For the Dogs
Like any event in Berlin promising free beer, we had to get there early. It was a basement space in Charlottenburg (Christ, why am I dragged to Charlottenburg every month?) and it was a beehive of activity. The basement space fairly buzzed with flocks of various skinny dudes with bed head curly hair and those new fad jeans which are skin tight on the legs but droop at the ass to reveal their shorts. I’ll never figure that one out so don’t even ask me to try. Not hip hop. Not ballerina. Something in the middle I reckon.
The Artist (no symbol) let us know her plan: the dogs would each wear an Ipod with speakers for a collar and the speakers would belt out a human voice at just the right moment. WHOA!!! Said I, ‘Where’s the BEER?’ But you could see that one coming a mile away already.
The tension before any art show is about the same as the tension before a prize fight—especially when canines are involved. At the art show the early comers stood around looking poor but sexy (except me; I was an accessory to the lil woman and the dog) while waiting for the beer. I got to gawk at the crowd a bit while they were strapping the Ipods to the dogs. There were the same type of folks you’d expect to see at any art show in any city at any time in history: beardos, waifs and strays, the eating disorderlies, the vamps, the tramps and the one chick you’re not quite sure about because the calves are too thick and the jaw too square and izzit a tranny?
The dogs: a whippet, thin, speckled and twitchy; a beagle, curious, sniffy and hyper; our hund, a black dachshund/Doberman mix, social, silly and asshole-sniffy; and The Rapehound, rapacious, rapey and rapine. I don’t know what breed it was but the dog made it very clear from the get-go that it was on a mission to fuck one of the dogs in the room. That’s not normally a problem; except all of the dogs were male. Viewing this as a minor obstacle, the Rapehound immediately tried to mount our sausage dog. Having none of that, our poor beastie flipped himself like pancake so that his head was where his ass was a split second before. This was not the least bit of a deterrent for Rapehound: he began the face fucking in earnest. I’m not sure what was more disturbing to me: the ungodly act occurring before my eyes or the fact that my girlfriend thought it was cute and kinda funny, in a dog-dick-in-the-mouth sort of way. Some of the waifs and strays started laughing. They thought the show had started.
Eventually the owner of The Rapehound came over, stood and watched. I wondered if I was the only prude in the room. Hey, look, do whatever you want to whomever you want, just: A) consent; B) be of a reasonable age and C) don’t do it my face. The Rapehound’s owner said ‘I don’t understand. He is—how you say—castrata?’
Do you mean to tell me that your facefucker has no balls and STILL feels the need to mount the skulls of other male dogs? This just doesn’t make any sense at all. Now it becomes nothing about sex. Now it becomes all about power and aggression and rape. And I think she said ‘Jawohl!’
I was ready for the art performance.