I’ve gotten a couple of e-mails asking me why I called my art blog, "I Have Rocks In My Head". Well the whole story USED to be here before one of my "reorganizing" sprees which really should renamed, "why don’t I just screw up and delete all my entries for the last year?" But I digress. Here’s the story as I remember it:
One night last year, I was out doing the First Fridays Artwalk decided to pass on the opportunity to be visually accosted by pastels of men’s penises in favor of resting on a bench outside the crowded and all too warm gallery. It’s not that I have anything against penises. They are quite nice, pleasant parts of the male anatomy as far as I am concerned but this night, I wasn’t in the mood to be surrounded by 12 photo-realistic likenesses, committed to large sheets of paper, right in my face.
So there I sat on the bench, waiting for the pain in my back to decrease before deciding on another pain pill and a tall, man with dark hair approached the bench and nodded a good evening. Of course I returned the greeting and silently remarked to myself that it was a humid as Poseidon’s testicles. The man struck up a conversation.
"This is wild, huh?", he said to me. Having been on Santa Monica Blvd in West Hollywood, California on Halloween night more times than I can remember, "wild" wasn’t what an artwalk in Richmond, Virginia on a humid evening conjured up for me but you meet people where they are. So I replied innocuously, "I guess it can seem that way".
"It sure can. I mean look at all these kooks and weirdoes. Just see what they call art. Art is what is in museums not in some run down storefront. You’d have to have rocks in your head to be an artist these days".
"I take it you’ve never been to an artwalk before and that one of your kooky artist friends talked you into coming down here", I guessed.
"That’s it! I would have never come down here on my own. I have to get up early in the morning. I’m a contractor. What do you do for a living"?
I debated on choosing any number of "kooky" and "weird" occupations: firebreather, bordello manager, sword swallower, for instance. But instead I simply looked him squarely in the eye and said dryly, "I have rocks in my head".
He looked at me a moment, confused and said, "What? OH! You’re an artist? I didn’t really mean anything by that, you know".
"Of course you didn’t," I reassured him.
He stood there awkwardly a few seconds more and studied his empty plastic cup.
"Well, it’s probably time I go find my friend and another glass of wine".
"Have a nice evening", I said pleasantly, which made him visibly more uncomfortable. He paused as though he were going to say something more as I prayed silently and vociferously that he would not, and then bid me a good evening and went on his way.
And that is how this blog came to be called what it is.