Well, that was a total waste of makeup . . .

So the 'rents are up to Woodbridge for a grandbaby visit, leaving me the run of the house. I decided to go to an art opening at The Orange Hill Art Gallery, a gallery that specializes in folk art. I actually like most folk art--yes, it tends to be drawn on the level of a kindergartener, but, like kindergarten art, there's a certain innocence and enthusiasm that makes me smile.

This show however . . . ugh. This was a show of erotic folk art. I thought this could have been interesting, but once I arrived at the show I realized that the show's organizers and myself have wildly different concepts of the word "erotic."

I always thought "erotic" was about implying more than revealing. I'm reminded of a "His Point Of View" article in one of those useless women's magazines that spoke of the difference between sexy and erotic--a woman in a miniskirt is sexy; a woman in a tuxedo is erotic. I figured that "erotic" was being sensual, even sexual, but not utterly explicit.

Not so this show. If they'd just called it the Breasts, Penises and Vaginae Show, I would at least have gone in knowing what I was in for. The thing is, folk art isn't really about subtlety, so instead of the implied, we had every damn thing hanging out for the world to see. And, of course, drawn at about the level of a kindergartener, which sort of added to the creepiness.

The only pieces in the entire show that didn't make me go "yuck" were two sort of cubist wall sculptures by Ab The Flagman. He seemed to have a clue about leaving things unsaid.

I left, went to The Vortex for a big, stupid cheeseburger and went home. I'm charging up my iPod and going to bed as soon as that's done.

Today I took pleasure in a smoky golden moon on the horizon as I drove back to the house.

Today I learned where the Orange Hill Art Gallery is.