Have you ever really watched the people in the crowd? Oh, I know we’re all optimistic voyeurs in our own warped ways, hoping for someone to face-plant or dribble ice cream or catfight over something catfightable. But I’m referring to actually studying the way people interact – the escalating tones of someone whose excitement at the telling of a story has a tennis-shot’s squeal about it, the awkward distance people assume when confiding in one another, the graceless gestures we use to accentuate something. Truly, we are animals and the observational possibilities are pretty staggering.
Yesterday I was sitting poolside, surrounded by a hundred Hollywood hulks and hulkesses whose idea of swimwear lay somewhere between Fred Flintstone and Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase. As I reclined, I saw swollen biceps support strawed-drinks with the sort of effort an Olympic weightlifter might give in the gold medal round. With the absence of tan lines, post-implant females ran slender fingers up bronzed bodies and pushed red tongues through collagened lips. The mating ritual’s posturing wouldn’t stop. Grown woman tossed back hair with an I’m-Stevie-Wonder-singing sort of epileptic flip while the males slipped a waist-high hand onto a mates bikini line and leaned in for a whisper.
Perhaps the arena called for these actions – Hollywood home of the sexually adventurous and overbearingly crass – however, all subtlety and nuance were lost. Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe this is the next generations salvo in the war towards pro-creation. Then again, maybe voyeurism is the perfect means to observe critique and learn how the world works. Whatever is happening, I’ve got my pen in my hand….