If you’re anything like me, you live in Houston, you like eggrolls, you design haunted dollhouses and you constantly hear people gushing about the Orange Show which “you-have-to-go-to-because-Oh-My-God-it’s-amazing!” So then after years of build up you finally go and you walk around and realize that it’s really just a cross between shitty and disturbing.
Apparently some guy built this bizarre monument dedicated to the orange (the fruit, not the color) about 30 years ago and it ended up some kind of folk art museum in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. It’s a cool concept but after the build-up I was expecting else. Like something that didn’t smell of wet cat. Something that wasn’t filled with disturbing mannequins that seemed to move every time you turned your back. Something that didn’t make me wish I’d brought my own exorcist.
Still, when Houstonians talk about the Orange Show with such reverence I always nod my head in agreement while secretly wondering what the hell is wrong with me that all I got out of the Orange Show was fricking creeped out.
But lately I’ve started to realize that maybe it isn’t the Orange Show that’s so cool, but the idea of the Orange Show. The thought that a single man could create such a monument to bizarre oddity that would last beyond his life. And maybe that’s the meaning of art; that the ideas and emotions evoked by the piece are so much more meaningful the piece itself. I’d like to think that this blog is like that. Less of a collection of dead rabbits and poorly-written cartoons and home-made porn and more of a representation of the inner-workings of a broken, under-medicated girl looking for salvation and relief.
Sometimes an orange is just an orange.