Shakestantinople

October 18, 2008

Spent the whole night running around town with a few friends, ended up at one of the swankier locales by Istiklal Caddesi, accompanied by an American writer, a Swedish journalist, and a pimply Turkish kid, who later turned out to be the president of the local Pickup Artists Society chapter – and who, judging by Pickup Artist Society standards, looked exactly what you’d imagine a Pickup Artist to look like. In other words: like anything but a pickup artist.

The evening highlight, though, was to come courtesy of a supposedly prominent British artist, in town for an international art fair.

One mane of dark hair atop his head, another growing out of his generously exposed chest, six feet six inches worth of skin (bad skin) and bones, a seven-to-one ratio of gold necklaces to gold teeth, sunglasses, a cigarette, and an entourage of glammed up agents, groupies and promoters… Evidently, this was a man successfully easing his way out of a mid-life crisis by way of art, sex, good alcohol and the kind of drugs that only well-to-do British artists could afford (a) to buy and (b) to survive.

There he was, then, part Austin Powers, part renegade gypsy musician, and still clearly a Man Greater Than The Sum of His Parts, helping himself to one bottle of champagne on the dance floor, pouring another down his assistant’s throat, and motioning all of us – Pimply Pickup Artist, American Writer, Swedish Journalist, and myself – to knock back the remaining three.

Which, obligingly, we did. Hence my screaming headache this morning. Hence this blog entry. Hence – no way I am getting out of bed before noon.

Hence – a little musical treat. (Ignore the quality of the subtitles)