Chapter 2: When you pretend to be a New York Times editor and people buy it.

So this friend asked me to go see his band play at the Miami Art Walk this past saturday.
Wait! Did I just type the words "Miami" and "Art" in the same sentence? Well apparently I did. Basically, Art Walk is your source for really cool (and not so cool) art pieces, live music, semi-gourmet food trucks and overall well dressed people (and your usual South Beach immigrates).

I got there wearing exquisite velvet flared pants and very uncomfortable platforms, and just before the band started playing, this bitchy New York Times editor with a sort of like kind of russian accent took over my body and decided to pay a visit to a few of the open galleries waiting to be victimized.

She went inside with out-of-nowhere imperturbable confidence and the dialogue that followed was pretty much something like:

- Fake Russian New York Times Editor: Hello. My name is Fabiana Silberstein. I have been sent here to do research on the art scene in Miami, because frankly, everybody thinks there is no such thing.

(killer silence)

- Guy Who Worked At The Gallery: Oh... oh, okay, uhm... yeah, hi, how are you?

- Fake Russian New York Times Editor: Good. Can you tell me who is in charge of this gallery? 

- Guy Who Worked At The Gallery: Yeah, uhm... he's not here right now.

- FRNYTE: And when will he be here? I do not have a lot of time. 

(the silence allowed the FRNYTE to hear the GWWATG's heartbeats)

- GWWATG: Yeah, uhm, well... I can show you around if you'd like.

- FRNYTE: Yes. Tell me about what makes your gallery different. And the pricing of your pieces. 

GWWATG proceeded to obey the FRNYTE until she was no longer able to hold the need to burst into   roars of Cruella de Vil laughter and the real Fabiana walked out with brochures in hand and a RSVP'd seat in Hell.

So yeah, I'm an asshole.

And then, Jacuzzi Boys played.

All photos via Beached Miami.


Footnote: GWWATG, if you happen to read this someday, do e-mail me violently stating how much of an immature imbecile I am, and then I'll buy you dinner.