I had heard the phrase, “What time is your mom picking us up?” more times than I cared to admit. It only seemed fitting to have a broken typewriter
Above the typewriter, a mostly empty bulletin board.
I guess some parts of Kentucky are forever decadent and depraved.
It was supposed to be a Hunter Thompson themed lounge at the festival to promote the Ralph Steadman exhibit at the nearby museum. In the corner, next to the bar with the $12 cocktails served in plastic cups, was a little table with a lamp with the broken typewriter. I can only imagine the thousands of kids who were drawn to the festival with the allure of acts I will never pretend I’ve heard of having sat down at this desk and pushed buttons until something snapped.
One card stuck to the board, written in pen in flowery, loopy handwriting, explaining how she had no idea how to use a typewriter.
It all seemed fitting.
This is youth. It is a device in every hand talking to a device in every other hand. It is the pinnacle of documentation through every imaginable filter and context, broadcast to the world — a population of individualized messages.
Follow me and I’ll follow you back.
What time is your mom picking us up?
Where is the screen on this thing?
Every generation will make their own culture to rally around, and every culture is borrowed from the ones before it.
Were it not for the art of Ralph Steadman, would any of these kids bother with wearing t-shirts with Hunter’s image on it? Would they know the body of work behind the man who did all of the drugs in the one movie?
The world looks vastly different in the rear-view mirror. Everything is backward; objects are closer than they appear.