my masked altern 8 rave reverie was shattered. a beast straight out of the detroit history books had run the lights, an unfortunate chevy pushed violently into the sitio i regularly use. a crowd was already gathered- fortunately the owners of both beast and chevy were unhurt and already calling their respective insurance companies- and so i strolled on, thinking once again of mr ballard's work- this time crash- and feeling an urgent need to listen to warm leatherette. the normal's original, perhaps a little harsh on this sunny afternoon? grace jones would do just fine then, i guessed. if i was going to listen to a song about a car crashing- and i clearly was- then today i'd take it with a dash of sly and robbie. as i was making my next musical move, i- quite literally- almost bumped into miranda, an old friend of mine. she's working for o.m.r, a cutting-edge contemporary art gallery, situated on the corner of plaza rio de janeiro, in a splendid mansion that somehow reminds me of a sinking galleon. o.m.r had just stolen the show at maco and she asked me if i cared for a tour of the gallery- or rather galleries- as o.m.r have just opened the house next door as a space- this one a mexican modernist jewel. away from the masked masses, passing eero saarinen's tulip pedestal chairs, i encountered works by rafael lozano-hemmer, melanie smith and pablo vargas lugo. returning home, paradise island awaited and the sound of taxi, crashing.
