Monday, May 19, 2008
Hot Monkey Love.
A few weeks ago, I went up to Asheville. This used to be a colorful little college town, with happy stoners, crunchy new age mountain types, a little old money lured by the Grove Park Inn and tourists visiting the Biltmore or peeping the leaves.
This is where Zelda Fitzgerald burned to death in the Highland Mental Hospital and the city Thomas Wolfe called home, as in that place you can't go.
But in the past few years, Asheville has seen rising real estate prices, an influx of Republican-style money and the iffy influence of trustfundsters trolling for a little coed affection.
So how, you might ask, does hot monkey love, other than a cheap ploy to boost my Google hits, come into this? It's about the sock monkies, my friend.
One of the art galleries in Asheville had several on display among the more traditional forms of sculptures and watercolors and none of the monkies were quite as, uh, artistic as some of the examples you see here.
I don't mean to be a snob about this, but sock monkies are not art. Not in their natural state, they're not. If they were, my grandmother was a damn sock monkey Picasso.
No. We should not go down this road. Ou culture demands that we take a stand. Thomas Kincade is illuminated crap, Garrison Keillor can't sing and sock monkies are not art.
One must have standards.