Friday, April 09, 2004
An Easter Special
You are Frida Kahlo, you've been dead since 1954, you've had gangrene, pulmonary embolisms, spinal chord infections, you've been questioned about the assassination of Leon Trotsky, you've been kicked out of the Mexican Communist Party...you didn't think things could get much wilder or shittier than this.
Somehow you awaken in 2004, you are hungry, you are thirsty, you feel a little stiff, there's an odd taste in your mouth. This must have been how Jesus felt. You go into a combination coffee shop/bookstore, you order coffee and they ask you what kind, "what kind?!" you say "just plain black coffee". They stare at you blankly and bewildered. After some delay they hand you back a mug of coffee. You take your coffee and wander through the aisles of books, people are staring at you, they keep whispering something about desperadoes and fools rushing in.
You peruse through the books and one with your name on it catches your eye. Yup that's your name alright, F-r-i-d-a K-a-h-l-o, but that ain't you on the cover. It's a biography about you, your work graces the interiors, but that most definitely is not your mono-brow mug on the cover. Just who is this bitch and why is she stealing your identity?
Someone has got a lot of explaining to do.
You are Frida Kahlo, you've been dead since 1954, you've had gangrene, pulmonary embolisms, spinal chord infections, you've been questioned about the assassination of Leon Trotsky, you've been kicked out of the Mexican Communist Party...you didn't think things could get much wilder or shittier than this.
Somehow you awaken in 2004, you are hungry, you are thirsty, you feel a little stiff, there's an odd taste in your mouth. This must have been how Jesus felt. You go into a combination coffee shop/bookstore, you order coffee and they ask you what kind, "what kind?!" you say "just plain black coffee". They stare at you blankly and bewildered. After some delay they hand you back a mug of coffee. You take your coffee and wander through the aisles of books, people are staring at you, they keep whispering something about desperadoes and fools rushing in.
You peruse through the books and one with your name on it catches your eye. Yup that's your name alright, F-r-i-d-a K-a-h-l-o, but that ain't you on the cover. It's a biography about you, your work graces the interiors, but that most definitely is not your mono-brow mug on the cover. Just who is this bitch and why is she stealing your identity?
Someone has got a lot of explaining to do.
