Hate and Trepidation in Midlothian

By James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism.

After our terrifying ordeal in Coon Springs, we were convinced that we had sunk as low as humanly possible.  That is, until we discovered that our next show was booked for Midlothian, Cement Capitol of Texas.  Midlothian’s main claim to fame is that it is not Coon Springs.  Its second main claim to fame is its sprawling cement factory, which emits incalculable amounts of toxic fumes per year, destroying the ozone layer, contributing to global warming,  and causing genetic mutations to domestic cats.

                There used to be a philosopher’s club called “The Thinkers Asylum” which was just off Main Street.  It shut down, however, after all of its members moved away and the owner was arrested on charges too vile, too sick, too inappropriate to mention here. 

                The town lost out to Waxahachie for county seat, so it ended up without a square.  Instead, its seat of culture is “Eighth Street”.  Eighth Street is home to a couple of Mexican food restaurants and your basic assortment of small-town businesses (including a Chicken Express which recently advertised a new addition of green beans to its menu, which created such a run on the building that the Fire Marshall was called), and an above-average number of out-of-business antique shops. 

Mutant cat spotted near Midlothian.

Traveling north on Eighth Street, you pass a few historic two-bedroom houses with the occasional mutant cat in the yard.  Ah, country living at its finest. 

The houses end and the vacant lots begin, right before the bridge.  The bridge is one of the unresolved mysteries of Midlothian.  It is a beautiful bridge complete with cast-iron railing, a walkway, and Victorian lamp post lighting.  It connects one row of empty lots to another row of empty lots.  It was put there in place of a railway crossing because the city council felt like it would add beauty to the landscape, promote local culture, and possibly attract businesses to the city.  Sadly, it has not fulfilled any of these good intentions. 

However, we are not interested in any of these landmarks, as our only interest at this point in time is in the Midlothian Art and Music Festival held at The Lighthouse Coffee Bar, a hip coffee joint on the outskirts of town.  It is unique in that it has a full menu of sandwiches, an art gallery, and an upstairs office space to rent.  We could not have been more than happy with our venue. 

The day came and we headed off to the festival.  We were running a little late as the Star had been locked in the bathroom all morning applying numerous coats of animal cruelty free 100% organic all-natural-origin plant-derived fair trade vegan makeup, emerging occasionally to model looks that were, quote, “really really cute but so not me today”.  Finally my patience wore out.  “I don’t care whether you are youthful gamine, chilling vamp, soda pop Lolita, Japanese geisha, mime, or the blessed virgin Madonna, “ I yelled, “Put on your makeup or I’ll put it on for you!!”   Thus encouraged, the Star emerged five minutes later, looking the perfect Latina.   “That’s better ,” I said. “Now stop whimpering or your mascara will run.”  I hated to do it but you have to be firm with these diva types.  It’s the only way they’ll respect you.

We arrived at the show in a glory of flash bulbs and press.  Unfortunately, it was for the headliner.  Although the festival had been in progress for several hours, there were still quite a few acts before we went on.  I immediately retreated to the upstairs to talk business with several associates I happened to meet, while the Star wandered off to look at the jewelry booths, which she told me later held, quote, “all this really really cute stuff, it was just so not me today”. 

After chewing the fat with the cream of the promotional world, I came downstairs and made my way back out to the festival grounds.  I was overwhelmed with the booths overflowing with handmade craft items of every description, and was immediately reminded of the hipster credo: “Honesty Before All Else”.  The traditional was shunned for originality’s sake, and the tried and true art forms so embraced by our fathers had been replaced by more heartfelt and spontaneous creations.  “What these people need is a good business manager,” I muttered to no one in particular.  Just then I happened to run into my friend Cody, who was carrying a sack of canvases under his arm.  He seemed distraught, to say the least.  “What gives, old man?” I said.  “What have you got there?”  “Half my paintings were banned from this years’ event,” he said, pointing to the canvases.  “Incredible!” I said, dumbfounded, shocked with a revelation of such un-hipster-like exclusiveness on the part of the art board.  “What was it banned for?”  “Explicit content,” he said. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “You’d better hand it over to me!”  I flipped over the canvas and was greeted by a psychedelic explosion of acrylic paint.  Otherworldly figures so grotesque and fantastic repeated themselves and faded off into the corners of infinity.  Swirls of tangerines, fushias, soda fountain reds, and lime greens looped and rolled with childlike abandon.  Even to my cultured eye, there was nothing in the artwork which could be defined in solid terms or related to anything inside the normal human experience.  “Don’t let the Freudians with their Rorschach blots get you down,” I said. “I’m sure your work will be vindicated and the world will recognize you for the genius you are. It always happens to artists after they’re dead.”  With an encouraging pat on the back I left him to his own devices.

Checking my watch, I saw that it was nearly time to go on, so I struggled through the hipster hoards trying to make my way to the stage.  The fumes of triple-vente-lattes and cappicinos writhed up through the air.  Ironic facial hair was in full vogue. Epic mustaches appeared on boys and girls alike, set off with black plastic-framed Buddy Holly glasses.  The shoes had friendly, familiar-sounding names: Bobs, Toms, Dicks, Harrys.  Heavy gauges hung in distended earlobes like the voodoo charms of some African witch-doctor.  I began to feel the fear. 

I somehow made my way to the stage and stumbled through the first song.  As the Star whistled her way through the bridge, I felt a calming influence pass over me.  After all, we are all the same, I thought, searching for answers.  Sometimes searching for questions.  Reaching out to God-knows-what, but it just might be each other.  I heard, it seemed, for the first time, the lyrics to the song.  "Take a step towards belief.  My eyes are wide open and so is my heart."  And it sounded like a benediction.  I felt the urge to start a chorus of kum-ba-ya, or a group hug, and I supposed that this is what the word festival really means.