Lewis/Clark, Abbott/Costello, Laurel/Hardy, Martin/Lewis, Lennon/McCartney, Jagger/Richards. Were these great duos introduced to each other like two snot-nosed, zero-life experience toddlers? Or what about yourself: How have you met people in your life?
What kind of Romper Room, Candy Land, kidults on anti-depressants bullshit is this? Even though these posters go back a couple of years – what difference does it make? It’s all relevant. Let me guess; this would be classified as like, like, like interactive art? Like yah! I like got it! ART ART ART! Meeting new people in the new “nabe”! YAH!
I can just imagine seeing two transient ‘Brooklyn-based’ pioneers stopping to interact with this fucking poster. First Harrison – on his way back from the organic market – with a $48.00 bag of hydroponic rooftop shallots and a roasted quail, Spin Doctor beard, condom width jeans, and 1928 tap dancing shoes stopping to take a picture for his one of a kind street art blog. Then placing his beard stroking hand on it and slowly turning around to see who is looking. Then, whadduya know – here comes offbeat Ursula; the 18 month Brooklyn veteran cruising down the street on her rusty Schwinn (just not in the bike lane she fought for) in her clay stained granny dress from her pottery making hobby job; gleaming and glowing because just as she finished making her last hand-crafted ashtray for the day she heard the mailman delivering her monthly gentrification allowance in the hallway. She sees Harrison with his hand on the poster and sees this as a narcissistic opportunity to be seen doing something zany in public. Harrison swings his greasy hair over a portion of his unique thick framed glasses to make it seem like he doesn’t see Ursula coming. Suddenly a hand with a never before seen black star tattoo on the wrist appears beside his; a connection is made. They are no longer strangers in this theme park Brooklyn they temporarily call home. After a few minutes, they realize they actually both live on the same street in buildings they recently chased a few hard-working families out of by naively paying triple the rent that the apartment is actually worth simply to be able to nasally honk out their zipcodes to other transplants. Now they sit like zombies in pretentious cafes all day – staring at their Macs; whimsically eat ethnic fusion food from food trucks run by skeletal hayseeds; and take magical expeditions and tours of mysterious neighborhoods that have been inhabited by normal people for a couple hundred years that must evacuate soon to make way for urban fucking farming fingerpainting bitch asses.
This poster really is a good example of how these try-hard invaders are in suspended childhood.