Eat that, Christo

I just found out about what is possibly the coolest kind of art. I hesitate to call it "installation" art, although, I guess, technically that's what it is.

The farmers in Inakadate, Japan have, for years, been planting their rice in such a way as to create giant murals, meant to be seen from above. The mural is usually a recreation of a piece by a Japanese master, so far as I can tell, although occaissionally they throw in some work by European folks, like DaVinci.





These giant impressive things, which can be viewed during the summer months, are created by planting different types of rice: Kodaimai, which has purple and yellow leaves, and Tsugaru-roman, the greener variety. (Close-up below.)








Would you just think about all the freaking planning that has to go into this? You have to decide which work can be done in essentially three colors. Then you have to find a guy who can actually recreate the painting. ("Dear Mr. Takahashi, We understand you are a fantastic artist. Do you suppose you could recreate one of Hokusai's 36 Views of Mt. Fuji for our town's annual mural? Oh, and PS. You can only use rice. Thanks!") THEN, you have to decide where the different kinds of rice will go in the enormous field. And finally - and this is where I throw in the towel - you have to plant all the damn rice.

Anyway, it really is an impressive way to present your city's agriculture. And so good looking! Can you imagine us Westerners trying to do something as cool with our farms? What, would we just stack cows around in a corn field to make a giant smiley face? Yes, actually. That's probably exactly what we would do. Not because we aren't creative, but just simply because we've got so much to do. I mean, Top Chef's not gonna watch itself.

The Best Dollar I Ever Spent

Here's something: If you happen to be in the San Fernando Valley, near Coldwater Canyon, stop by Pinz bowling alley. They've got everything: Bowling, boozing, and a Jerry's Deli right next door. But what you really ought to see is in the back room of the arcade, in that dingy area near the pool tables, the one that's not very well lit, home to the less flashy games. There's a simulated bike race game, where you actually have to pedal the bicycle in order to win. There's an older Star Wars game, and a crusty basketball game that looks like it's from the seventies (the crappy part). There are some others, too, but they're in that back area where layers of dust and grime filter out the visible spectrum, making it impossible to see anything. The area where you'd take your girlfriend if you wanted to, say, impregnate her. Just before that point, wedged between the basketball game and some filth, is an old Ms. Pac-Man/Space Invaders Galactica machine with chairs on either side and a horizontal screen. If you pop in a few quarters (it's very reasonably priced next to that blasted "Dance Dance Revolution") the Ms. Pac-Man game will proudly challenge you to beat the high score, which is 29,409 points. I know this because it's mine. Well, mine and Ursula's. It was a team effort, and took a mere dollar and about twenty-five minutes of our Friday night.


When Ursula and I had paid our check at Jerry's Deli, we wandered into the bowling alley and, upon discovering that bowling was far too expensive and loud, found ourselves heading absentmindedly into the arcade. After trying several games out (I'll spare you the details of our DrumMania disaster) we were delighted to find Ms. Pac-Man. "Liz! I used to love Pac-Man!" Urs. exclaimed in her delightful Irish accent. "Let's do it, then, " I said, dropping four quarters into the side of the table-like machine. I sat down and pressed start, and off I went on my mission to eat everything in sight. (Incidentally, I see a lot of parallels between my life and Ms. Pac-Man's.) Urs. and I switched back and forth, each time making a mad dash while the new screen loaded so that precious seconds were not wasted.

I don't know when it started, but at some point I realized that we were yelling and carrying on like a couple of dudes watching the SuperBowl: "Go Go Go! Fuck fuck fuck! NO NO NO NO-shit!"

-Or-

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! Go go go dammit go! Aww, man. There was nothing that you could have done. It's okay."

-And also-

"What the hell is that?"
"A pretzel?"
"Get the fucking pretzel! Get it get it getitgetigetit! Yesssss! Oh, crap."

I vaguely recall a semi-soused young man coming over to us and saying, "So what's going on here, Ladies? A little Pac-Man?"
"Yeah," Urs. and I both half-replied.
"Cool, cool."
But the conversation ended there, because, unless he was Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, we had no time for him. He must have left after I slammed my fist on the table and said "WHAT?! I totally got that pear thing. You saw that I got the pear, right?"

So, all told, we racked up 29,409 beautiful points. As we were getting up to leave, Urs. noticed that our number was the new high score. "Wait. Is that right?" she asked, befuddled. "Yes, Ursula" I said. "There is no denying our intense skill now."

We emerged, beaming, from the depths of the arcade. Finally out of my frenzied haze, I looked around at the rest of the establishment. Everyone was approximately my age, dressed to attract sexual partners, holding at least one drink and ogling anything with a pulse. The guys were strutting around acting meaty and fantastic, and the girls we adjusting their clothing with psychotic frequency and sucking their stomachs in as best they could. These are what I suppose you would call my peers. This well-groomed, horny, drunken crowd was "the norm." Urs. and I, on the other hand had just spent prime drinking hours of the weekend flipping out at a little yellow thing with an insatiable appetite.

Good for us, dammit.

And that is how Ursula and I made history at an overpriced bowling alley in Studio City.