My bad.
I went and read beyond Wayne Garcia and Lance Goldenberg again in Creative Loafing . But the Wade Tatangelo piece on the “Flugtag follies” caught my eye. I then quickly recalled why it is that these eyes typically avert this journalistic sputum. Sure enough, he had once again managed to work “shit” and “fucking” into a lead – because he can.
Generally, I’m a fan of that which is fun and funny and funky. Flugtag seems to embody that. And if it brings 100,000 downtown for unadulterated silliness, a sense of live community in a wired world, some whimsical teamwork and a dose of laugh therapy to offset the usual gloom and cynicism, then I say: Why not? I also say: Thanks.
Hell, I remember when Guavaween used to do that – before it morphed from bawdy wit and the creative class to crude clichés and perimeter punks.
Too bad Tatangelo didn’t get it. Flugtag was a paean to goofiness, a light-hearted bender. Too bad he can’t be confined to covering biker bars and garage bands. Here’s a guy who, while witnessing Flugtag with his bud lights, found himself “cooking, cringing and losing faith in humanity.” Never know, presumably, when or where an existential meltdown will occur.
And this is the same journalistic poseur, mind you, who reveled in his proletariat pissing among the privileged property owners along the Gasparilla parade route earlier in the year. Talk about “lame shit.”
And, yeah, I’m the same guy who wrote about the “rites of pissage.”
I’ll stay in touch.