Buster Keaton Show

   We walked downtown last evening to Dick Higgins's show,
   "Buster Keaton Enters Into Paradise" -- the rotating free-
   drinkers deception, then the delightfully invigorating
   performance.

   Guzzling wine we tried to pick Dick, to nail Malgosia, to
   match e-angels to flesh. We'd pick, ask if the meat was he
   or she, be told no, try again, and, after flunking a half
   dozen times, heard a plangent, "Malgosia," who replied,
   "What, Dick, darling, 't' fuck now?" With this the show's
   shit began to fly.

   Higgins, Valarie Henry, Gregary Pilot and Arnold Vance
   pumped his (Scrabbled) words gusher, while Malgosia and
   Louis Schwartz ingeniusly manipulated projected cut-outs,
   sort of following Dick's script for live acrobatics (buy,
   see his book).

   The multi-faceted fx-jewel was sparklingly highlighted by
   an array of entangled projectors, slides, transparencies,
   cut-outs (with knit-needles to work on the hot glass),
   archival video, dangling speakers, hung screen, and four
   soapboxes.

   The chants of mesmerizing nonsense poetry and the daring
   non-Art film bedazzled the gathering, transported us to a
   child's dreamland of Beaton's movie-lot cut-outs, dancing
   marionettes and fall-down clowns, and away from the
   gruesome reminders of lowdown, putrid artsucking ambition
   and greed.

   It was damn excellent, an exhilirating tonic, a comic
   relief from the hard-charging in-your-fucking-face-with-my-
   curated-art exhibits next door, down the hall, across foul
   Broadway, around over-valued SoHo, throughout sleazemost
   NYC, the raw deal-poisoned continent and ever-creepier-
   upslicked universe.

   Grab some authentic artz fare; drag your carcinogenic
   carcass and unloved uglies downtown for upscale fx-scape,
   the feast's on until May 25, 479 Gallery, 594 Broadway.