G&S ART SUPPLIES AND KINESTHETIC THERAPY SALON read the sign on the window; inside we found -- among other things -- a large pad of sketching paper with a man behind it, sketching. He was wearing an expression of bemused resignation, and glasses. Also a white tie with a black shirt, possibly as a lesson in negative space.
"Be with you in a minute," he said. "Or not, if you walked into the wrong store. Most people seem to."
"We were curious about the kinesthetic therapy," I said.
"It's five dollars an hour plus supplies," he said, setting down his charcoal pencil to contemplate his sketch with a sort of what-is-this-missing look on his face. He had drawn a duck. It seemed fine to me, at least if drawing a duck had been his intention.
"Okay, but what is it?"
"A social license to act like a nincompoop. If you run around yelling 'woohoo' and throwing paint at people you'll be considered insane -- unless you pay for the privilege. That ennobles the whole business and none dare criticize." He picked up his pencil again and drew a bow tie on the duck. "--Perfect!"
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