Boogie Visits The Art Institute

As part of my resolutions for the new year, I've been researching higher education. Something grand and entertaining to tack on to the wall next to that Bachelor's degree, and all those certifications. And one of the few places in this strange town that actually caters to my interests, is the Art Institute.

Now, if you've never heard of the Art Institute.....well then you're pretty darn normal. Basically it's a higher class vocational school, located in pretty much every major city, and it mainly caters to the hippy kids and the emo bunch who feel they're destined to do something creative. It has a decent reputation, in that unlike other vocational schools, the piece of paper you walk out with is actually worth something. However, there is a price, and that price happens to be tuition, which is rumored to be "quite high."

Naturally, I'm not exactly rolling in dough. And if I were, there are probably a lot of other things I would rather do with coin in hand than give it to some institution that shares it's building with a cell phone carrier.

But, I'm open minded right? Perhaps checking out the facility might open my eyes. Maybe I'll take one look at the campus, and meet the instructors, and know deep in my little black heart that this is the best investment of my life. So, when an opportunity for an open house turned up, I got out of bed, cleaned myself up, and headed on down for a life-changing experience.

When I arrived, there was a crowd waiting outside the facility, most of whom were younger than me by close to a decade. Clearly I was out of my time, and my generation, as a group of overly make-up and mascara doused (both the boys and girls,) tweens wearing spiky hair and department store thrift clothes stared at me with suspicion. I knew I'd feel like a bit of a grandpa at today's open house, but I had no idea that the whole mass of attendees would be staring at me like the children of the corn. The only wrinkled and weary people here were the parents of these little brats. And they didn't seem to be too fond of me either. Hopefully, I wouldn't actually have to interact with these demons, otherwise I might find myself tarred and feathered by days end.

The Art Institute is a very pretty building, governed by very pretty people. Everyone who guided me through the labyrinth of halls was made up well, with moderate to expensive haircuts, and magazine model clothes. It's like walking into the Gap, only more desperate. We were a group of about 30, and we had staff surrounding us on all sides in the corner of a classroom. There literally was no escape. And they guided us through these hallways so quickly, I'm not sure I could find the stairs to get me out of this madhouse without arousing attention. Clearly, I'm in this for the long haul.

We've been handed an itinerary of events for today. There's only five things on the list, and we're already running ten minutes late for the first one. Things are not boding well. Then, one of the pretty people's steps up to a laptop/projector combo, ready to dazzle us with the sales pitch. I notice as she's scrolling amongst the numerous icons on her laptop, being broadcast to us on a decent resolution projector, that her active desktop has failed, and is requesting recovery. Yet another bad sign.

Finally, the spiel starts. The first people on the list, are the "artists." a brief presentation on graphic arts, photography, interior design, all those professions that people aspire to wear turtlenecks to. The presentation is loaded with bright colors, quick moving and exciting videos, and of course the requisite generic techno music. The woman up front talks at great length about how important it is to have quick moving graphics and loud audio on your web page, to grab a potential surfer's attention. I find that ironic, since those are the very things that keep me away from many web pages. But oh well, what do I know? I'm a fucking dinosaur as far as these people are concerned.

Finally, we get to what I'm interested in. Culinary arts. The edibles, the tasty shit. Here's there chance to sell me on what makes this institute so great, and why it should be worth the cost of a fucking decent sized condo.

She opens her mouth, and the first thing she says..........."Making art with food."

Ye fucking gods.

Forget for a moment that most cooks with some degree of notoriety are quick to refer to cooking as a craft more than an art form, and just consider the idea she's throwing out here. Making something you put into your face for sustenance, into something that is to be admired, photographed, and lauded for it's intent. Now, perhaps this is my simpleton's notion of cooking, but it seems to me that people would much rather eat something that TASTES GOOD. Pretty plates may look impressive, but if it tastes like cardboard I'm just not gonna buy it. And I'm here to learn how to cook damnit, not stroke my ego with fantastic multicolored plates that stand three vertical feet high. Fuck the color complemented florescent sauces, I wanna learn how to fucking cook chicken!

I sneak a peak over my shoulder and see three mannequin-looking staff people guarding the door. Damn.

Next up is the Dean of Admissions. Now perhaps it's just me and my college experience, but when I think of someone with the title of "Dean," I think weather-worn, gray-haired professional who has done his time. Here, apparently it's a twerp with a Monkees-style hairdo and the nervous twitch of someone who got repeatedly stuffed into lockers as an adolescent. This man......no, this runt of some unwanted litter, can't speak to a crowd for shit. In fact, nobody I've listened to can actually pander to an audience. It makes me wonder how in the hell anyone even agreed to come to this place. I worry that somewhere in the never-ending halls of this building, they're holding hostages.

Finally, after an hour of listening to these people talk about how great it is to be working for a place so great, I finally get to see the kitchen. And admittedly, it's not bad. Not earth-shattering, or mind blowing, but it didn't completely suck. The chef on duty looked sort of like a Brady Bunch Buddha, and had that David Hasslehoff look of confusion on his face. Instinctively, I looked at his hands.

Now, perhaps it's because I read a lot of Bourdain, or perhaps it's because I've recently spent a lot of time over at Ingrid's blog, The Hungry Cupboard, but I've always been of the assumption that a professional cook should have hands that look like shit. Cut, burned, and beaten to a bloody pulp. That to me, seems the danger of the profession, and necessary collateral damage in doing this sort of thing. But, Mr. Chef Boy R Dee at the Art Institute? Well, he had nicer looking hands than mine. And I'm not talking about my hands being rougher because I sliced off another fingertip last week, or because I've still got cuts and callouses from a strange youth and thirteen years of being a musician. No, what I'm saying is this guy had well groomed, manicured hands that looked like they had never seen a garden, much less a kitchen. And, I'm supposed to learn from this guy?

He let us sample some dessert cream made from mascapone cheese, which tasted a little too sugary, and then whipped up some bananas foster in which he didn't burn off enough of the liquer. The underage adolescents in the room didn't seem to mind it nearly as much as I did though.

Finally, they wrapped up with the hard sale. Fafsa forms, scholarship info, heck you can even get your parents to co-sign a loan for you. They're cushioning the blow with all sorts of very informative stuff, but come on. Let's be frank people, what's the whole bit cost?

Then, the numbers hit: $90,000 bucks. $40,000, if you want to just want an Associates.

The last thing I remember is finding myself in a flat run, tearing down the halls of the building trying to find the way out. I could almost hear the footsteps of the staff at my heels, ready to snatch me, throw me in a closet, and make me sit under a heat lamp until I agreed that it was, "worth every penny." I didnt stop and I didn't look back, I ran hard, turning randomly into different hallways trying to lose my pursuers, until finally, I found the stairs. I tore across them with great speed, and didn't stop until I was comfortably in my trusty truck driving away.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that this is a bad institution with evil intentions or anything like that. I'm sure they teach you useful skills, and I'm sure the people who do go there have a great experience. But clearly, this place is not for me. So, for those who attened the open house, and walked away with positive vibes and warm fuzzy feelings, I salute you.

Just don't expect "grandpa" here to join your ranks anytime soon.