Admittedly, the museum was very interesting. Visionary Art is defined as "art produced by self-taught individuals, usually without formal training, whose works arise from an innate personal vision that revels foremost in the creative act itself". Thank you Wikipedia. If you want to take a cynical view, you could argue that it is crap put out by the rejects of society. An area of expression for the criminal and the insane. It may well be that, but it is also brilliant.
The bottom floor was filled with signs from one Jesse Howard. A farmer who had a couple of signs vandalised, he responded by creating more signs, directed at the vandals. They responded by vandalising these signs. He responded by... well you can see where this is going. Hundreds of signs later, problems with neighbours with shrivelling land values and an eyesore, a government sick of complaints. I don't remember all the details but I believe the government at one point removed some of his signs. Which he responded to by putting up a new sign saying "The government took all my signs away". This delightful insanity was just a fraction of what the museum had to offer. Art from tortured and self-proclaimed innocent (or close to innocent "I was in Al Qaeda but only because I needed a job, I didn't know what they were going to do") inmates at Guantanamo Bay.
After our fill of museums, tortilla chips and another excellent meal featuring the Baltimore specialty crabcakes, it was time to head out again for a night out. This time without our neighbour, who we never saw again. Fell's Point is the main spot for drinking in our area. The first bar we went to was of course, an Irish bar. Again the only thing making it Irish was the green décor. So were we out and on the Boh. In the second bar we were explained that there were messages on National Bohemian bottle caps, or under them. In picture form. For example you might have a picture of an eye, a picture of a wave and hand pointed at you. The translation would be I see you. They were better than that but I can't remember what the messages were. I suppose they serve as crossword puzzles for the drunk. Eventually we found a message that no-one could decipher, not the barman or his designated expert. Ed held on to the lid in hopes of making an interpretation by the end of our trip. I think he lost it at some point, we still don't know what it said.
In the third bar, some drunk American guy came in and bought us a round of Candy Floss Bombs, presumably because we are British. The Candy Floss Bomb barely tasted alcoholic, but the drunk guy nearly couldn't get it down. He left soon after, but not before imparting his inebriated wisdom. In discussing possible racial tension we might encounter as privileged white boys travelling on the form of transport utilised only by the poorest members of US society, I was told "but you're not white, you're British. "
