blown

Let this be a warning to anyone who might get invited to a glass blowing class; don’t do it. Sure, on the surface of it, it seems like a pleasant enough way to spend an afternoon.

It’s not.

You end up paying $100 for an ugly misshaped glass you will never use. You only learn how they do it, they don’t actually let you touch anything or get close to any of the giant kilns. A kiln being an oven that generates heat similar to the surface of the sun and something you will never decide to put in your basement or garage in a thousand lifetimes, however passionate you might be about making shitty glasses and bowls.

You might as well take a two hour class on open heart surgery. Chances are the same that you’ll decide to make it a hobby and start doing procedures at home for family and friends.

And heaven forbid you try to add some levity to the experience.

For example, your partner is allowed, after a long review of the history of glassblowing and the difference between free-blowing and mold-blowing (which would causes giggles in the most dour crowd, trust me on that), to take the long ‘blow tube’ and blow into it, while you sit at the other end manipulating the glob of molten glass. If the seated partner happens to be holding it at waist-level it might, from certain angles, resemble a long penis protruding from his lap into his partner’s mouth. If you add some soft moans and groans while that partner is blowing it becomes that much more apparent what you are going for.

Here is where your choice of blowing partners is critical. They have to understand that they are not in the company of ‘that guy,’ they are in the company of the guy that likes to play the role of ‘that guy.’ The more the other blowers react with disdain to ‘his’ sophomoric antics, the funnier it becomes.

Something about people who blow glass houses and throw stones therein.

All under the watchful gaze of a large poster that proclaims “The mind is like a glassblower; it shapes the thoughts that float within.”

If you happen to be saddled with a partner who is unable to see the comedic brilliance taking place right in front of her, you’re in for a long day.

Apparently glassblowing was invented by Syrian craftsmen from Sidon and Babylon between 27 BC and 14 AD. This is a stroke of luck for all the sandals-clad, tie-dye wearing hipsters these days with liberal arts degrees and no other job prospects after their attempts to launch a THC gummies business fall flat. Their relentless good cheer and helpful attitudes made me wonder out loud if they were even listening to my harsh critiques of the glassblowing culture. And how many of the aforementioned gummies they had consumed before class commenced. And how many have been killed in kiln-related accidents.

I looked around the room for an ally. All around me sat lumpy women enjoying themselves and beaten men, their eyes covered with a donut glaze, trying to occasionally offer up a soulless grin to their lumpy companions. Yes, lumpy. I’m not saying all glassblowing classes are filled with lumpy women, but this one had them in spades.

Fuck men watching sports or having a beer with friends, I was suddenly filled with a hot-green envy for all the men stuck weaving baskets, slinging paint onto canvases or shaping clay. At least they get to get their hands dirty.

Not I.

I sit there in front of the other blowers, the long blow tube waving erratically around in front of my groin, groaning away in the naïve hope that someone in the audience would see the magic that was transpiring, but there were no takers.

Pearls before swine.

So that was last Sunday.