Where the hell are the eyeballs?

My usual jaunt down Strawberry Way (the road for pedestrians that asshole motorists continue to use against my will) a few weeks back and I noticed the eyeballs had been replaced with … well … I don’t know what the hell with:

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You can’t tell from that fuzzy, craptastic camera phone shot, but when you stand right in front of the thing, it kind of looks like a jelly fish? I don’t know.

A little further up past the HYP Club (which ironically, you don’t need to be an alum of Harvard, Yale, or Princeton to become a member), you’ll find this one:

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What is that? The literalist views that PittGirl takes toward art means that I have no idea what I’m looking at. The eyeballs, I got. Eyeballs. The balls in our eye sockets that let us see. Got it.

These? No idea. So forget the eyeballs being the new Kaufmann’s clock. From now on when I tell you I’ll meet you at the eyeballs, I’m talking about these ones. Got it, Hines?





6 Comments

  1. Woy
    July 3, 2006 9:52 am

    You’re coming dangerously close to revealing your true identity in the bottom snapshot!

    As far as what they are… beats the hell out of me. Serves the same usefulness as that colored billboard on one of the buildings you can see from PNC Park.



  2. paperback writer
    July 3, 2006 9:55 am

    the artist’s attempt to make everyone go, huh?



  3. Awesome Comet
    July 3, 2006 11:32 am

    Yeah, what the hell *is* the HYP club, anyway? I poked around their courtyard for awhile, and I was expecting either to hit with a poison dart, or be greeted by a gigging koala bear in a facemask. If you’re wondering why eyeballs are turning into glowing portals, I’d start with these guys.



  4. pittgirl
    July 3, 2006 11:50 am

    Yes, the HYP club is surrounded by a certain cloak of secrecy, but once you enter the doors, you’re greeted by little old ladies who direct little old men in expensive suits to their tables to eat soup and fish. Seriously. It kind of feels like an upscale old folks home to me, having lunched there once or twice. Much prefer the Rivers Club or the Duquesne Club.



  5. Bob
    July 5, 2006 10:02 am

    The HYP Club is mostly unremarkable inside. I dj’d the wrap party for “Diabolique” there. The club itself was forgettable — but Isabelle Adjani’s sheer, unrelenting lunkheadedness was memorable. Kathy Bates and Sharon Stone were no-shows. Chaz Palmienteri spent the entire evening in the corner, groping some young production assistant’s ass.

    Those are my memories of my one time in the HYP Club.



  6. Awesome Comet
    July 5, 2006 12:06 pm

    I guess the first rule of the HYP Club is … don’t talk about HYP Club.