A couple of Friday nights ago, I met up with a friend for some beers. We met downtown, and after a couple of beers and dinner, he - a professional photographer - suggested going to some art galleries. I - a professional cynic, suggested that if it was free, then what the heck.

The intention was to go to the Santa Fe area of town, where there is an entire artistic community, despite the fact that we're in -thought-police-controlled Colorado.

Whilst still downtown, and on the way back to our cars, we wandered into a gallery that was open. The place was very busy, and packed with the sort of people you would politely describe as real characters, but for the fact that none of them seemed particularly real.

All the same, it was a delight to be there, and meet all sorts of people. Most of the staff were cross-dressing men, who whilst enjoying the feel of skirt around their legs, didn't feel the need to go so far as shaving them. The female attendees were equally colourful but with a whole lot less leg-hair.

In fact, at this first gallery, the people attending were far more interesting and attractive than any of the art there. One series of pictures, for example, resembled some badly colorized/colourised Athena greetings cards from about 1984. I'm sorry, that's not art, that's crap.

Not all of the men attending were cross-dressing. One chap for example, had come as Philip Marlowe. Well, it was either that, or Inspector Gadget.

After soaking up the atmosphere downtown, we headed over to the Santa Fe area. There's a block or two of commercial premises that house a number of art galleries. The same deal as downtown was going on here. I later found out, from a young lady wearing pink saran wrap instead of clothes, that it's an event called First Friday, and such heady, artsy indulgence occurs once a month.

We wandered around about five or six galleries, sampling the free beer and food, and people-watching. Every cliché of arts-graduate fashion and lifestyle was there. This ranged from skinny arts students, to the Male Mid-Life Crisis Ponytail Brigade. In the middle, were the arts nerds.

By "arts nerds" I mean the sort of people who are, or think they are, so fashionable, that they wear really ugly, unattractive clothes, in the belief that more people will look at them. You know the sort. They mostly hang out in Old Navy commercials.

The high(or low)light of one gallery was a "fashion show". I put that phrase in quotes because frankly, you'd have to be pretty naive to think that the purpose of having half a dozen gorgeous young 20 year-olds, parading about in nothing but a few carefully tied scarves and woolly hats, was to sell clothing. Even the free beer they were handing out, couldn't cloud my judgment (it was after all only Pabst Blue Ribbon, but hey, it was free!). This was all very obviously an attempt to get as many people into the gallery as possible.

The rest of the evening was spent, wandering from gallery to gallery, soaking up the artwork, and people-watching. Frankly, the people were more interesting than a lot of the art. Some of the art was good (IMO), and some of it, just brought out my Eric Morecambe side.

Penelope Keith: What do you think of my perfume Eric: (sniffs her neck) I like it. What is it? Penelope Keith: It's Chanel No. 5. £20 an ounce Eric: Really? Smell this. (points to neck) Penelope Keith: That's wonderful! What is it? Eric: Gravy. 20p a gallon.

You get the idea... the more the pretension, the more I want to knock it down. I might be a Latté aficionado, but that's just coffee. That isn't drawing a stripe on a canvas, and claiming it's art.

Paul: What do you think of this Max? Max: It's a red stripe on a dirty canvas. Paul: Is that all? Max: It'll be nice when it's finished.