Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Museums & Speedways...
A couple of weeks ago I crossed off one of the "things I've never done" um...things from my um..."things I've never done" list. Mary and I went to Cincinnati Art Museum to look at the pretty pictures. We arrived in the late afternoon in our Sunday best (aka hoodies) and entered the realm of culture within.
Within the first five minutes of perusing ancient artifacts and feeling myself growing as a person (enter either short or sexual joke here) Mary and I witnessed one of the most beautiful episodes of irony heretofore recorded in human history. While looking at a sculpture from ancient Rome I caught a glimpse of Mary moving out of the way of someone out of the corner of my eye. As I turned to see if I, too, would have to de-occupy my personal space the skies opened and a ray of light shined down on...wait for it...an old blind woman in an art museum. I was frozen, unable to move, wanting to look away but unable to avert my stare. As the blind woman's guide walked her past me I dared not to look back. I looked at Mary without a word, she glanced at the walking riddle, and the two of us stifled evil laughter. Speculation immediately began as to why, why god why, was there a blind person in an art museum. Maybe she was an artist before tragically being struck blind and she comes to the museum to have the art described to her, maybe her guide told her that they were in the worlds quietest grocery store and the poor blind woman had no idea where she was, maybe we were on Candid Camera...who knows, but it made me giggle.
From there we took in paintings of Philip Francis (aka big sassy looking man holding a squirrel in his right hand...god knows what that squirrel has been through), the biggest freaking painting ever (which we decided had to be shipped up on the Ohio River on it's own personal barge), a painting of sheep and a sheep herder (yeah, I made a interspecies erotica joke), and the scariest horse sculpture of all time (made from twigs and mud, seven feet tall, and still haunting my dreams). Needless to say we walked out of the museum wondering if we had, in fact, just lowered the cultural bar a notch for everyone.
To counterbalance my cultured side with my redneck heritage, the following weekend I went to Daytona for the 24 Hours at Daytona race. No, it's not NASCAR, it's real cars (aka Corvettes, Porsches, Ferraris, BMWs, etc), and I go every year. My favorite part of the race is at the very beginning, though. Prior to the National Anthem and the most famous words in auto racing there is always a prayer led by a chaplain over the loud speaker. Everyone stops and bows their head and prays that all the drivers are safe. This lasts for about 30 seconds, then everyone spends the next 24 hours hoping to hell that they see a big crash It's a good time though and Jeff Gordon's car came in third this year so I was happy.
Well, I think that's all I got. Here's this for no reason at all....
Much Love,
Bo
Within the first five minutes of perusing ancient artifacts and feeling myself growing as a person (enter either short or sexual joke here) Mary and I witnessed one of the most beautiful episodes of irony heretofore recorded in human history. While looking at a sculpture from ancient Rome I caught a glimpse of Mary moving out of the way of someone out of the corner of my eye. As I turned to see if I, too, would have to de-occupy my personal space the skies opened and a ray of light shined down on...wait for it...an old blind woman in an art museum. I was frozen, unable to move, wanting to look away but unable to avert my stare. As the blind woman's guide walked her past me I dared not to look back. I looked at Mary without a word, she glanced at the walking riddle, and the two of us stifled evil laughter. Speculation immediately began as to why, why god why, was there a blind person in an art museum. Maybe she was an artist before tragically being struck blind and she comes to the museum to have the art described to her, maybe her guide told her that they were in the worlds quietest grocery store and the poor blind woman had no idea where she was, maybe we were on Candid Camera...who knows, but it made me giggle.
From there we took in paintings of Philip Francis (aka big sassy looking man holding a squirrel in his right hand...god knows what that squirrel has been through), the biggest freaking painting ever (which we decided had to be shipped up on the Ohio River on it's own personal barge), a painting of sheep and a sheep herder (yeah, I made a interspecies erotica joke), and the scariest horse sculpture of all time (made from twigs and mud, seven feet tall, and still haunting my dreams). Needless to say we walked out of the museum wondering if we had, in fact, just lowered the cultural bar a notch for everyone.
To counterbalance my cultured side with my redneck heritage, the following weekend I went to Daytona for the 24 Hours at Daytona race. No, it's not NASCAR, it's real cars (aka Corvettes, Porsches, Ferraris, BMWs, etc), and I go every year. My favorite part of the race is at the very beginning, though. Prior to the National Anthem and the most famous words in auto racing there is always a prayer led by a chaplain over the loud speaker. Everyone stops and bows their head and prays that all the drivers are safe. This lasts for about 30 seconds, then everyone spends the next 24 hours hoping to hell that they see a big crash It's a good time though and Jeff Gordon's car came in third this year so I was happy.
Well, I think that's all I got. Here's this for no reason at all....
Much Love,
Bo
Friday, January 19, 2007
Poo...
