Sunday, August 31, 2008
A few obscenities jumped through my throat, flew past my teeth and promptly landed on my freshly damaged passenger car door. Andy Warhol stole my gym bad and killed my cardio.
Two hours earlier the world seemed a fraction brighter as I pulled into the Brooks museum to view The Andy Warhol A to B exhibit. It was a great exhibit. Sadly, the last time I think I visited any gallery was two years ago.
Marilyn gazed blankly ahead through fields of magenta and green. Grace Kelly stoically gazed through swiggled lines of yellow and turquoise. Groups of Cammo canvases consisting of Retina irritating colors like lime green and radioactive pink shouted out at me. I knew what I was in for and losing yourself in any type of artist’s work and just soaking it in really makes the brain juices flow. Little did I know that Andy kept me away while my black gym back grew legs and walked off. Did the bag walk off during my intimate gazing moments over the Campbell’s Soup series or during the perplexing and nonsensical print of Paolo Uccello, St. George and the Dragon (1984)? Only Andy’s accomplice and maybe the silent statues of Brooks know where my gym back ended up.
With a head full of bloated intellectual thoughts about consumerism and a good deal of inspiration I moseyed over to the car in the eastern lot. As I started the engine a vacancy crept into my mind’s inventory of the terrain in my car and I realized that my gym bag was not where I left it. Optimism clouded my thoughts and I assumed that maybe I left it at the apartment or put it in the back of the car, neither option I remembered. The drive back consisted of many ponderings with the word “hmm” and “that’s strange.” As I made it up towards my apartment I confirmed what I felt, no (gym) shoes, no (gym) clothes, no gym bag. One more weak, and overtly optimistic possibility arrived in my mind, “What if I left the bag on the roof of the car.” So on my way back to Brooks I roamed the curbs while driving, thus placing my eyes in over time. Back to the Brooks I went and just in time since they close promptly at 5 on Saturdays. There was a shuffle between the museum guards and the short and rather off beat Asian lady guard directed me down the stairs. With a jacket longer than her arms and a smile on her face she asked me “So you not put bag in trunk?” The end of her comment ended in a laughter that usually occurs during a viewing of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Partially stunned and very agitated I responded “uh, no I had it in the passenger’s seat.” She took me through a series of heavy security doors and down towards the surveillance room. Ready to see some footage of the crime and maybe a glimpse of the beady eyes of Andy’s accomplice, I stepped into the surveillance room. “Sir, you can’t come in here,” Said the nice looking black girl at the helm of the monitors. “Oh, sorry. Do you see anything?" In a tone that would put a high schooler to shame she responded, “No, you can’t even see your car in this shot. I ran the tape back and I didn’t see anyone.” With no other suggestions or anything beyond a feeble “I’m sorry” uttered, they were ready to go. I followed the Asian lady out the exit and walked to my car, still baffled and frustrated. Still about 80 percent convinced that the bag had been taken I made my way over to the gas station to fill up my tank since the two round trips to the museum took enough fuel to set me back to less than a quarter of a tank. For some reason I decided to actually check the passenger door when I got to the gas station. That’s when I knew for sure that some [place your favorite word for crook here] stole it. I called the cops and the Officer filled out my info. I doubt we are more than a year apart. Enjoy my sweaty gym clothes and my worn out New Balance shoes!!!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Arriving at a point where I accept that great ideas and great plans do not happen within twenty or even sixty minute windows might be the secret to eventual success. With that said, my time is up, at least for Thursday morning. Back to the trenches
Enjoy "The fall of the rebel Angels" by Peter Bruegel, The Elder.