A Day at The Museum

If you would have happened to chance on me Friday afternoon in NYC, you would have assumed I was lost. Not because of my vacant expression, or the random wanderings, since those are, you know, characteristics du jour. No, you would have thought I was lost because you would have found me at a museum.

Right? WTF? Charlie? At a museum? You? Really?

Really. I was there, as a visitor, of my own volition, not attempting to steal anything, just, you know, trying to become cultured.

Why was I there? Caitlin, visiting the east coast from the far nether reaches of the Midwest, wanted to go, so, well, why not?

I hadn't been to a museum in maybe a dozen years and this would be a good experience. I might go through the whole experience without embarrassing myself, or getting kicked out. Heck, I might even learn something for a change.

So there we were, walking down the halls of the Museum of Modern Art, looking at paintings, and I was trying hard not to be so damned overwhelmed and look like I belonged. As a visitor, I mean. Not as an exhibit.

I felt a little bad for Caitlin, who had to put up with question after question like, "Does that look like a cheese-grater to you?" "Where are all the dinosaurs?" and, although it wasn't a question, "I don't get it." That last one was repeated several dozen times. I wouldn't have blamed her one bit if she had insisted I walk 20 feet behind her and refrained from addressing her directly.

But she played it like a pro, patiently pointing out the details of the Picasso so I could see what I was supposed to see and, more importantly, so I would stop squinting at the paintings in confusion like a drunk guy deciphering a menu at a Chinese restaurant.

And in the end, I did get it. I think. I may not know Monet from Manet from Mamet, but I can appreciate a great painting when I see one. The last exhibit was Van Gogh, and I spent several minutes looking at his Starry Night Over the Rhone. Mostly it was because the exhibit room was too packed to move. But, the more I stared at it, the more I came to understand why its representations hang in so many places and, why, with its luminous tones staring at me from over the beer pong table, I, inspired, sunk so many shots under its light.