Ok, so yesterday I was supposed to do a round of Chelsea Art Gallery hopping and get some superb material for you. I wrote about this great indulgence us, New Yorker’s, have here. And it’s where you get to go check out different stuff people call art and drink free booze. And this all is probably a big conspiracy where they get you buzzed enough until you’re tricked you into thinking ‘why yes, I do think this piece of wood stapled to the wall is beautiful.’ Or maybe some stuff they have on display truly is beautiful, I’m not sure anymore. They’ve got to me.
Side note: Ok seriously, I just received probably the worst sales call ever. It was on my work phone. So I had to pick up, in case it’s something important. For some reason they always want you to pick up your work phone because supposedly important stuff is just lurking around. I mean it DOES happen, but not EVERY time. Anyway, this lady introduced herself as a broker and went into a badly put-together pitch of interest rate spikes and the possibility of making money off of that. And I kept listening, but it wasn’t the pitch that got me, it was her voice. She sounded like she was ready to cross over to the other side any minute now, and I mean in a nice, peaceful way, simply from the old age. And when she made pauses, my mind kept whispering ‘has it happened yet?’, and then she kept talking and I felt like gently saying ‘it’s ok, you can let go now, your family is waiting for you.’ And then I hung up because it was getting weird.
But back to yesterday, it was also St Patrick’s day, which meant people wore green and felt obliged to get hammered. Great holiday if you ask me. We stopped by for drinks before our art infusion and got sucked into a loud, and messy atmosphere at the Half King. By the time we got out it was 8pm. And as it turned out all the galleries close at 8pm because they’re a bunch of dicks. In all honesty, I don’t know why the close at 8, but that’s what they do, so keep in mind. One gallery we did get to visit had huge painted peaches….huge ass peaches, oil on canvas. That’s all I have to contribute to this art dialogue. Also, if you were looking to make an artistic break through by painting peaches – that shit is taken. So paint apricots or something.
I made a weak attempt at getting upset because of the missed opportunity to celebrate beauty and help us through this dull and cruel life. Until my special other pointed out there’s a French wine bar two blocks away. And I was like ‘fuck art. Wine is the God’s greatest gift. And it should be celebrated and cherished…’ And then he told me to stop, because apparently I seem to be shifting my life values too often. And it was a proper French wine bar, it had all the French wine, obviously, French waiters, and even French visitors. Can’t complain, do visit – Le Pif. But first probably go and sell that left kidney because it ain’t cheap.
But today, we stay firmly, unafraid of life’s misfortunes, and troubles because we’re beautiful, strong, brave, and because it’s Friday.