For those of you who have read from the very beginning (and if you have, you need to get on heavy psychological medication), you’ll probably realize that I’m not the most refined human being on our fine rock here. I’ve never looked at a piece of art and had it change my life, nor have I ever been brought to tears after looking at a painting of a soda can. I had always just sort of assumed that those who did appreciate those sort of things had spent too much time at art museums or attended too many poetry readings (heard one the other day about the Easter bunny origin though…now THAT was a classic). So imagine my genuine surprise when I found myself truly moved (and not in a bowel sort of way) at a recent trip to appreciate an art form.
My wife had been trying to get me to go see a movie with her and our daughter. I had come up with ways of avoiding it, from having stomachaches and headaches to believing I had a collapsed uterus (which as a guy, was exceptionally difficult to pull off), but finally I had run out of excuses. She decided that we were going to go see the new Lego movie (about blocks of plastic that stack on each other, presumably). I remained quiet and simply practiced being in a vegetative state as we travelled to the theater. I was not thrilled with the current status of things.
My wife bought the tickets and asked me where I wanted to sit. We were still standing at the ticket counter and I began to wonder if perhaps she was a little too excited to see a movie since we were not even in the theater and she was asking where we were going to sit…Silly girl. But of course, I was wrong. On a screen right in front of the ticket counter was now displayed a seating chart and I was asked to select my seat. I just shrugged and pushed a series of buttons in an attempt to get some sort of video game to start. My wife, having come to her senses, stopped me from pressing buttons and selected the seats. I handed over my credit card and the ownership papers to my left kidney (the prices of movie theater tickets seems to have increased dramatically in ten years). My attitude towards the situation had not changed.
So I sell my right kidney at the concession stand in exchange for popcorn, a hotdog and drinks and we march into the movie theater. It was at that moment, ladies and gentlemen, that I fell in love with art. For we arrived at our seats and there, like seeing the image of the holy grail on a piece of toast, I collapsed and wept. The seat upon which my unworthy but was about to rest was, in fact, a recliner. All the seats were. And a small table that moved and adjusted location depending on your every table-moving whim! I had seen my salvation…and it was good.
The movie itself, was inconsequential. It was some story about everything being awesome and a Lego construction worker having the hots for the same girl as Batman and a super duper sofa or something. But the chair…oh the chair, was the single piece of architectural advancement that allowed this cynical, old, and warped-minded fool to appreciate art in all its faux leather and wooden glory. I now am excited to go to movies…well, not driven to immediate fits of “I don’t wanna”-ness. Yes, friends, movies are art and I am now an Art-Lover! Bring on the paintings of tin cans and ugly people screaming. I will appreciate it…providing I can sit in similar chairs, maybe with cup holders and perhaps heat and a massage button. Dare I dream?
Well, off to the movies. I heard they have a new movie about some kid who can use magic while attending some wizard school. I wonder if he’ll…
Be Good or Be Good At It!