Saturday, February 23, 2013

Noir Bart

Today was a wonderfully quiet Saturday. The folks were out for the afternoon, so I finally got to watch The Maine's "Anthem For A Dying Breed" DVD (I may have animatedly flailed when they showed fly on the wall footage of spontaneous vocal harmonies. I am still not OK), and drinking far too much tea. It was beautiful. After a while, the folks came back home, and I had to put my pants back on (it's a courtesy, you know).
"You should check your email," my mother said with a sly grin.
I was immediately suspicious. And, after checking said email, I was right to be.

You win this time, sister...
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...but I'll be back!

This is the point in the story where we're going to jump into Ricky The K's solid gold time machine, and take a trip back to 2005. To give you some perspective, here is a small list of things going on then: YouTube launched (it was in November of that year that I lost that third of my life that I should spend sleeping to that bloody site); Tom Cruise went and jumped on Oprah's couch; music thief Michael Jackson was still on trial for child molestation (and those weirdos released some doves or something); Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter were battling it out on the Ultimate Tournament of Champions; James Blunt kept telling people they were beautiful, or something; and the music world exchanged Blink-182 for the Backstreet Boys. The biggest part of 2005, though, was Paul's US Tour. November 1st, actually. Our first limo watch! Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, live (and we all know that album is my baby)! Oh, my soul. That was the night I got my Paul burns. Awww. LIMO WATCH REMINISCE TIME.
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Are you in that frame of mind? OK.

In February of that year, our little family went down to San Antonio for a week. Sounds familiar, right? In a way, yes, but also no. Back then, my sister would go with us on these little trips; she wasn't married yet, and she didn't think we were uncool. She would research things to do, and create the infamous "Folder of Fun", filled with her information, and, remarkably, a schedule. I think she still does this, but, fortunately, I plan what we do now (and I'm pretty darned good at it, actually). On our agenda for that particular trip we all took together was the McNay art gallery. As much as I like art, I never have cared for the formality of art galleries; the juxtaposition of personal creations -- something that is so organic and humble -- being presented in a stuffy fashion is an unresolved pet peeve of mine (there are people who love to learn, and hate school, too [wait, I'm finding a pattern]).

My mother loaded her two children in the car, and off we went to the art museum. We walked around the beautiful grounds...
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Look, little me done a clicky-picture-takey.

...and went inside. I remember looking at the museum itself, which had been the McNay private residence, more than the art on the walls. Quite a bit of tile work in there. As for the art, I vaguely remember a Monet, a Picasso (maybe two?), an entire impressionist room, and an addition to the original structure that is filled with modern art. As we left, I really thought no more about our little cultural adventure.

Fast forward a little bit. Some time later, my sister and I (remember, she still thought I was cool then) were walking around in a shop when we saw a print of this supposedly super-famous piece...
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She was quite excited when she pointed it out, saying that we saw it in the art gallery.
Well, this was news to me.
I asked her where it was in the gallery; she said it was at the end of a hallway, and tried to describe the area. I remember the part of the museum vividly: it was a brown tiled room, with large baseboards and cool white walls. On our right hand side were a number of french doors, which let in loads of beautiful natural light. I stopped to look through those doors when my two comrades told me to move along with them, rather than lagging behind. I saw there was something on the wall at the end of the hall, but took fleeting notice of it as I ran right past it, and turned the corner in an attempt to catch up.

Yeah, apparently, that was it.
And I haven't heard the end of it for the last eight years.
My email surprise is proof of the fact that most presidents haven't stuck around as long as this joke has.
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Even her kids are in on it!

Stupid effing cat...
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Is It A Subscription Box, Or Something More Sinister? (It's A Subscription Box. Maybe.)