by JRM

August 5, 2005

Back when I was in high school, I used to date this girl that was part of the "nerd" classification of high schoolers.  I never really fit completely into any of those classifications, but I think I was probably closest to "band fag" (you know, because I was in the band and also enjoyed having sex with other guys).  Anyway, this girl was really smart, she was cute and her parents liked me (so naturally I dumped her a few months later).  The other cool thing about her was that she seemed to get along well with my crazy family.  She would actually ask to be told when we were all going out as a family (I think it was some anthropological study she was doing).  There was no reason not to like this girl.

I really don't remember what year it was.  Either we invited my older sister along because we liked her (doubtful) or because we needed her to drive us there (more likely) because we didn't have licenses yet.  Whatever - my girlfriend, my sister, myself and this other guy decided to spend our Saturday at the Des Moines Museum of Art (I'm sure it has a real name, but I don't have time to look it up).

We set out early so that we would be sure to see it all.  And did we ever.  I really wish this wasn't true, but I don't really care for art.  I know that's a really bold blanket statement, but music aside, just about all of the arts could catch on fire and I wouldn't really notice.  That's why, as punishment for transgressions in a previous life, God made my older sister a ballet dancer.  Do you have any idea how many times I've seen The Nutcracker?  Um, lots.  So be good people, in this life and the next.

When it actually happened, I was trying to figure out why I didn't like art.  I had stared at dozens of "Madonna and Childs", I had examined sculptures from all corners of the world and I was standing and glaring at an abstract painting that was bigger than me and didn't have too much on the canvas.  I decided that I was just stupid and that I would never get it and that art could go and fuck itself.  I huffed, spun around quickly and went to meet the others.  What I didn't know was that as I had been backing up to see whether or not the abstract piece had a hidden picture of Tony the Tiger in it somewhere, I was slowly invading the space of a
wooden exhibit that looked as though a dozen boards had been randomly nailed together by Homer Simpson.

As I whipped around and started walking away from the stupid painting, I accidentally booted the Homer Simpson wooden exhibit across the room like Pelé on steroids.  First there was the loud pop of my boot against the wood.  Then the exhibit became temporarily airborne, then came its noisy return to Earth, then the sound of wood skidding on hardwood floor and finally the clunk of expensive art hitting drywall.  Everyone in my party came running to see what I had done.  When everyone in my party realized what I had done, they all walked away slowly as though they didn't know me.  After a couple more seconds, one of those guys who's job it is to stand there in the museum all day came running up to the scene of the crime, walkie-talkie in hand, screaming for back-up.  I could hear him thinking to himself, "I knew it was going to happen, some NFL fan finally got fed up enough to try and kill the art!!"

He arrived on the scene and started barking into the walkie-talkie.  Soon there were about five security guards and three curators.  I stood there with my hands in my pockets and my head down.

"I'm really sorry...” I said.

"It's alright, just go!" Some curator snapped.

I was more than happy to leave the scene at that point.  Upon noticing from afar that I wasn't going to be cuffed and carted off to art jail, my friends and girlfriend came back to my side and commenced making fun of me.  I was so embarrassed.  I actually begged them not to tell anyone at school.  Now that I think about it, the kids at school would've applauded my assault on art.  The one thing that I did notice as I looked back over my shoulder - all those people who were so mad at me were now trying to put the art back into its original display.  No one could figure out how the piece went.  They were turning it every way possible like some sort of Rubik's Cube of poor workmanship.

I've never been back to the Des Moines museum of art since that day...and I doubt I ever will.  I hope they learned their lesson and started roping off their exhibits.  And I definitely learned my lesson...I won't be going to the Louvre any time soon.

Love,

JRM

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