Patron of the Arts

As I have often done with my new lifestyle as a New Yorker I tried something new. Not any drugs or god forbid sex but rather an art gallery. My impressions of art galleries were firmly placed within the movies I have seen. So either I had to have an epic fight scene, display my own work, or impress a girl with jokes in place of any artistic knowledge. Since my arch nemesis is currently on vacation and I left my easel at home, I went with the humor. 

Instead of appreciating these pieces that people probably spent hours slaving away on in what I can only imagine was a drug filled sex romp (paint not included), I commented on all the non-art. This would consist of anything: a scuff on the wall, a chair missing a leg, a canvas of a dog. Oh wait, one of those might have actually been art.

Luckily the girl I was trying to impress seemed to be very receptive. Maybe it was the free cocktails. I suppose we will never know. An example of my musings:

Me: “Come, you simply must see this piece”.

Her: “Oh. Ok”.

I find a trail of ants marching along carrying their bounty of cracker crumbs.

Me: “Notice what this says about the plight of the American worker. It is like we are all ants carrying food for a queen”.

That example was not as much me being funny as it was simply pointing out exactly what the ants were doing but she seems to go along for the ride. The night eventually ended when I was escorted out for getting a little too hot and heavy with my date. In protest, I tried to claim it was performance art and my hand on her breast represented male domination of the female body. Maybe I’ll reserve the art of the real artists.