Item #25 - Visit the MOMA

Shortly after I first moved to Boston, Walter (who I moved to Boston with) and I went down to New York City for a weekend. I was pretty damn excited. I had never been, so how could I not be excited. Add in the fact that we had tickets to go see Conan O'Brien, and we had a nice couple days for us.

So that Friday, we indeed go see Conan. We spent WAY too many nights in college watching Conan (which was often followed by watching Don West sell baseball cards. That man could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves). We witnessed the birth of Triumph, Vomiting. Kermit and Pimpbot 5000.

He was in his heyday. Before the show, he came out, did 5 or 10 minutes of improv, and killed it. Legitimately funny guy (if you sided with Jay Leno in the Tonight Show debacle of last year, please stop reading this blog and go back to your reruns of 2 and a Half Men. I'm not sure we can be friends). If I remember correctly, Topher Grace was the main guest, and They Might Be Giants the band. Afterwards, we saw Topher Grace walking the halls of 30 Rockefeller. . . . I felt cool.

On Saturday, we hung out with my friend Debbie. I hadn't seen Debbie since the summer, when we kind of sort of maybe somewhat dated. But she was off to med school in NYC, and I was off to Boston, so it took its organic end, and we moved on like adults (I'm so mature!). We did some more New York-y things, and shopped 5th Avenue. For the first time, I stepped foot in an H & M, and my inner metrosexual side found a new friend. It was delightful.

Later on, the New York-y-ness continued. We went down to the Chelsea Piers for an invite-only artsy party on some old timey boats. This time, my inner hipster came out and had a drunkenly good time

Ironically, on this latest trip to NYC, while heading back to our hotel by NYU, Meg and I would be called "yuppies" by some drunk-off-his-ass trust-fund-baby hipster. It all comes full circle

Sunday, while we had an hour to kill before our bus left, I continued the New York-y-ness and headed over to the Empire State Building. Due to time constraints, and frankly, money constraints for a recent grad, I didn't go up. But I saw it, and I was satisfied. I was a hip, cool, big city boy now. Chicks will dig me.

So we caught our bus and went back to Boston that Sunday. . . . .Sunday, September 9th, 2001.

Two days later . . . well, you know.

Debbie was about the only person I knew in NYC, and she was fine, so obviously that was good. But after the dust literally settled, and I could look back at what happened, you know what the fucked up part was? . . . . I kind of wished I was there when it happened. No, not because I would have sprinted down to Ground Zero to help people out, and actually done something good for society. I mean, I would like to think I would be brave enough to do that . . . but I doubt when push came to shove, I would have had the balls.

No, I wished I was on Manhattan just so I could have the story of saying I was there. And like I said, that's kind of fucked up, and I'm sure anyone actually close to the action would want to punch me in the face. And I'm sure one look of the actual scene down there and I would absolutely change my mind (and this is coming from someone who's worked on multiple cadaver parts for his job), but for now, I still selfishly wish I had that horrific story in my arsenal. "Oh, I remember where I was on 9-11. I was fucking THERE man."  But I wasn't.  Instead, I just tell people that the first time I went to NYC was 2 days before 9-11, and try to somehow feel tough or special because of it, even though I have no right to.

My friend Aaron was recently in Japan for work. Yup, during the earthquake and tsunami. He felt the earthquake, but apparently wasn't anywhere that was in tsunami danger.  And once again, once we learned that he was OK, I thought "Man, that's a hell of a story to have." I have a screwed up head.

So anytime I head back to NYC, I think about how close I was to having one of the ultimate New York-y experiences. And while I still briefly think "What a cool story that would have been", I now realize how much luckier we were to actually get the hell out of there when we did. Adulthood will do that to you.

I still stupidly kind of want to be in a mild flood or earthquake though.  The flood seems cool because its like a giant swimming pool (though the swimming pool is filled with your priceless possessions and god knows how many diseases). And the earthquake seems cool because I've seen so many sitcoms in which no one gets hurt and comedy ensues. I mean, Mrs. Belding was even able to have her baby in the Bayside High School elevator. But again, if ever given the actual option of being in either, I think I'll be just fine being natural-disaster-less.

A couple weeks ago was one of those return trips to New York. I headed down meet my friend Meg for the US vs Argentina soccer game, which I would have liked to use for an item, but I couldn't. I've seen the US play before. And after the trip to Barcelona, I had already seen the world's greatest player before. And just saying "Visit the New Meadowlands Stadium" would be weak as hell. So, it was time add a little more culture to the equation, and before the game, we went to the MOMA and met up with our friends Aaron and Melissa. Some picture highlights:

 

This is Starry Night by Van Gogh. You may recognize it from the walls of half the living rooms on college campuses, put up by guys with little creativity in an attempt to show how cultured they are . . . . I really don't like Starry Night. (I'm far from an art geek, but I know enough to not pretend like I am).

 

Here's The Persistence of Memory by Dali (which you may have also seen on college walls). The surprising thing about this famous one was its size, which is basically the size of an 8 x 11 sheet of paper.

 

I don't know what this one was called, but it looked like Napolean Dynamite's liger, so I was amused. However, I also felt bad for the artist. Why? Because this painting wasn't so much in a "gallery" as it was in a "hallway" by the escalators. I assume that's where they put the stuff that's museum-good . . . but that THAT good. 'Oh, that's a brilliant piece Mr. Artist. In fact, its so good, lets not put it by the Picasso's and Pollock's. Let's put it by the escalators so EVERYONE can see it! You're special."

Maybe I need to see the movie Pollock but . . . . yeah, I still have almost no appreciation for the giant canvases of splatter. I'll take my art appreciation in baby steps I suppose.

 

They had a cool architecture section while we were there. This is a drawing from it, and not to bring the level of discourse down too much but . . . that is ABSOLUTELY a penis-shaped building. The architect behind it can argue whatever the hell he wants, but deep down, he has to know he made a penis.

This is Meg posing for an art school brochure. She has a thing for Picasso so . . . 

. . . she fed his goat.

So another successful trip to a museum that I probably otherwise wouldn't have visited, considering I would have likely spent the pre-game afternoon shopping to see what the Gap on 5th Avenue has that the Gap on Newberry St doesn't.