DC: Casual Friday

The day before I left for vacation, sitting through a long meeting, my mind wandered toward Monet. I knew I would see the artist's work when I visited the National Gallery of Art, but I couldn't be less excited. It's not that I don't care for the French Impressionists -- I don't care about them. It's for girls. The meeting did not require any of my input, so I started a list of things that all women love, and I found only two absolutes. Waterlillies led off, followed by turkey sandwiches.

I woke Friday at prepared for the day at my leisure, showering, checking the forecast, and thumbing through V's DC guidebook while my body interpreted the previous night's surprise gift of bourbon. I felt guilty for my relaxed schedule, finally pushing myself out the door around 10 a.m.

Post-scone-purchase, I made my way to the National Gallery. Museums always throw me for a loop -- what the hell am I supposed to do in here? I waltz around the exhibits twice as fast as the other tourists, who study each piece, each caption, and snap photos with their digital cameras. (What were tourists like in the days of film? Can they be stopped? What do you do with a picture of a painting? Do you blow it up and frame it? Do they realize you can just buy a print, or download the image from the internet?) I am a good student for the first hour, but then begin to struggle. How much do these security guards get paid? If you had to guard this room, and you were a dude, would you start to fetishize the naked, lumpy, Renaissance woman? Do you have to start by guarding the ugly paintings, then work your way up to the Da Vinci? This dragon is a third of the size of St. George's horse, so what's the big deal? Why did they call it a lion's "den" -- isn't it more of a pit? How many Raphael Madonna-and-Childs did the Church really need to commission?

* * *

"Sorry I missed your call. I was in the National Archives."

Sitting on a mall bench, I told Shawn all about the day thus far, and about the local wildlife.

"That's weird. This bird has a band around its leg. And it's not an interesting species or even a pigeon. It's just one of those brown, shitty birds."

We spoke briefly about our old principal's suicide, and about my lunch options. I decided on the quickest option, the refreshment stand twenty yards away.

I took my all-American hot dog and anti-American fries to the last remaining table, and sat among the foreigners and old Jewish women and families. A mother was showing a handful of kids the joys of feeding brown, shitty birds.

"Look at this!" she said, pinching a nacho cheesier Dorito tidbit, holding her hand three feet above Federal ground. In moments, a bird took the short flight to the prize, snatching it midair before returning to earth to enjoy the unnatural meal. I watched, horrified, protecting my fries as best I could from the growing flock of lazy, hungry, winged beasts. I rushed through the hot dog preparation (ketchup, mustard, relish) and raised the frankfurter aloft. Suddenly, a bird swooped in, attempting to pluck the dog out of my hand. It failed, managing only to brush against the end opposite my mouth, and it came to rest just to the right of my table. I half-heartedly kicked the brown, shitty bird back a few feet. I looked around for the family responsible for the flock's blood lust; sadly, they had already wandered away, and were safely outside of my kicking range.

"That bird just tried to eat that guy's hot dog," some dumb fucking asshole behind me chuckled.