My shit schedule is all kinds of fucked up. My normal, scheduled morning shit has long since gone out the window. Now it's determined by accessibility and whim. It's not guerrilla shitting, but is opportunistic. Bathrooms on upper floors of academic buildings on college campuses are ideal, but supermarkets (save for Wal-mart) are sufficient. This high protein, high calorie diet is having its way with me. I am now a shell of a man whose life is dictated by his bowels.
Richmond I had always heard was kind of a hipster headquarter and it totally is. There are a bunch of single-speed basket bikes here without foot retention. Aside from the initial hill entering the city, it's pretty encompassingly flat.
I'm staying with a girl whose boyfriend is doing a tour with some friends from Richmond to Tallahassee and then across to California. She didn't expect me to stay with her on account of her responding late to my request, so she made plans that night to drink in Williamsburg. My first night in Richmond was spent in Williamsburg. There was a bar crawl there for the students of the local law school, starting at a Buffalo Wild Wings. I spend my time drinking and eating overpriced food and watching a football game. There are small pockets of Florida State fans here. We end up losing. I end up drunk and tripping over myself trying to dance to shitty dubstep at the brobar where the group was. I offend my Williamsburg host's on-and-off girlfriend by saying women have intrinsic value. My Richmond host is surprised the next day when I tell her I expect to stay longer, but puts me up anyway. I hit on her roommate and we all drink at an empty bar the next night.
I went to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and it's my first foray into a large city art museum. From the experience I'm able to say I hate Jackson Pollock just as much in person.
I think for me the aesthetic is more important than the intention. If I don't find a piece visually appealing it isn't good. Maybe that's a plebian view, but the Rothko-esque piece of four single color slats of different widths that somehow is supposed to represent the Virgin Mary upon learning of Christ's conception isn't engaging, it's pretentious.
I'm not the artist, and while knowing what the artist's intentions might be interesting, and add to my own interpretation, ultimately they don't matter. Art, in all forms, appeals to the viewers subjective interpretation of it. That's how art becomes moving: by the associations people draw to it through their own experiences. These old ladies in their expensive pastel pantsuits don't care about how the art makes them feel. The sentiment is lost on them. They pretend to enjoy it under the pretense of "this is what old ladies do," touching the glass, and musing on how they don't understand a certain piece.
A large banquet was set up with tables in a central room obviously meant for the wealthy old folks. I scoff at the fact that these people clearly don't understand nor are they affected in the same way as I am. I remember that art is an expensive and resource intensive pursuit and that moments earlier I was ruminating on art's subjective nature. I'm angry at these sweet old ladies for not appreciating the art as I think they should. What kind of self-righteous asshole gets upset at innocent old women? Someone who understands that just because they're old doesn't mean that they're any different than the vacuous sorority girls they were before Jesus lost his battle with Roe and before The Darkies could vote.
All girls are sluts.