Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am

This one's about such small hands.

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"It’s time for art. What place do you want to see? Do you have a craft you want demo’ed? Would you like to take a class somewhere?"

Word. So I'm on this boat, right? So I can get away with admissions that maybe I wouldn't get away with in public? Cool. If you're cool.

It is very obvious I don't understand much that passes itself off as art   anymore (shameless plug). Or ever. Split the difference and keep the change.

Last time I went to a real art museum  , they were hosting a giant Wilco concert on the front lawn, a guy I used to work with was drumming for one of the opening bands  , and I was getting lotsa pissed that the girl at the time I was dating left all our available cash/beer money in the glove box. I was able to cajole her disheveled, nearly passed-out ass into slow-dancing to our favorite, "Kingpin"  , under a bunch of stars in the gall-dang Buffalo tapestry. Couldn't have asked for a better moment.

Drunk girlfriends are worse than their boyfriends, husbands, and the shady scum that hits on them.

Don't judge me.

But art...somewhere along the lines, we had a mutual friend named Art. He was a teacher, a kickass Hip enthusiast, and partook in many recreational drugs. Dude got me so brownie-high at a Hip show in Syracuse, I was a blubbering mess and couldn't appreciate the beauty of 'Cuse's Landmark Theatre for its similarities to Shea's Buffalo. And lawd, they both some enormous, ornate entities. Pay all the good sums of money to see anything in either place, even if the car ride back is just apologizing about how great the car ride is.

Anyway, so Art is a d-bag and did I mention he shinny'd most Sunday mornings with this batshit girl's husband? Like, Connect-The-Dots, grossly fucked up edition. Hubby, ex-hubby, whatever...meant something to me, but not so much her. Like, there's suddenly a difference? Do some tax returns and let me know how that works out, and maybe steal from me too a little, because that's what divorced-but-don't-wanna-get-divorced people do, apparently.

Where was I? I took a nap...sorry. Art, yeah. I just don't have the appreciation for it yet. I'm not uncultured about it by any means, I don't think. I'm just...it's not my favorite thing. Seems like now the new thing to do is to bring a bottle of wine and a group of friends to some workspace where they charge you for the right to make your own art that you can be proud of and hang in your house like you're good at it. I'm sure it's a good idea and a fun memory, but it's not for me in that I wouldn't expect people to understand me splashing around words in a notebook using only cheap beer and a bunch of bad life choices as inspiration. But that's why I do this, and other people have friends and lives and stuff.

I did, however, finally delve into the realm of body art for the first time. Not much, just two small tattoos, one for each wrist. I think I'm good for awhile now. But what struck me most in trying to take pictures of them was not how hard taking pictures of your hands is, but how freakishly tiny my hands look up close in pictures. Infant-like. They'd be cute if they werent, you know, my hands. And really, my fingers are more like sausage links sticking out of a pancake, only less appetizing and more gnarled. It's quite phenomenal what the human hands can withstand over time; I only have one superdeformed crooked pinkie as the result of numerous sports-related hand injuries. It sucks holding a pen now for prolonged periods of time, and my handwriting resembles straight garbage compared to the relative charm it used to have, but hey...we're not all supermodels here. At least, I think we're not.

"I think you saw me confronting my fear,
it went up with a bottle and went down with the beer."
Lyrics.  

No vitals tonight; no box scores. Just happy to have made it through today with only a smidgen of heartburn and my self-worth still completely intact. Peace, I think I saw you, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!