Last weekend I visited The Getty, where I came across a male “art goer” compulsively take about twenty photos of J.W. Turner’s Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino (1839), which J. Paul Getty’s estate purchased for £30m. An old fan of Turner, I patiently waited for the man to finish before respectfully approaching the work, in order to fully gather the subtle minutiae of each tiny mark, whose aggregate—as in the understanding one only gets from a distance—could present life itself, at least in some invented past where the light was better. Of course, his inclusion in my tumblr is in mockery, for he wore white socks and leather tasseled loafers, universally agreed as a grave Dad-like faux pas. His pink legs looked like uncooked chicken fennel sausages, the faint funk of his pubes hinting at some artisan brie in this imagined bougie hot dog from hell.
Yesterday, as part of a bi-monthly dinner in this fashion, I brought a “super” carne asada burrito to The Page, a bar named after its cross street, in which a man was not only watching a baseball game, but being overtly emotional about it, at times conveying his anxiety and/or indignation with sudden ostentatious bursts. In one instance, a player did not get to first base when it seemed he had ample time to. The man in the colorful shirt began banging his fists and saying “come on,” and “fucking a,” while looking around him for sympathizers. I nervously looked away and ate my burrito, my head mechanically bobbing up and down, which seemed absurd the way a blowjob is. Here I close my eyes in inverse ecstasy, futilely shielding myself from visions of sour cream squirting into my mouth, as expunged by grimacing tools. Men are depressing. Women are depressed. This all makes sense now.