My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover if Not Being a Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or a Culture-Up Manifesto (12 page)

I read each of the little placards under the paintings, so I’ve pieced together a vague understanding of why the Impressionist movement set the art world on its ear, but I’ll be honest, I still prefer the older stuff. I love the French and Italian church paintings from the Middle Ages. But I’m also interested to learn more about who was the first to make the leap from religious art to secular. That couldn’t have been a small feat. Who was brave enough to say,
“You know what? Enough of Jesus. I’mma paint me this here bowl of fruit and then I’mma paint my girlfriend . . . naked!”

Did artists revolting against church tradition bring on the Renaissance? Or did the Renaissance happen and that inspired all the new art? Seems like something I should find out for myself. You know what? Suddenly art history doesn’t seem like such a bullshit major, and I feel like there are a whole lot of former college classmates to whom I owe an apology.

Still, I could look at the older works all day long. I’m fascinated by how vibrant the colors still are. What kind of paint did they use that they’re still so bright five to seven hundred years after the fact? Is there some kind of preservative brushed on them? I want to know the mechanics behind the art. And I wonder how these artists would feel if they knew their work would continue to live on so many centuries later.

Seeing these paintings makes me want to discover more about how they came to be. I want to read the backstories about the artists and their inspirations and their lives.

I guess today’s lesson is that although pictures are interesting, I’m always going to be more captivated by words.

“Do you feel extra-cultured now?” Fletch removes his work shoes and promptly fills them with cedar shoe trees.

“Yes and no. On the one hand, I was excited to take it all in, but on the other . . . I couldn’t stop being me while I was there.” Maisy and Loki then enter the room, both with big yay-my-people-are-all-home grins on their doggie faces. Loki curls up at the foot of the bed and Maisy wedges herself in next to me. I hug her, inadvertently taking a whiff. Good thing she’s charming because that dog has a stink no bath can conquer.

“Meaning?” He then neatly folds his pants before depositing them into the dry-cleaning bag.

“Meaning I couldn’t turn off the hyperparanoid, danger-danger-danger part of my brain. I kept thinking about that short-lived show
Traveler
, where the bad guy blew up the museum and I was all
‘Today will really suck if I get exploded.’
I kept looking for hipsters with video cameras and backpacks and roller skates. Then I really started to assess the security situation, and it turns out the whole place is staffed with guards who are either old enough to have modeled for the artists featured in the Impressionist wing or as fat as me. Plus, they carry walkie-talkies, not weapons. Maybe they have a nightstick or something, but that’s only going to work if they can keep pace with whomever they’re trying to clobber.”

I stretch and reposition myself on the bed before continuing. “So then I started examining each doorway to see if they had those metal bars that would clamp down when the alarm goes off like in
The Thomas Crown Affair
, and they had nothing! All I saw were unobscured doorways! I’m telling you that place is wide-open for any wannabe art thief to come in and steal a priceless Degas because neither the Oldies nor Fatties are going to have the wherewithal to chase ’em down. You don’t need to be Thomas Crown to steal fine art; you just need a razor blade and some sneakers.”

Fletch pokes his head out of his closet. “Tell me that I’m not going to get a call at work that you tried to run off with a Renoir.”

“Oh, please, that’s not a problem. I’m not fast enough.”

Yet.

“How’s your face?”

“Better, thanks! Everything’s shrunk back to an appropriate size and kind of smoothed out, and I can’t see my top lip when I look down anymore. Plus, all the bruises are gone and I can eat hot food again. Just in time, too, because I’ve got to fly out to my meeting tomorrow.”

I’m sitting on the kitchen counter talking to Angie. Normally I don’t like to put my butt where my food goes, but the cord on this phone’s really short, and there’s only the one working phone jack on this floor. One of the few downsides about this house is that although there are plenty of jacks, most of them haven’t been wired. And yet I really need the exercise I get every time I have to run for the ring, so I haven’t yet gotten them fixed.
¹⁰⁶

“Wait, what’s tomorrow? I thought you didn’t leave for your tour until next week,” Angie says.

“I don’t. I’ve got a dinner with a retailer tomorrow who carries my books.”

“Are you nervous about talking to them?” There’s clicking in the background, and I can’t tell if Angie’s checking her e-mail or initiating a launch sequence.

“I get the feeling I’ll be okay. I mean, I’ve been putting in a lot of effort on the whole Jenaissance thing, so I’ve got some great topics of conversation. For example, you know my friend Gina? Well, her dad’s this famous blues musician, so I set up a time to talk with him about why I hate jazz.”

“Yeah? How was that? You still hate jazz?”

“Actually, yes. But now I know
why
I hate it. Gina’s dad explained how jazz doesn’t really follow the standard format of orchestral music, which is four movements which go from theme, to theme development, to buildup, to the fourth movement, which wraps it all up. Symphonies totally make sense to me now, whereas modern jazz is harder to follow because it doesn’t stick to typical linear progression and I’m all about a good story, you know? I need a beginning, a middle, and an end. I have a better appreciation for how technical jazz is, even if I don’t like it.”

“Cool! Can you eat waffles again?”

“Had ’em for breakfast, baby! Anyway, you know what’s funny? I’m totally fascinated by the blues now. I used to hate them, too, because I always thought they were totally depressing.”

Angie laughs. “Hence the name.”

“Hence the name. But Gina gave me this huge box series of DVDs by Martin Scorsese about the birth of the blues, and I’ve been so drawn in by them. I can’t stop watching. Plus, Mr. Barge explained to me that they started off as slave chants and progressed into what they are now. Men would sing about how much their woman mistreated them while they were sweating in the fields, but really the lyrics were just code about how awful the foreman was. Workers used the blues to express themselves in situations where speaking the truth was too dangerous.”

“That actually does sound interesting!” I can still hear her tapping away on her keyboard. Her ability to pay attention to so many things at once astounds me, particularly if she’s, like, repositioning satellites and not just checking comments on her blog.

“That’s what I’m saying! So I was sitting there in Gina’s kitchen with my notepad, all
Jen Lancaster, Girl Reporter,
but the minute Mr. Barge started telling stories, I put my pen down and just listened. Fletch was with me and we were both . . . I guess enchanted, for lack of a better word. Enraptured? I mean, we started off talking about music, but as he told us about his past, I began to pick up on stuff that blew my mind. Back when he was touring in the sixties, he wasn’t allowed to stay in the hotels he’d play in. He had to check into guesthouses on the edge of town, which led to a discussion of the civil rights movement. He mentioned how his friend Doc did this and how Doc did that, and I was all, ‘Hold the phone. Do you mean you knew
Dr. Martin Luther King?
’ And he did.”

“Holy shit!”

“And then—then! Mr. Barge tells Gina to show us some of her scrapbooks, and very matter-of-factly, Gina pulls out photos of when she was a kid hanging out in the recording studio with the Jacksons—”

“As in Michael?”
¹⁰⁷
Angie’s always had a soft spot for Michael. She’s tried to turn her kids onto him, but they somehow can’t grasp that the creepy sunglass guy with the blanket-covered kids used to be the most beloved man on the planet.

(Sidebar: My theory is if you grew up in the eighties, there’re a couple of icons you just can’t help but love, no matter what stupid shit they pull. George Michael comes to mind. Have as many public bathroom trysts as you want, buddy! We’re still pulling for you. And I’ll always have a special place in my heart for Madonna because no one could ever be cooler than the girl writhing around in a slutty wedding dress singing
Like a Virgin
at the VMAs.)

“And Tito and Jermaine and Marlon and the other brother whose name I always forget. Is it Gary?”

“No, that’s where they’re from. Randy, maybe?”

“Yeah, that sounds right. But that’s not even the best part. Gina gets to a page that’s kind of a misty gray stage shot of some stadium filled with thousands of concertgoers. And she’s all ‘Oh, yeah, that’s the summer when Dad toured with the Rolling Stones.’”

“What?!” Her shriek practically pierces my eardrum.

“I guess their regular sax player couldn’t do the European leg of the tour, so they asked Mr. Barge. That’s when my head exploded all over her kitchen. I was all,
‘How is it that I never knew this stuff?’
And Gina just shrugged, like it was no big deal.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“About three years.”

“And you knew
none
of this.”

“Nada.”

Angie contemplates for a couple of seconds before she laughs. “Hey, you ever consider that maybe your takeaway from this project isn’t going to be that you need to learn what to say? Maybe what you need to figure out is how to
listen
.”

I’m spending the night away from home tomorrow for my big out-of-town dinner, and that entails luggage.

Used to be when I’d travel, I’d lose all ability to make wise packing choices because I’d get so freaked out about flying. I’d find myself standing in my closet in my nightgown at midnight, crying because I had to get up in four hours, and all I’d managed to stuff in my bag was a dated copy of
US Weekly
and my two rattiest pair of underpants.

But ever since last year’s tour and the twenty consecutive daily flights I had to take, it somehow got less scary. I still don’t love flying, but it no longer paralyzes me.
¹⁰⁸

I also took Stacey’s advice and contacted her friend the costume designer, and he whipped me up all kinds of adorable madras pants and shorts and skirts. The colors are all complementary, so I can grab any bottom to pair with any of my Lacoste shirts and V-neck sweaters and have a complete outfit. Essentially, my dream of adult Garanimals has come true, so packing was a breeze.

I manage to be so organized that I have my bags filled and ready by the front door at eight p.m., all without scrambling . . . or sweating . . . or crying.

I’m not sure if the fates are conspiring, or if maybe this is simply the result of having finally purchased a grown-up carry-on bag. Regardless, I’m able to relax and enjoy my evening stress-free.

But it’s really not stress-free.

Where’s that feeling of doom stemming from having packed nothing but three bags of Skittles and a girdle? What will it be like to go to the airport on no more than forty-five minutes of REM sleep?

Despite being completely ready, I feel out of sorts. I take a bath, but that doesn’t make a difference. I hug Maisy really hard. It helps a little. I take an Ambien. And that helps a little more. So I have a single glass of wine on top of it. And that helps a lot. Having achieved a state of perfect relaxation, I get into bed.

Okay, that’s a lie.

Instead, I log on to Twitter, where I am @AltgeldShrugged
¹⁰⁹
and, well . . . I’ll just let the following speak for itself:

AltgeldShrugged—is so organized that I have time to drink a glass of wine, swallow an Ambien, and trot off to the Internet where I’ll dispense advice.

AltgeldShrugged—Not that anyone has asked, but I’m here at the ready, or at least until the pharmaceuticals toss my ass in bed.