There were people protesting on the square about U.S. involvement in Egypt Friday night as I headed home and while I usually ignore everyone in a mad dash to catch the Rapid, I did stop to listen for a change. I get frustrated with conversations I have with people where they say "well at least Suleiman isn't an Islamist" and I wonder if it really matters sometimes, because it would suck to live under totalitarianism of any kind, whether it's religiously rooted or not.
But since I can't solve the world's problems, I resort to sculpting clay and subsequent dinner and ponderings and plans to go out into the winter snow for cultural enrichment.
We didn't get to the cemetery, as it was rainy and snowy, and since bicycles and skateboards are verboten, one would assume the same of plastic saucers.
But we did get to get our high culture on and be uncharacteristically snarky in the ancient art section of the Art Museum in regards to the defensive possibilities of solid gold reliquary purses, my assumption as a child that the Ancient Egyptians looked more Caucasian than African, the way that the headless Roman senator flanked by several busts reminds me way too much of Return To Oz...
We marveled at the workmanship in enamel, glass and metal, wondering why no one taught us about the Visigoths and the Scythians and the Bronze Age in history class, all this history and culture only hinted at in shards of pottery and intricate jewelry and the faces of those long gone.
Our favorite little sculpture is back on display as well, "The Stargazer" that's supposedly a woman but always looked a bit more alien.
The illuminated manuscripts were still on display and she observed in the middle of an exhibit about the art of bygone manuscripts, painstakingly copied onto vellum, ornamented profusely, and embossed with gold, there's a couple playing with their new Kindle and extolling its virtues.
We made a quick detour on the way back because my favorite Damien Hirst artwork of all time, a triptych of stained-glass looking designs made from hundreds of butterfly wings.
After that, we went to the pretty much deserted Natural History Museum to hang out in the 1970's decor with dinosaur bones and fossils. Since there were no school groups and hardly any kids, we had the museum to ourselves to get in touch with our "inner dinosaur."
The place hasn't changed in my lifetime and upon discussion with my elders, it looked more or less the same when they went there in their youth as well.
Also, the every conspiracy nerd's favorite world dominators have left their mark here.
Come and visit scenic and picturesque Archaic Ohio!
No one really knows why T-Rex's arms are so small, but supposedly someone thinks he's distantly related to the chicken:
We also learned that Disaster of Manly Manliness FutBol Americano proportions could occur as a result of climate change:
We went out to look at all the animals out back looking cold and cranky except for the otters, who thought we were there to feed them. Lindsay got kissed by a deer and we pondered the
possibilities of wooly mammoths and giant chickens going on all Jurassic Park on the planet.
Someone also thought that their mom loved birds way too much:
More terrible t-shirt slogans here...
It makes total sense that someone like me who loves living in a dying town would like old and and dead things and why when people visit, I recommend museums and cemeteries and old diners as destination options. Maybe that's kind of weird, but those kind of things do it for me. They always have. Something about living in a land of rust and snow can make you existential in a good way.
Sunday, of course, is the de facto national American holiday observed by almost everyone. Some friends from church that I enjoy immensely invited me over and it was good to watch the game with fellow hopeful cynics, as the snark was free-flowing, especially in regards to the presence of a certain former US president and the fratboy antics of a certain Pittsburgh quarterback.
Cowboys and aliens are evidently the newest zombies and vampires, not even Slash can save the Black Eyed Peas from total suckitude, maybe lip-synching isn't so bad when people can't sing especially when they name themselves after the Duchess of York and Suburban Shopping Malls, and The Fast and the Furious franchise is quickly becoming the Land Before Time of action movies. Tchaikovsky is rolling over is his grave at the abuse of the 1812 Overture, "And we wonder why other countries want to bomb us," one says.
At least the Packers won, I guess, and I got to laugh.