A former girlfriend demanded that I attend the Getty Museum with her in Los Angeles a few years ago, soon after it opened. I didn’t really want to go, because art museums are usually interesting for the first five paintings, and then it is just an endless trip of standing amongst weird pseudo-art historians who expound upon the import of each drop of paint. Not my bag. But I went anyway.

Hey, I am an appreciator of the painted arts, but my appreciation comes mainly from the fact that a human being can put brush to paper and actually convey something that looks even remotely like a tree, or a lakefront, or a guy in a boat. I am amazed at that. It is true talent. But most of these “art” knuckleheads are always trying to find the “meaning of life” in those paintings. It just irritates me. It’s fuckin’ paint on canvas.

But anyway…I remember about an hour or so into the experience, I had wandered away by myself, mostly trying to distract myself enough that I forgot that I had been in an art museum for an hour.

I wandered over to check out a hideous painting of nothingness, which was of course surrounded by the “central casting” collection of artsy knuckleheads evaluating it’s worth. I heard all sorts of hilarious things. “It resembles Mussolini’s final moments”…”It perfectly depicts a caterpillar’s arc to butterflyness”…”It represents the world’s hatred of the French”…”It is a mixture of Jesus Christ and Gary Busey immediately after Gary crashed his motorcycle right across from the dealership that he had just purchased the motorcycle from”…all sorts of nonsense…

As I stood in absolute wonder, a fellow wearing headphones and bad short pants staggered toward me, admiring the painting. He must have thought I was admiring it as well, but in truth I was just listening to the jerkoffs around me.

After a few moments, he yanked down his headphones and turned to me and asked “Do you know the style of this painting?”

And I responded…”I believe this style is called neo-archaic.”

He nodded, reassured, flopped his headphones back onto his head, and staggered away.

I hope I started a new renaissance that day.

Now, you must excuse me. I must go party like it’s 1979.

But I should be used to it, I suppose. Technological progress has never been kind to my Testies, and industry respect has often been hard to grasp. Hollywood has never taken a shine to my Testies, even though I personally hold my Testies in high regard. Nightly.