I took myself to the Palace of the Legion of Honor this week.  When did Miss Ghetto-Fried-Chicken-Buffet-Cassandra become so cultured, you ask?  It was after my friend Muscle Mary revealed to me the secret of art connosseurs everywhere.  Are you ready for the secret?  Are you ready to embark on your own Dan Brown adventure the next time you’re in a museum?  Can you handle seeing a dead, naked man sprawled out like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, giving you clues for a global treasure hunt, with an albino Tgirl assassin out to kill you, all courtesy of the Opus Dei?  Are you man enough to risk your life to uncover one of mankind’s biggest lies?   

I don’t believe you.  But I’m going to tell you the secret anyways.  Okay, here it is.  The secret to unlocking the mysteries of art is…

You have to be STONED!  Add in a glass or two of white wine.  And the Universe will start talking to you.  See, the voices are out there.  You just have to be inebriated enough to let them into your head.

So I got plenty stoned and spent an afternoon with Rodin, Rembrandt, and Reuben.  They were trying to tell me something.  I was sure of it.  But what?  I could feel it — their predictions into the future.  Is the end of humanity near?  Will Jennifer Aniston ever find love again? 

I was looking for connecting themes between the paintings.  I knew “they” were too smart to leave such clues out in the open.  The evil forces we have today were around back then too.  But what was I looking for? 

I went out to the car to smoke another bowl.  As a safety precaution I took a big gulp of the Stoli bottle I kept in the back seat just for such occasions.  I was preparing my body to be a vessel for deus ex machina.  The gods were going to intervene and speak directly to me.  Buddha, Zeus, and J.C. — they caucused and wanted ME to be the next prophet.

I go back into the Legion of Honor, armed with a small notebook this time.  Whatever I saw, felt, heard — it was going to be transcribed directly into my notebook.  Sometimes when I’m stoned and drunk my moments of profound deep thoughts are fleeting.  I didn’t want to risk these thoughts being lost to mankind forever.

So as I stumbled and staggered my way across the museum for a second time (I almost knocked over Rodin’s The Three Shades), I stopped in front of the painting Calling of St. Matthew by Matthias Stom.  Why, of course!  Everything made sense at that moment.  The Universe opened itself up to me, and I drank deeply from its wells.  I scribbled furiously into my notepad.

Hours later, after I recovered from my drunken stupor, I looked inside my notepad.  There was such anticipation.  I knew, I just knew, that the thought will be profound.  

I must go on Oprah and share my insight. 

The world needs to know. 

I opened the notebook. 

I had written:

Sarah Palin is one dumb bitch.   

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Tags: culture