Like a lot of people, I'm not very religious. Which isn't the same as saying I'm immune to the religious experience. Playing the djimbe, when I was a kid, was about as close to God as I'll ever get. I once saw Randall Cunningham's most promising season ended by Bryce Paup. Later in that game Eric Allen picked off a pass, zig-zagged his way some 90 yards, through the end-zone, and then into the tunnel where, standing on crutches, Randall Cunningham was waiting. Allen handed Cunningham the ball, and I thought then, there might be a God.
I went to the Met yesterday, the boy likes to draw, so we've put him in a class there. I've been several times before, indeed we have a family membership. And yet somehow, I'm never prepared for the raw power of the place. Samori went up with the kids to sketch in the modern art gallery. I meandered around until I came to a gift shop. I bought a bookmark shaped like a lyre for $8.99. This would test my maturity. I'm always losing bookmarks. I resolved to have my manhood judged by how long I can hang on to this one.
I found my way down to the sculpture garden and circled The Burghers Of Calais a few times. It's funny to know something is beautiful, and not know why. I think it's the incredible detail--but that doesn't really say much. I don't want to go to Paris without being fluent in French. But son, I really need to see those hands.