A Perfect Day at Ilium

Somewhere on the first floor of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, past Duchamp and Brancusi, and past the last place I saw the beautiful girl with the pensive eyes -- Dave, Kris, Andy, and I found ourselves (as we periodically do) in the 50 Days at Ilium room. 50 Days at Ilium is a series of nine or so paintings depicting events from the Iliad. Really, it kind of looks like a bunch of chalkboards from the lectures of an eager Classics professor with horrendous motor skills. As always, the ceiling chuckled along with us at our clever remarks, yet something in the scribblings on the canvasses kept us looking and pondering. Noticing the little things. Like how all the gods were depicted as right triangles with their names on the hypotenuses. And how all the mortals were clover-like blobs. And Andy and Dave were looking at what I remember to be the seventh canvass, the one farthest from the entrance on the wall that's to your right as you walk in. They were commenting -- Dave, Aristotle on my left; Andy, Plato on my right -- how they liked that Cassandra's name was painted all big and scribbly and psychotic. And i put my arms around each of their shoulders, and I waited a second to speak, revelling in the softness of Dave's sweater and the surprisingly elegant bulk of Andy's shoulders. I looked at each of them, smiled my dimpled-dopey smile, and hit them with some half-serious philosophy:

Maybe Cassandra wasn't so much cursed by the gods, as she was simply drop-dead funny... I mean, how can you take anyone seriously after you've laughed milk through your nose.

Andy broke away with a laugh that even twentieth-century art could not help but echo. And Dave, who used to squirm under any touch, stayed under my arm for a few more seconds, nodding his head, knowing exactly what I meant.

And as if the day had already progressed, and we'd already spotted G Love's sister by the Natural History Museum, and discussed Philly style and cute girlies, as if we'd already gotten drunk on Belgian beer in the back corner of Monk's Cafe, I lowered my voice and told them of the time I fell in love with a Slovenian girl. Then, as though I had already taken everyone home and settled into the quiet of 3 am suburbs, I suddenly felt like the loneliest man alive. So, shaking the prophesy from my head, I led the lads upstairs to look at big swords.

Philadelphia and Boston, 1999