Kyle Moody and the Not Bummer Summer

Once again, here we are. This last week, my temp job ran its course, and I am again with the unwashed masses of the unemployed. I am not unhappy about this, in all actuality, I am quite happy. That job was boring, soul-sucking, and just pointless. However, I will miss the paycheck, and my current stress-level is slowly increasing day-to-day as I think about how I am going to pay my rent for the next school year, but somehow, it'll all work out.

I don't want to talk about such a trivial matter with you. In this post, I want to talk to you about what I did the day after I was done with my job. I went to the Philbrook Museum. Something I have been wanting to do for quite a few years now. Wednesday morning, I woke up and dressed fairly decent (no suit and tie, I assure you), and left for the museum. After being lost for about twenty minutes, I arrived. For those of you who haven't been, the entrance way is quite an experience in itself. When you first enter, you encounter this sculpture by Rodin:

Rodin is arguably one of the heavyweights when it comes to sculpture. So, once you see this as soon as you enter, you know you are in for a real treat.

After I left the ticket counter, I made my way to the main exhibit, a collection of Raushenberg's screen prints and paintings. I have to give kudos to the Philbrook. The way they arranged the pieces was not only tasteful, but they created a soothing atmosphere in the gallery hall. However, when I left the Raushenberg exhibit, and went into the main halls, that was a different experience all together.

I have come to the conclusion that I am a victim of terrible timing. Whether it be with jobs, writing, or relationships, I never can seem to get the timing just right. Wednesday was no exception. The one day I decide to relax and take in all of these beautiful masterpieces from across the centuries was the day it had to be field trip day. At least 500, screaming, booger-eating, little kids were there not paying attention, not caring that they were surrounded by art that is not only older than them or me, but will be around a lot longer after we are all dead and buried. That's not even the worst part. Since there are no ropes or protective casing around the paintings and sculptures, some of these booger-eaters were touching the artworks!!!!

Excuse me while I go and scream and vomit at the thought of what I saw...........


Okay, I'm back. But that day was not lost. When I entered the hall of modern art, I got to see my very first Picasso:

Beautiful would be doing this painting an injustice. I stared at this painting for what seemed like a year. It's a bewildering and humble experience to actually see something that you've only read about. I could see every brush stroke, every paint chip. I was literally six inches away from it. I could've touched it if I wanted to. I would be lying if I said that thought didn't cross my mind. I wanted to touch it, to touch the actual paint that Picasso used, to be connected to history. My heart raced with the idea, but I could not be disrespectful. We go our whole lives reading about things that are greater than ourselves, and when we are in the presence of such items, it makes the whole world stop,and it makes us wish to be part of that world. I am not ashamed of saying that I teared up a little bit.

I could go on and rant about the shame we should feel as a society to allow art to be cast on the edge of our collective thought, but I'm not. After seeing my first Picasso in person, not even those little booger-eaters or the fact that I'm unemployed could deter my experience. So, what makes you think I care where society places art nowadays? You're the ones missing out, not me. I'll gladly keep my art, you can keep your job.

"My name is Kyle Hays. I drink wine on Thursdays and Vonnegut lives in my pantry."

The Old Man and the Sea That Was Too Shallow

Happy Independence Day! Let us all celebrate another year of the crumbling of an empire with Chinese fireworks and European owned "American" beer, while stuffing our faces with three pounds of hamburger meat. Cheers!

I realize that Independence Day in this country is one of (if not the most) cherished holidays we have. I could spend this whole blog talking about how we shouldn't be so celebratory over imaginary boundaries on a map, but I'm not. Instead, I would like to talk about another day, July 2nd, and how that should be just as important.

Why July 2nd? That is the day that Ernest Hemingway, arguably America's greatest writer, committed suicide. The man was the epitome of what is commonly referred to as a "bad ass". He was a soldier, boxer, bull-fighter, lover, and so much more. So, when he committed suicide it came as a shock to the world that the man who idealized "grace under pressure" folded under it.

For those of you who do not know about Hemingway's suicide, it is as poetic as the stories he wrote. One morning, he woke up, poured himself a glass of orange juice, sat it on the table, stuck a shotgun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. His orange juice never touched.

Here is one of my favorite all-time quotes by Hemingway:
"In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused. "

Where am I getting at with all this? Hemingway wrote at the time what the world needed. His stories gave people a connection that allowed them to see that they were not alone in their troubles, their grief, their loneliness. On July 2nd, as I was reading a few of his short stories and drinking a nice, tall Guinness in honor of him, I couldn't help but think how badly we needed him now. Some of the older generations ( the Baby Boomers, Gen-X, Gen-Y), have rightly dubbed us the "Lost" generation. What do we have? We have no great war, we have no great music, and we have no great reformation on any aspect of our culture. Who are we? We believe that fame and fortune are just around the corner, that we will be the next big star, that we will be millionaires by the time we are 30. Well, sorry if I'm the first to tell you, but you're not. If you haven't realized it by now, but the only thing we have contributed to the world is "Jersey Shore" and the vast amounts of spin-offs from it. For that, we will forever be at the mercy of the gods.


I do not have some big rallying cry. I do not have any advice on how to change your ways, or to help you to feel not so lost. All I can do is lift my glass high in the air and say, "Here's to you Ernest. May you come back, finish your orange juice, and kick all of our asses."

P.S. The New York Times ran an op-ed piece about Hemingway that I think you should go and check out.


"My name is Kyle Hays. I drink wine on Thursdays, and Vonnegut lives in my pantry.