Moe Ma

After work I decided to throw on my Perfect Black Shirt and jet down to the MOMA. I'd been lightly flagellating myself ever since the museum re-opened, because every day that passed was another day as a New Yorker who hadn't seen the new MOMA.

I got in for free, which may have been because there were only 2 hours until closing time, and I saw the Edvard Munch exhibit. I prefer going to galleries alone, because the solitude gives me a more transcendental experience. If I want to stand in front of a painting letting my eyes go in and out of focus until I feel like I'm tumbling into the artist's despair, then I can. I don't have to answer someone who keeps asking, "So...what do you think about this one?" My solo flight through the exhibition was a dark and beautiful experience.

On my way home I stopped at Barnes & Noble and this older guy started hitting on me. He told me I looked like a dancer (probably thanks to my Perfect Black Shirt). He asked for me number, which I had decided not to divulge, and he must have seen it in my face. Before I said a word, he said, "Wait -- quietly. I don't need everyone to hear." If he was trying to guilt-trip me, it worked. I felt both beautiful and cruel. But I still couldn't give him my number.