We went to an art museum anyway.
Evidently, the Columbus Art Museum...or Columbus Museum of Art? or Art Museum in Columbus? or Museum of Art of Columbus?..whatever, it's some combination of the words "Art," "Columbus," and "Museum," with a few prepositions thrown in...has free admission on Sundays, which is almost like a Happy Hour but without the alcohol, and thus without the happy. As a recovering English major who actually took an art history class once, you'd think I'd have a half-way decent appreciation of art, which in any case is really just a picture book without the book part that's been framed and stapled to the wall. Right?
Yeah, I have no appreciation of art. So luckily for me, the Art Columbus Museum is very kid-friendly in that there are lots of fun activities in each of the galleries to amuse children while their parents ooh and aah over art that, let's face it, the parents probably don't appreciate either and are just putting on a show so that the other grown-ups, who also don't appreciate art and are also putting on a show, won't judge them; when deep down, everyone would really rather stop looking at the paintings and just play with the puzzles like the kids, anyway.
I, being the cultured no-nonsense grown-up that I am, forwent the show and bee-lined for the puzzles. Actually, my favorite part of the museum was an exhibit (clearly intended for children) where you got to make your own art. They had twist-ties that you could make sculptures with and then leave on little stands to display. I made a chicken (which I put on display) and also a penis (which I did not). They also had a chalkboard shaped like an apple with the question "What can you do with an apple besides eat it?" written above it, and you were supposed to write your answer on the chalkboard. I wrote "use it as a bong." Which promptly got erased. Probably by a real grown-up.
Boyfriend at least made an effort to enjoy the art. He made me go on a tour with him. We lasted about ten minutes and then I started getting horrible college flashbacks because the tour guide kept asking the group ridiculous questions like "What stylistic differences do you notice between these two paintings?" which Boyfriend actually answered once or twice, and then he got bored and we left.
To counteract that futile foray into the world of art, we decided to get drinks. La Fogata Grill is yet another faux-Mexican establishment in the Short North with a nice outdoor patio and a long list of drinks that come in really big containers. We missed their Sunday brunch mimosa special by about half an hour, so went with margaritas instead; Boyfriend with classic, me with strawberry. I happily om-nom-nommed the free chips and salsa while appreciating the view, by which I mean I people-watched the gay bar next door.
I speak enough Spanish to get by, but "fogata" was not in my repertoire of vocab; my Authentic Mexican Boyfriend told me it literally means "faggot." I, aghast, told him there was absolutely no way these people named their restaurant/bar--which, did I mention, is RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO A GAY BAR--"The Faggot Grill." Because that is both appallingly homophobic, and also potentially confusing to any thirsty homosexuals who are new to the area.
No, apparently, "fogata" is, actually, "faggot" in the very literal sense of being a pile of wood. At which point I wanted to smack Boyfriend upside the head, because why couldn't he just have told me "fogata" means "a pile of wood" to begin with?
I actually have nothing else whatsoever to say about our La Fogata experience, which is why I spent so long talking about the Art Columbus Museum instead.
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