Just a few days ago, Kayti Didriksen was an unknown barmaid with artistic pretensions. Now, she is the infamous perpetrator of “Man of Leisure, King George,” an alleged painting which somehow found itself briefly hung on a wall in the City Museum of Washington, before being being banished to await “a more welcoming venue,” as the droll A.P. story puts it.

In her botched lampoon of Manet’s masterwork “Olympia,” the barmaid with a heart of gold placed two anatomically incorrect small-headed humanoids in a boudoir setting. One, whose eyes are in his forehead and jawbone about eight inches west of his nose, bears a little popsicle-stick construction on a pillow. The other anthropoid, with impossibly outsized thighs, is apparently naked. His jawbone seems to suffer from the same westward attraction, while his eyes are attracted more to each other. According to the A.P., these figures are President Bush and Vice President Cheney. The Tinkertoy thing on the pillow is a crown. They have not revealed their source for these allegations.

Edouard Manet could not be reached for comment.

Paul at Wizbang thinks it is a clever political commentary (though he disagrees with its message), and so qualifies as legitimate art. I respect Paul’s viewpoint, which is just plain wrong. He also says, “I hope it was not politics that got it removed.” Yeah, me too. Though I expect it was politics that got it put up in the first place. The museum says they pulled it down so kids won’t see nudity. Weird. Is it an art museum, or isn’t it? That reason is so ludicrous, it has to be the truth.

I would have hoped the trash was taken out for the same reason I take my trash out. So it won’t stink up the place.

UPDATE 1: Ah. Just got some background information on this City Museum of Washington. Turns out it’s not an art museum; it’s a history museum. That would explain why they think this… this object is inappropriate for their galleries. But not why they thought it was appropriate to begin with.

UPDATE 2: Since blog.gleeson.us is the only news source doing any real legwork on this scandal (at least the only one we’ve found, please correct us if we’re wrong), we get to name it. Welcome to Nudegate! We’re trying to track down some sources and experts. And nudes. If there are any updates to this breaking story, you’ll find them right here on blog.gleeson.us.

UPDATE 3: Nothing.

Ah, well, back to the humdrum world of politics. Ho-hum. I mean, “How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure.” But I’ve got to play my strong suit here, and political satire is my natural element.

Or, so I thought. Apparently, a new queen of satire has vanquished all challengers. “Suzie” (Estrich? just a guess) has been posting some hilarious wit-stuffed observations all over my favorite blogsites, earning the adulation of thousands. Well, dozens. I must bow before her. I must decrease, while she must increase. Etc., etc.

Report by Sean Gleeson, on events transpiring the day of 8 Oct. 2004:

THE MAMA
Is ever a woman more beautiful than when delivering a child? Well, yeah, sometimes. In fact, usually. The most salient feature of laboring is, it hurts. It hurts a lot. During contractions, the mother’s face and body are contorted into tortured postures of grimacing, wincing, crying, and clutching. The times between the contractions are better, but only by comparison, marked mostly by the exhaustion from the previous contraction, tempered by the dread of the next one. Laboring requires every ounce of the mother’s physical and mental resources. Because of this, her conversation will seem at times more terse than normal. And there’s the mess. Not a small amount of mess.

Taken all with all, not entirely a Glamor Shots moment. And yet, and yet, a moment of joy. Singular joy, unspeakable joy, rapturous beatific joy. Such joy that the mere anticipation of it makes the suffering not just bearable, but almost trivial. Almost. During the most anguishing moments, I prayed fervently with Phoebe to Our Lady, and to Our Lord, for strength in this test. For much of the time, Phoebe was holding a crucifix, the enduring image of the crucified God, whose suffering on our behalf made infinite joy possible, now and for all time. Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men.

Phoebe, I loved you since we met, but I love you more today. My children are blessed, to have you as their mother. And I am blessed even more. I cannot adequately thank you, nor God for creating you, but I can try to be of service to you both. And so I shall. Amen.

THE MAMA’S MAMA
Phoebe’s mother was on hand for this birth, as she has been for the three previous births. An unsung heroine, Annette takes on the dozens of needful chores that accompany a childbirth: she watches the kids, washes the dishes, runs to the store, does the laundry, and more that I probably don’t even know about. She sews clothes, diapers, and blankets, too. She does as much work as anybody (except Phoebe), and then she’s the last one to see the baby. I want to make sure she knows she’s not the last one to be thanked. Thank you Annette, for everything.

THE DOULA
Michele James-Parham did a great job. She came along with her own little son, Elijah, who played with our kids while she did the douling. She also brought orange Gatorade, to replace Phoebe’s electrolytes and whatnot. (I replaced mine with Miller High Life.) She helped guide Phoebe through the transition and delivery, and even got us the paperwork for government records. She’s coming back tomorrow for a follow-up visit. I would not hesitate to recommend her to anyone in need of birthing assistance. She has a website, which I think could use some redding up. But that’s not her fault.

THE MUSIC
Communion with God is one of those Windham Hill anthologies of inoffensive new age songs. I got the CD for some soothing white noise during Phoebe’s labor. The 15 tracks are all soothing, yes, and relaxing, yes, but I was surprised to find that a few of the songs are astonishingly beautiful. “Be Thou My Vision” (lyrics), a medieval Gaelic hymn translated to English, sings of the awesome gift we have been given, to invoke the infinite power of the King of Heaven and Earth, to come to our aid and be our “sword for the fight.” Other golden oldies from the hymnal on this disc include some fine renditions of “Amazing Grace” and “Be Still My Soul.” The only real disappointment was the publisher’s decison to include somebody or other’s version of “The Wind Beneath My Wings,” a tune I have long despised. But maybe that’s just me.

THE WINE
I had purchased a bottle of Barefoot Merlot for a celebratory toast. Phoebe, Michele and I all had some, and I didn’t hear any complaints. It wasn’t a bad wine (especially for the $5.00 price), lighter-bodied than I expected. I think it would go well with, um, food. Like pizza. I suppose I agree with this assessment: “Bright brick hue. Subdued, spicy nose. A soft entry leads to a moderately light-bodied palate. Quick finish. An inoffensive quaffer. Drink up.”

THE BABY
The baby was perfect. Just perfect.