[Originally posted March 2011]

Another weekend, another day out with the kids.  This time, it was to MoMA.  Impetus?  There was some kids’ movie event about magic that was free.  Free being the operative term here.  And while we were there, I figured I could trick them into exploring some cool shit around the museum.  Had to be careful though – this being a modern art reservation, I had to scout each exhibit hall ahead of the kids to make sure that there weren’t things in there that’d freak the bejessus out of them; you know, your garden variety decaying-vulture-stuffed-into-a-plexiglass-toaster-with-jam-pouring-from-the-vulture’s-eyes-portraying-the-struggle-of-our-primal-nature-against-the-industrial-oppression sorta bullshit.

Don’t get me wrong, I really do love art museums.  I almost never pass one up.  It’s one of the few times and places I’ll willingly put up with the beard-stroking pretentious bastards who saunter around and examine each exhibit with such concentration that they look like they’re trying to hold in an agonizing fart.  I like to walk up next to these guys, glare at the item for a bit, then tell them, “Man, this painting’s making me hungry”, and walk off.  I don’t even need to look back to enjoy the “what the fuck” faces I’ve left behind.  (Don’t do this with Georgia O’Keefes – you’ll just come across as an enormous creep)

What I like about art museums is that I always walk out of there with some sense of equilibrium.  The enjoyable stuff is almost always balanced out by some really annoying shit.  I don’t pretend to know my art.  Let’s be clear: I don’t know my art.  But as the Pope said, “I may not know much about art, but I know what I like.”

So by now, I’m sorta over the bicycle wheel and the lobster phone.  I’m a little less offended by the bicycle wheel as I am the lobster phone, I will admit.  Maybe ‘cause I ride bikes and so I think Duchamp’s fork and wheel in the stool is kinda cool, but I go bananas when I think of the lobster phone.  How high was Dali when he conjured up that pile of bollocks.  I still think it’s retarded, even though the thing’s been “explained” to me a dozen times.

That said, right now I’m refusing any “explanation” for the following:

Awesome, contemporary art by Blinds-To-Go.  Or a shitty interior decorator.  I nearly lost my shit when I saw this.  I wanted nothing more than to walk over the wire barrier and kick the shit out of these blinds.  Minimally, I’d hoped that whatever fuckhead put this together and had the Jupiter-sized balls to call it “art”, would at least have the decency to give it some interesting name.  I looked to the wall, and the placard read, “Vertical Blinds”.  What an asshole.

Then right behind that wall was this:

Who’s curating the MoMA these days, Jed Clampett?  Who the fuck knew that there was art littered all over the Flyover States Of America?  It’s a large bale of hay, douchebags. How the fuck is this art?  Because we’re in NYC and we don’t have hay in the middle of the city?  By that rule, what’s considered art in the middle of Iowa?  A dented hubcap off a cab?  I hope that whomever agreed to put this up as art is under that hay bale.

This made my fucking day.  I didn’t shoot this in the back of some Staples.  This was in the museum, in the middle of some floor.  With a placard explaining what the fuck it was!  I can plainly see what it is, assholes.  It was a box for an HP printer filled with junky bits and packing material.  What the, holy mother, are fucking shittin’ me.  This was one where I truly regret not setting it on fire right there and then.  Look assholes, even I’m an artist: I’ve set this box on fire to express my outrage through a medium that is ‘alive’ and allows me juxtapose all-consuming desire with the danger of ignition, love me, love me! Can’t you just feel that asshole coming through that box of shit?  God, I wish I could write the word “asshole” in this blog with much more expression and feeling, just so I can vividly get my point across on how much fucking bullshit this exhibit is.  B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t.

Like I said earlier, I don’t pretend to know my art.  Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not that sophistimacated.  But I do know absolute shit when I see it.