I Heart You, New York. Why? Because, Like New York, My Heartbeat Is Irregular

Well, there goes today’s plan, Manhattan.

So, friends, I have escaped the confines of a Phoenix summer for a few spare moments, and I’m in my favorite place on Earth.  Now, because we come every couple of years, the kids have already seen the major attractions, and we’re now able to focus on the subtleties of the city.  Unfortunately, that’s how my mother managed to convince me to go to The Whitney Museum.  Now, before you label me a Philistine, let me point out that I love art.  I spent great deal of time in college studying art history, just for pleasure.  That having been said…I fucking hate the modern era.  There are some beautiful contemporary pieces and talented artists, but by my estimation, easily 50% of modern art is complete shit that somebody threw together because they were pissed at their parents.

Case in point…

Keep staring at this…it doesn’t get more interesting.

I’m not sure what makes me the most angry about this…that someone got away with selling it…that the Whitney is showing it…or that for five minutes, I watched some pretentious asshole telling his female companion about the “genius of the brush strokes”.

I call this one “My Personal Hell”.

Sooooo….is the art part that you took the effort to hit up some Goodwill stores, or that you can build a lit Lucite box?

 

This isn’t art…this is what happens when a mother finally gets tired of all the fucking stuffed animals collecting dust in her house, and snaps.  $20 says that this is what happened after some poor mom in the suburbs had her monthly Bunco night canceled, and she was left alone with three kids, a bottle of vodka, and a whole bunch of rage.

Please, I can find this in any rough high school in America.

I thought the museum janitor had gotten lazy.  But no.

If the artist has ever seen an actual vagina…then that woman needs to be referred to a health care provider IMMEDIATELY.

 

I call this one, “Tripping Hazard”.

This is what I want to do to someone, every time that I get invited to one of those fucking Partylite parties.

And the coup de grace…  Every year, I have my students do an IDENTICAL activity about who they are.  And every year, one kid TRIES to put a dick on his body form, and every year I tell that kid to cut the shit and take it off.  Somewhere in America…this kid’s teacher is shaking her head.

Now, this…this is art…why? Because a sassy dead rabbit who can protest, speak French, and be slightly existential?  That’s a whole bunch of alright in my book.