- No, Mr. Owsley, you cannot “soup up” the audio tour. Stop calling it the Walk of Sound.
- Parish, you’ve got to help me: I’ve accidentally invited TWO DATES to the fundraising ball!
- Gentlemen, I’m not going to point fingers and play the blame game and name names, but using the museum to stage a fake blood drive is going to stop immediately, Phil.
- There won’t be any dinosaurs, Bobby. It’s an art museum.
- Everyone needs to put on their trousers right damn now.
- Billy, that’s not performance art.
- There have been some great reviews for Keith’s sculpture of himself. Oh, that’s actually him? He’s been lying there motionless for, like, nine days. Perhaps we should call a docent.
- No, I don’t know what a docent is, either, but it’s the museum and something’s gone awry, so you call the docent. There is a chain of command here, Grateful Dead!
- But it doesn’t matter because you have dosed all of them.
- Yes, yes: doses, docent. Quite clever.
- Billy, stop doing performance art.
- No, Bobby: the eyes of that painting are not following you around the–oh, Mickey’s cut eyeholes in the art and is standing behind the canvas looking at people. Good call, Bobby.
- Come out from there, Mickey. Why are you naked?
- Garcia’ll be fine: I put him in the sculpture park. It’s just steel and gravel out there.
- I’ve told you this already, Mr. Mydland: museums don’t have mascots. Take off the costume.
- Why is Bill Graham haranguing schoolchildren in Yiddish?
- We don’t allow camping because it is a museum of art; there cannot be filthy teenagers taking doodies directly outside.
- I’m sorry, I don’t see a “Ned Lagin” on the Will Call list, possibly because there is no Will Call list, probably because it’s a museum. Why are the whole hairy lot so fuzzy on the concept of “museum?”
- Phil, you’re doing a great job running the food court, but I think charging $200 to eat sandwiches while you jam with your sons is a bit excessive.
- Vince, for the third time: your new character, down-home surrealist Salvador Golly is just not a hit. Please stop doing the routine. Also, buddy: pants.
- We’re just going to require that there be no more naked Grateful Deads in the museum, please. It’s not an unreasonable request.
- Attention museum patrons: we are going to need to evacuate the building immediately, please. All attempts to prevent Billy from doing performance art have failed. I repeat: Billy is doing performance art.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: momtda (Page 2 of 2)
The latest exhibition at MoMTDA (Mom: taDAA!) is Just The Facts, Ma’am, a collection of art that fails to get easily-researched details right.
In this stand-out lent to the museum by a Twitter friend, we see Garcia with his guitar from ’77, his jacket from ’75, his hair and muttonchops from ’68, and an audience from ’67. He is also bearing a braid in his hair that seems like it will be ritually cut off at either the end of his training or should he humiliate himself in the Trials.
A rarely-visited wing of the MoMTDA houses Don’t Tell Me This Town Don’t Have No Art, a show comprising Dead murals, inspirational posters, banners painted for sick children, etc. The sentiment behind the art obviates any criticism on any level, aesthetic included. Making fun of stuff like this is like being the guy who points out how much more efficiently the money invested in the whole Batkid thing could have been spent: you’re right, but also, shut the fuck up.
Among the paintings at the MoMTDA (pronounced: Mom: taDAA! like you just did a trick) is this chalk-on-flat-thing entitled “Flowerbeard: the least intimidating pirate.”
It is housed in the show called Flores Para Los Muertos or “Again with the Roses?” This curation of the seemingly innumerable pieces of art (Dead, terrible) that have, like, Phil getting eaten by a venus flytrap, or Bobby in a bush, but mostly Garcia and a bunch of roses runs until June in the Main Hall.
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