Get it?
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: terrible dead art (Page 4 of 10)
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.
Seems legit.
The Dead didn’t surf: Northern California isn’t the place for it and they weren’t very much good at balancing on the ground, let alone a surfboard on the water. Also, Keith tried to put a wetsuit on once and they found him two days later all wrapped up in the thing, crying and scared.
The Museum of Modern Terrible Dead Art was founded in 1976 and moved into its current facility in ’89. The iconic building was designed by someone the band thought was I.M. Pei, though the guy’s lack of math skills, insistence on being paid in cash, and the fact that he was clearly a Puerto Rican woman should have tipped them off to the ruse. That building was sketched to occupy eight dimensions at once, but didn’t meet code in any of them.
The band then brought the famed Frank Gehry to create the space, but while they’re utter nincompoops with money and a good caper, they always did have, you know: fucking aesthetic taste, so they recognized Gehry as a faddish hack whose buildings were ugly and instantly dated and empty of heart and basement and why do they all have to be so damn shiny and, like, 20 seconds into the first presentation, Billy punched him, not just in his dick, but in his load-bearing dick, and that’s structural damage there.
At this point in the process, things broke down even further, as it was learned inadvertently that Brent had–at some point–been turned into a Jason Bourne/River Tam type super-badass and his operating code was the word “Guggenheim,” which obviously came up a whole bunch, especially after Bobby heard it and had a giggle fit. So, every time Bobby would say Guggenheim, Brent would take off full-tilt boogie for the nearest food court and start cracking skulls and then get a hot pretzel. It was the opposite of helpful.
The plans changed to housing the collection in an old warehouse off the 101 near Sausalito and things ran smoothly once the band was left out of the decision-making process.
At last: the return of Terrible Dead Art! Roaring back with the only known Vince entry in the Museum of Modern Terrible Dead Art, we see young Vince in his early “Kid Shakespeare” look.
Get it?
You cannot convince me this thing’s creation didn’t involve a poorly-chalked pentagram, sex magick involving fat girls, and a copy of Crowley’s Book of Thoth that clearly hasn’t been read all the way through.
Also: Garcia’s hair is made out of Jewish pubes. Trust me on this one.
As always, for the purposes of SEO and whatnot and jibber-jabber, this is classified as Terrible Dead Art, but it’s AWESOME and I LOVE IT and want to RUB MY ART DONG ON IT.
Seriously: this is beautiful.
First off, while Garcia truly couldn’t dress himself, I’m quite certain that he neither owned nor wore a thong with his face on it. (It can be purchased on Etsy, however.)
Second: fuck this. Fuck this in the neck with a steak knife. The Dead were men (and Mrs. Donna Jean, who–for the record–was no shrinking violet when it came to throwing punches, fucking people she wasn’t supposed to, or using her BMW to play bumper cars in the parking lot when she got drunk and irritated.)
People are not to be worshipped, especially these ones; their humanity was overwhelming, and not in a charitable, restore-my-faith-with-a-Buzzfeed-video kind of way: it was messy. Their humanity got all over innocent bystanders, harmonica players, hotel bar patrons, and high-school-aged foxes. They were junkies and drunken reprobates. One of them was Billy, for fuck’s sake.
The only thing that happens when you put a man on a pedestal is you get a better look at his ass.
Third: August 12th, 1995, came and went. No Garcia. Of course, that might have been because he was cremated.
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