Me and Yoko Are Like That!

(Alternate Title: One Degree of Yoko Ono)

So a few of you already know this story, but since there may be a broader audience reading this and looking for a good time, I thought I should share it for the first time in written form.

(I also love talking about the times I’ve embarrassed myself… Yes, there are many.)

So, you see, my name is John. And I’m a Recovering Impulsiveholic.

For a very long time I had no concept of that much-needed saying, “Think before you act.”

I just did things without ever wondering if there might be consequences. I honestly floated through life doing things and then wondering why in the world “X” was the result.

(Why does my hand hurt? Oh yeah, I reached into the oven to get out the pan of chocolate chip cookies WITH MY BARE HANDS.)

(How come he’s so mad at me? Oh yeah, last night I told him what a FUCKING IDIOT he was and that I never wanted to see him again… damn, there goes the great sex!)

(Why has it taken me 9 years to get my Bachelor’s degree? Oh yeah, because I spent about 4 of those 9 years not going to classes and just partying…)

Anyway, so that was how I got through life for the longest time: Completely. Oblivious.

And so it was, in this mindset, that I traveled with Gary out to Western Massachusetts, back in the fall season of 2001, to spend a weekend looking at the foliage. And, more importantly, to finally get our asses to Mass MOCA.

Gary and I thought Mass MOCA would be right up our alley. We both think of ourselves as fairly creative folks who appreciate all forms of art, and who might particularly enjoy some of the more (ahem!) challenging pieces that a museum of modern art would provide. (Gay Boys and Modern Art? Hello, match made in heaven people!)

So anyway, on this particular weekend, we drive the three hours or so from Boston out to North Adams, MA, which is quite possibly the smallest little town I’ve ever seen. And we decide to hit up the museum first, spend the day there enjoying ourselves, and then we would head over to our hotel and have a nice dinner.

The Museum was easy enough to find, and the campus, if you can call it that, was situated on what appeared to be a run down mill, right alongside a stream. Very picture-esque.

The interior was all hardwood floors and brick and brushed aluminum, which was appropriate for the modern art displayed there.

Some of the first pieces we saw were paintings. Very, very modern paintings. Not the kind of things you might see at the MFA.

But they were good. They were colorful. It was artwork that challenged you. (Or so the brochures claimed, I thought most of it was crap, if I can be so honest as to reveal my non-appreciation-of-modern-art-geektitude.)

So Gary and I wander through the first few rooms considering these paintings and wondering what might lie ahead.

Well, folks, let me tell you what lies ahead in Mass MOCA:

Interactive Art.

And not just any interactive art.

It’s exactly the kind of interactive art that you SPECFICALLY DO NOT want to put in front of an Attention Deficit Disorder Hyperactive Impulsive and Acting Like He’s 8 Years Old When He’s Really 23 moron named John.

Because, folks, John will indeed interact with the art. And he will indeed enjoy it.

He will have a ball jumping on the trampoline that’s set in front of an 8 foot wall, bouncing higher and higher, all to see the art that’s hidden behind the wall. Higher and higher he goes, there’s art to be seen people! Higher and higher, WHEEEEEEE! IMPULSIVE FUN!

He will be in heaven standing in front of a wall that’s been covered in electronic sensors, throwing small bean bags at the sensors. Sensors which cause different words to appear on a screen. Create your own sentence people!! Do it by throwing bean bags! Oh the Fun! Oh the Art! WHEEEEEEE! IMPULSIVE FUN!

He will have a great time staring into darkened boxes. Boxes with lights that flash and knobs you turn! And buttons you push and things you throw! And OH MY GOD! WHEEEEEEE! THE IMPULSIVE INTERACTIVE FUN!

And in this state of hyperactive A.D.D. Slash Interactive Fun Glory, he will pay no attention to what’s around him as you step into a new room.

Specifically, he will not notice the small “Do Not Touch The Art” sign.

And panting, nay hyperventilating, over all the fun that's about to be had, he will see THIS:

OH SHINING BEACON OF INTERACTIVE FUN!!! Oh, magnanimous white canvas with nails! (Nails, people, Nails!) And the hammer hanging down on a chain! (Hanging, folks! Just begging to be used!). And two buckets of nails on the floor! (BUCKETS! THE FUN!)

And John will run to the artwork, in his frenzied state of over-stimulation-and-interactive-modern-art-like-an-8-year-old-boy-impulsive-not-really-paying-attention way.

And he will pick up the hammer.

And he will pick up a nail.

And he will place the nail right against the white canvas.

(And he will kind of not really quite register the slight look of discomfort on his boyfriend’s face as his hand goes back.)

And as his boyfriend, in slow motion just like in the movies, screams, “NNNNNNNooooooooooooooooooooo,” the hammer will come back, and then be brought forward with all the force of the world, hitting the nail as surely as can be.

BANG!!

Once…

BANG!!

Twice…

BANG!!

Three times!…

And then John will look over at Gary, who has suddenly developed the horrified face of one who's just witnessed a grim crime scene.

And John will wonder, “Why is Gary looking so freaked out? Huh? What’s up Gary?”

And then Gary will BOOK IT! into another room, just as the Mass MOCA security guard comes running up to the exhibit, saying loudly enough for everyone in a 30-foot radius to hear:

“SIR!, SIR!, Put Down The Hammer!, This Is Not An Interactive Piece!”

------------------------------------

OH.

MY.

GOD….





WHAT?

HAVE?

I?

DONE?!

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Yes, folks. That would be yours truly, banging a nail into a piece of NON-interactive art.

Impulsively Banging.

Completely unaware of his surroundings. And not noticing the small white sign on the gray wall - the sign that exclaims, “Do Not Touch The Art.”

(Ouch.)

So John sheepishly apologizes and somehow is not thrown out of the Museum (although there was no enjoyment afterwards… OBVIOUSLY!). And everyone is staring. And the lovely boyfriend won’t even walk with John or acknowledge his presence.

And John doesn’t know what to do.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He looks down at the little placard next to the installation.

And it reads, I kid you not: Painting to Hammer a Nail, Yoko Ono, 1961.