M*rk C**rk (who must have too much time on his hands at work) first sent me over to wmmna's "review" of Banksy's prank (see also nytimes link above). Initially I didn't believe it, and it peeved me a little bit, mostly because of my infatuation with the Guerilla Girls, who, if Banksy had talked to them, would have reccommended he wear a Gorilla suit and put up work by underrepresented, and good, artists rather than another self-centered whiny white guy. (Let's be harsh for a second, and apologies to the large portion of my social group made up of whiny white guys, o.k., but if BANKSY wants to get some of his work into an art museum he has a better chance that MOST, not being a woman, person of color, or from the "lower classes" or a "developing country.")
But I must admit the truth: Now I hate Banksy because he caused a rift in my Friday night. Alliecat had some lovely RPCV's visiting her and we were going to go to the Met and then go get yummy cheap (and BYOB) Indian food on 6th Street. So, being the BYOB thriftsters that we are, we had each completely innocently brought a bottle of wine, which we planned to check, pick up after our visit, and be on our merry way. (MA-in-museum-studies note: the coat/bag check is for TEMPORARY STORAGE OF THINGS THAT PEOPLE MIGHT HAVE IN THEIR BAGS THAT SHOULD NOT BE BROGHT INTO THE MUSEUM. This is why we love coat checks. They keep nasty things like bottles of wine AWAY from the art, and people should be encouraged to use them.) So, whatever, a guard who apparently thought Alliecat was a drunk sixteen-year-old and I was a total bitch (one of these things might be somewhat true) gave us a whole bunch of shit and wouldn't let us in, even if we checked our bags. His lame excuse was something about a $500 dry-cleaning bill they had once at coat check. OK, I would accept this at most museums, but the Met should figure a once in a while coat check accident drycleaning bill into it's multimillion operating budget. Cleaning a mink and assuaging one old lady is a helluva lot easier than cleaning a Rembrandt. Whatever, I digress, although at Starbux while we were waiting for our girls Allie and I had a good laugh about the other things in our handbags that were no problem (I compulsively hoard mayo and mustard packets in my pencil case). My point is: I BLAME BANKSY for the paranoia about security at the Met and its affect on sensible and (usually) cooperative museumgoers, and their Friday-evening plans. F**ker.
