Right now I could be home sitting on my sofa in my underwear watching the basketball game on my new thirty-inch screen TV with a strawberry cooler making rings on my linoleum. And after that I could put on some Marvin Gaye while addressing issues of "urgent immediacy" like how to pay off all my maxed out credit cards.

The one time I agree to do something you want to see what happens. I let you talk me into driving downtown in friday-night-at-the-movies traffic with hookers propping up every corner and cough medicine addicts banging on the car window every nanosecond with grimy open palms just to see this.

Hell, this ain't even art in my book. When you said photo exhibition I thought fine framed prints of bold butterflies crossing the equator anti-clockwise or fresh forest smothered in morning mist or just limp tulips in a vase.

But this stuff's not art photos. It's just disgusting. Babe, how could art be closeups of guys' private parts and portholes large enough for a slam dunk.

You say there should be a place for art whose purpose is to "stir public debate and dissent" but I say next time please don't drag me along to see it because whoever this Robert Maplethorpe is he'll never be as famous a photographer as Kodak to name one. 

Say what.