If a guy takes a dump in a museum, is it art? I’m in the lower-level men’s room in the Hirshhorn Museum when this thought occurs to me. After viewing the Warhols (a quadruple self-portrait and umpteen screen prints of Marilyn Monroe’s lips in various colors), several works by Mario Merz (constructions of neon tubes, photographs, and other objects based on Fibonacci sequences), and the ultra-realistic sculptures of Ron Mueck (a super-sized, sullen, hairless man; a just-slight

“ A candy-colored clown they call the sandman Tiptoes to my room every night… ” Ya hear that, Buddy? I hear that song twice for each of you guys. Well, not twice for all of you. If you’re lucky, this is the only time we’ll hear it together. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’ll be your DJ for this evening, your tour guide, your oracle. We’re most definitely not on a first-name basis here—keeps things from getting personal—but you can call me whatever you please. I’m the

I wish I could say I had noble motives, causes, moral righteousness. But I would be lying. The bottom line was always the bottom line. I did it for the money. It’s not too hard to get a hold of me. People who know how tell people that need to know how. A mark on a mailbox, an ad in the Auto Shopper. I see the right words, I show up at a specific pay phone or reach behind a specific toilet tank, I become an employee. I don’t know what’s going on in Washington, and I don’t ca