Art Attack Central

Fixing stuff, myself included…


Whacked Register

That’s what I’m thinking, a place/page for people to register their whacks. Wonder if whacko.com is already gone? Too lazy today to check it out. Maybe just an info. page on how to claim your whack.

Can’t you tell us something real?

Feeling like I don’t really have anything to say today. So perhaps I’ll just sign off. I could tell you about what’s going on with my friend Su, but that’s none of your business and none of mine either. Maybe I should tell you about the time I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. You know how people get their mouths wired shut to lose weight? Well I had mine wired open so I could put my foot in it any old time. There I was on the corner of Broadway and Eastern Ave. just minding my own business, my feet planted firmly on the ground, nowhere near my mouth when the Gypsy looked in my direction. He was Hungarian and playing an accordion.

A Hungarian Gypsy playing an accordion?

Whaaaat… you can’t imagine it? It was the time of day when the light could be early morning, or late afternoon. He was a short man, no not a midget, or a dwarf, but very short with dark hair and green eyes. So short in fact, that the accordion looked huge as the red bellows waved back and forth across his chest. His tiny fingers hitting shiny buttons and black and white keys seemed to dance unpredictably, yet the music was magical. He was coming towards me, but it wasn’t until he looked at me straight on that I noticed his green eyes. They looked at me the same way his fingers danced on the accordion. At that same moment Mr. Potatoehead popped out of Bertha’s Mussels (yes that’s a real place) and began shouting obscenities to all passing by on the street. He had just learned of his wife’s death via his cell phone; needless to say, he was totally fried. The small Gypsy was knocked over by people trying to put distance between themselves and Mr. Potatoehead’s cursing.

Is this just another Mr. Potatoehead story?

No, this is about the Gypsy and how I got my foot stuck in my mouth which led to having my mouth wired open. Anyway as the crowd thinned out scrambling to get away from Mr. Potatoehead, I helped the Gypsy to his feet and dusted him off. It was while I was dusting the Gypsy that I made the quintessential faux pas…

“Cyberspace: A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation.”

–William Gibson

Link

“Designated driver, on the information highway.”