  here's an old saying: he is a fool, who relies on
aphorisms. Doesn't say much for those of you who rely on mine, week after week. But what choice have
you? If I did not use my reviews principally to remind you of why you read them, you would not know
that you do so because they are astute; and you would be baffled by the little life lessons and
truisms I pass along about me. And you would attempt to contact me at home again, and then I let
loose the beagles, and frankly that is all very disappointing for you. I hope that clarifies
things. There. Well, enough about me.  Well,
now I can do them this great service without their permission. Our friends at Entros have closed
the creative gap between art and critic by introducing the Entros Gallery of Fine Art. Entros has been a provider of virtual goods and services
in Seattle since the 50's, but this is their first venture into the entertainment industry. Using
the magic of virtual-reality goggles, the EGFA has on hand all the best masterpieces of art in an
electronic "gallery" through which you "walk" so as to "enjoy" them. Entros boasts that their
reproductions are better and more accurate than the originals, since they are not blocked by mobs of
plebeians. The EGFA is located in the inviting new
Belltown Mall. My host for the day, manager Glenn Milliman, was there to greet me. "Two dollars,
bud." I smiled grimly. "Two dollars,
please, bud." Those who can, do. Those who cannot do, critique those who can. "Consider that
your gratuity." He did, and escorted me to the
virtual-reality chamber, where he fitted me with the goggles, strapped me to the gurney,
administered 20 cc's of morphine, and kicked on the juice. Interesting. Before me I beheld the electronic gallery, which I entered with an air of
ennui. Gift-shop, espresso-bar, and, beyond, endless corridors upon whose walls hung history's
recognizable masterworks of art. "Remarkable," I
said. "And you say they're ... they're not real?"
"If they were real, you wouldn't need the goggles to see them." He forgot to say "please" again, but I let it slide. You know, virtual reality
is different, and like all different things it could use some improvement. I noticed I suffered a
couple of harmless seizures, and there were periodic - though welcome - interruptions by CNN, and
what I believe were eerie, dadaist Hertz commercials. A person is free to smoke in this imaginary
world, and that was nice; but I found it disorienting, having no one watch me disapprove of the
paintings. I came to Jackson Pollack's
multicolored Food Stain, Pt. 1, and watched it piously for a time. "I don't understand it," I
said properly, "But, by god, it's making me think." Making me think about how idiotic artists
are, I also thought. Thank god for art critics. I moved on. Now, I personally do not like the Louvre because Parisians
do not bathe, so even if I had ever been to Europe I would not have seen Da Vinci's popular Mona
Lisa in person. But I can promise you that the Entros rendition is just as lifelike as in the
reproductions. There she was. That sepia smile. The quixotic nose. Hint of cleavage. I could not
help but think: what ... what quirk of fate will save me from my boredom? Brainstorm to the rescue. "Milliman!" I barked. "Hand me
one of those virtual Magic Markers. Quick, man!" Pen in hand, I marched up to the painting and intuitively sketched on it a bold,
disembodied Rubik's Cube, thinking: of course: a Rubik's Cube! Witty; infuriating;
ethnic-sounding. I stood back.
There. You know, they didn't have Rubik's
Cubes in Da Vinci's day, and, frankly, it shows.
Moving on, I soon encountered a charming group portrait by Grandma Moses and accessorized it with
tasteful Mapplethorpian bullwhips gently ensconced where, in most people, the sun don't shine.
Finally a Grandma Moses painting that one can enjoy without squirming. I have to admit I was a bit baffled at first by Magritte's
world-famous dadaist sculpture of a toilet entitled, "Ceci N'est Pas Une Toilette" (This Is
Not A Toilet). And I remember thinking: clever and all that. So where is the goddamn toilet?
Then I remembered: this is not a real sculpture, but a virtual one. So I went ahead
and used it. Good thing the seat was already down, 
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ait, not quite enough. You know, artistic opinion is kind of like, say, one's religion: everyone
thinks his own is superior. But only few are correct. For example, I had the pleasure of critiquing
the performance of Gov. Mike Lowry at a recent press conference. And I admit I was rather harsh:
frankly, I think affecting an infirmity is an amateurish ploy. Anyway, after the review was printed,
I was as usual obliged to eavesdrop on comments like: "Walter knows nothing about acting. Walter's
never acted in his life. Walter cannot even act like himself."
ut first a few explanatory notes
about myself. You know, whenever I choose to explore Seattle's galleries and museums and exult in
the rich, vivid artistic opinions of mine, I am reminded that, although I know little about art, and
do not pretend to, I know so very much about art critique. And I think: all these ...
artists. And their paintings and such. Don't they realize I could fix their stuff for
a small fee if only they'd let me or even speak to me? No: they prefer the darkness. Guess they
don't read my column: maybe they just don't read.