Went to Zona Rosa on 56th for an early Mexican nosh with Afrodite. Her mother did in fact name her Afrodite and yes, she is of extreme Greek decent, so quit asking.
Afrodite has this steel trap memory which she employs to catalog Art. She'll throw down the artist's name plus the title and date for all heavyweight Art and even a lot of Flash in the Pan Shit. I myself had too much Pacifico with my chips and salsa and now cannot recall the masterworks we saw subsequently at MoMA. Except like two.
This unfortunate reality could be construed as distressing because there is this one highbrow interactive exhibit where you're supposed to type out a profound question on a keyboard.
The art occurs when your deeply insightful question shoots through a tubular rubber wire onto one of those early 90's style pagers able to handle like 75 pixilated characters. Afterwards, you step back, scan the immense white vicinity and realize your pager is merely a speck inside a web of a thousand pagers whipping through other people's questions at 5-second intervals. It is a large blinking wall of fathomless uncertainty that could endanger even the most medicated epileptic.
I have a vague recollection of typing a question about why some people are allergic to pants.