The lucky people treat each moment of their lives as if it were a work of art—high and delicate art—and only an artist can see and understand it; but no art is necessary in existing within our celebrity saturated, opinion masquerading as fact society dominated by a fickle ever changing, ever churning popular culture; anybody and everybody can do anything and everything and there is a pill for this and a lawyer for that and responsibility must wait, there is no need to understand or tolerate or relate. Life is crowded, cluttered, polluted. We are all exposed to desire and disease and diversions, distractions, and detours. Some are making stories out of gossamer, others out of twine, others barbed wire.
Living is no longer an art. We search for humorous stories to remember, to tell, to understand.
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