When Michael Malice and I arrived at the Museum of Modern Art not long ago, he told me to check in on Facebook with the hashtag "degeneracy."
We wound up having a blast there. You can find quite a few works of the Post-Impressionists, whom I rather like, and there's much else to fascinate and delight.
And plenty of crap, too.
One exhibit was in a separate room, and featured the artist on a small television screen dancing with her back to the camera. Meanwhile, a bunch of random objects have been strewn on the floor.
I couldn't help joking with the security guard assigned to that room:
"I don't mean this to be disrespectful, but it must be difficult once in a while not to say, 'Why me?'"
In one exhibit description we read that the art included the artist's bodily fluids. The list of fluids solemnly included "piss" -- these are chic artists, you understand, so of course they cannot say "urine."
Anyway, forget that.
The thing we most marveled at that day was how great it was that I could suddenly show up in New York, and Michael could take the whole day to go all over the city with me. No boss to plead with, no "I get off work at 5."
The guy leads a great life, doesn't use an alarm clock, makes his own hours, and is quite comfortable.
Why should an SOB like Malice have all the fun?
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