glad i'm no journalist today

a whole generation of men and women live and die that read more while going number two than they do at any other point in their life. whilst in the restroom, they read newspapers and magazines.

the words are left on the floor. the bookshelves – if they have bookshelves – are full of movies and decorative bric-a-brac and dust.

i am glad that they read anything, but i also cannot imagine the knowledge that the authors must

two days ago a gentleman asked, in all seriousness, where the kimbell art museum kept the mona lisa. he was well-dressed. his wife was much younger than him, and beautiful enough. he had four children each as blonde as his wife carrying pieces of his face into the future.

he asked where the mona lisa was. then, he asked what the famous painting in the gallery was. (an absurd question for anyone familiar with this famous little museum). i directed him to “skeletons warming themselves” by james ensor and caravaggio’s renowned depiction of cardsharps.

a kid jumped up to touch the frame of the ensor painting while i got between the child enough to prevent his hands from reaching the canvas. the father did not chide the boy. the mother did not chide the boy.

then, at the caravaggio, they started taking flash photos of the painting as if they had never been in a museum before in their life.

a well-dressed man, who spoke as if he had gone to college and pursued advanced degrees, with a younger wife and clean, well-dressed children.

he reads the newspaper every morning – he seems like the type – and has diverse opinions about the war and healthcare and taxes. he reads it in the bathroom, where he keeps magazines for the afternoons. his bookshelves have more photograph albums than books of poetry, philosophy, and mythology all combined.

i am glad he is not my audience. are you a journalist? you write for these cretins?