I knew the look: slumped shoulders, crossed arms, glazed eyes. It was the teenage expression of tortured captivity, most often reserved for roadside attractions, railroad museums, and family reunion slide shows. Now the look was directed at me.
It was like that all day. My only response was to try harder.
I gathered the four blond heads of my cousins around a salon-style montage of art bulging from the SFMOMA’s wall like some sort of counterculture potbelly. “This,” I said while making an elaborate Vanna White gesture, “is Barry McGee.”
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