Early morning in the Caffe. Wagner is playing. Ceiling fans are whirring in unison. Someone is behind the counter, prepping sandwich ingredients. A blond woman whose face shows early signs of panicked attempts at enforced ostensible youth is here with her daughter, whose perfectly symmetrical face, long, lush flaxen hair and gleaming white Chiclet teeth all glow in unabashed, vacuous glory as her mother pauses every eighty or ninety seconds to snap a photo of her saucy progeny, the latter grinning a ghoulish sunbeam of stupid with every flash. I smell generation upon generation of, by definition, empty vicarious living. If these two are any indication, that’s the key to oblivious bliss, kids.
Photo by Nadja Robot
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