I'm missing Sam this morning, and I'm trying to define exactly what meaning he gave my life.

My favorite thing at age 16 was to snarl "How phony", and leave it at that.

Sam showed me the truth is usually there underneath the horse shit So now at age 61 I still spot it easily...I'll demonstrate: Page one of today's NYT (but one could look any day of the week and find similar) thrills over a new show of photographs...."Some of these pictures will be on view at a new show at KMR Arts in Washington Depot, Conn., juxtaposed with an anatomically resonant series on sidewalk cracks that she produced in the ’70s. "

The sidewalk cracks may have merit, but Is this writer an idiot?