Irony is that way of living that allows us to walk in the finite and the infinite at the same time, to be absolutely interested in the quotidian while being absolutely interested in the great indifferent cosmos.

When someone’s anecdote begins, “It was so ironic…,” I wince; because what follows is almost never “ironic,” but instead more accurately categorized as “vaguely remarkable” or at best, “coincidental.”

I’m thinking of my parents’ generation, and how they changed with the times. Thank goodness they were posers, too. Can you imagine what would have happened if they’d all joined communes? If they never got over doing Angel Dust? Awful. But they changed with the times, as we all are forced to do.