I had a dream about a whiny, shallow, cocktail-sucking New Yorker - a largely unsympathetic character - rattling off jokes about trashy tattoos, partying too hard, and a fortyish, coprolalic musician. The best and worst thing about the dream was a motor-mouthed snake. Maybe that sounds like a drag. Maybe it’s a once-in-a-decade phenomenon. What do you want?
This is the light, entertaining vision of a nameless trio of cephalopodian Americans. Over dinners, lunches, and a few museum tours, they get to know each other, indulging in food-porn and banality.
Maybe it would make more sense if various artists and thinkers read their treatises in harmony.