Some people say life's the thing, but of late we've been seeking
solace in air-conditioning and reading, taking comfort in the
vast historical continuum of the social graces A from the
obscenely rich matrons of the gilded age to the calculated
pseudonihilism of the Warhol crowd A attempting to place Miami
in an uplifting cultural perspective. But then, social history,
taking the long view, is boundlessly sordid, nothing but an
agitated jig before the well of human sadness, a juggernaut that
absorbs and devours its staunchest opponents with the brazenness
of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney patronizing the radical artists
who caricatured her own circle. The rewards for sniping at
society considerably slighter now, the task of criticism no
easier, although the simple approach of Adolph Dehn aptly suits
the modern pageant: "The term social criticism is too serious.
Preposterous things are about me; I comment on them, that's
all."  And so it's tentative forays on the highway of absurdity,
the top dogs staying on the p