In a forgotten stone cathedral off Michigan Avenue, Felicia attended a lecture sponsored by the Museum of Contemporary Art. She was looking for some insight into art or life – something to take her outside herself for the evening. What she got instead were beautiful, oversized color pictures of bodily fluids, corpses, and old, naked Hungarian women smoking crooked cigarettes. That the lecture was staged in a house of worship was supposed to lend a gravity or reverence to the sensational subject matter. Instead, the setting merely added insult to everything the usual Sunday morning faithful believed in. But, Felicia figured, that was the point all along.