I returned to the same spot daily for three days, or was it once annually for three years? … with a few of my artist-compatriots, to dig up the bones of Marcel Duchamp, who was laying which were lying in a shallow grave made only of dirt, next to the driveway in front of my Grandmother’s house. The first time, I dug him up, displayed the bones properly, and solemnly read a passage from an impressively-bound volume of what I must assume were writings of Mr. Duchamp. I then re-buried him, simply putting the bones back and shoveling the same dirt over them. After the third time, my colleagues seemed rather put out and bored by the whole process, which had sort of a religious overtone, rather than the humor I can only assume Mr. Duchamp had intended when originally requesting this post-mortem procedure. At which point I conceded, “O.K., it’s time to let this go.”