My No. 1 son loves my paintings. Now he is thinking about ways to take a few of them to the States. There are some of my paintings in his apartment in New York already, but he would like to have more of them. As we were talking about it yesterday afternoon, I mentioned that an artist from Istria had plagiarized my work (“Sebastijan Vojvoda, Plagiarist,” January 30, 2015). I also showed him the postcard from which the paintings were lifted (“The Fucking Postcard,” February 4, 2015). But it was amazing to watch my son’s reaction. He was livid. He jumped from his seat with his hands clinched. He was ready to go straight to Poreč, where the artist in question lives, and beat him up on the spot. I did my best to clam him down, though. “Remember,” I kept repeating, “humans are born thieves!” In the end, I led my son to all the pieces I have written about the plagiarism, and he read them on the World Wide Web. Having calmed down a bit, he kept shaking his head. “Fucking asshole,” he mumbled under his breath, “there can’t be any doubt about plagiarism in this case.” Happy to see him in better shape, I remembered the explosion of his wrath with unadulterated pleasure. Indeed, it was wonderful to observe his visceral reaction to the travesty. My No. 1 son is a man to my liking. Besides, he is in excellent shape. Plagiarists, beware!