Foolish me. I went and did the wrong thing. Why, when my long-term memory, the repository of wisdom, could tell me what was in store for me? Because boredom and restlessness overruled the better part of my brain. Anyway, I’m drunk now.
Well, not drunk, really. I stopped drinking three hours ago. But beer on tap clings like a film of grease, or old cobwebs, to the brain. I’m still sitting here with a cap of gauzy numbness on my skull, trying to think my way through it. I blame others.
This is one of those link roundups, by the way. It’s a doozy of a thing.
What an age we live in. An age of looking at stuff. Years from now, when the historians stroke their cyberbeards and adjust their neural shunts, they’ll recall the early 21st century as the time when we all sat around and looked at things like a bunch of yokels crowding around a sideshow booth at the State Fair.
The average mornings of a pop culture writer and pop culture reader have one thing in common: we spend the day scanning headlines, looking for something that will divert our minds from the crushing horror of our lives for 30 seconds or so. A promising headline gets a click. And now that I think about it, pop culture readers and writers have become sentient versions of search engines. Everything is so finely SEOed that consumer, creator and bot are all searching for the same thing. Welcome to the web.
As you may recall, my foray into chicken wing reviewing resulted in disaster when an attempt to reach out to our chicken brethren and sistren (siblen?) lead to my imprisonment and trial - a trial by chickens, which is both terrifying and kind of gross (lots of droppings).
By now you’re probably wondering how I survived. After all, the chickens were angry; the case against me was conclusive and my lawyer was a goat. He ate my hat. I think that was his retainer.
Wait, was that the doozy I promised? Stupid beer.