Too often, I get about 1,000 words into some screed On Here about the state of affairs (this time dismantling the Washington press corps’ pearl-clutching reaction to Woodward’s new book) and then just think, “You know what? Fuck it.” Delete!
Back in the old days, I shared my thoughts in the dark corners of dive bars. I spoke conspiratorially over sudsy brews and too many shots of Red Stag. I gestured wildly. I pointed vaguely at television screens to illustrate my argument. “There! There, you see! How he crosses his arms when he’s confronted with damning truths! This whole fucking planet’s in trouble with these jackals at the helm!” And now? I type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type
type type type type type type type type
And the more you type the word “type,” it starts to read like you’re just writing total nonsense. Is that even a word? “Type”? Do you mean, “Taipei”?
You may as well open your car door and shout BLURG A-DURG at the guy one lane over, spittle flying out of your mouth. That’s all it is, this Facebook stuff. Shouting insane syllables at strangers on the information highway, all cruising at about 110 toward some flame-throwing angel-demon alighting on the horizon. The brakes are cut, everybody. There is no exit ramp. Crank the volume on that Neil Young CD and pinch the rosary beads off the rearview. WE’RE COMING HOME!
Sandy 