Trials and Tribs, Prisoner of Own Device
These categories into which the blog is divided, these chains, these closely related yet dissonant thematically questionable little jeopardy cascades have me worried. The software, the hidden engine under the hood, stands ready to accept more categories, countless in their variety, infinite in scope, limited by the meager ability of this blogger to think up any more of them and then find jeopardy answers to be posited in the form of questions. Where’s the drama, where is the moment of truth, when the contestant on the far right smiles and blurts out “the colossus at Rhodes”?
I turn in my hour of Geraldo laden internal repartee, thinking headlines, oozing with ink. Except they don’t ooze anymore; they used to, I can assure you of that. Get a story, a juicy one, scandal, storm, drug addled super model, enchantment, lost horizons, deadlines and yes, oozing was all part of the experience, fingers darkened by printers ink so fresh as to be transferable to the sticky fingers of the reading public, the anxious fresh faces throwing their coins at the swarthy guy from somewhere else, note his sublime indifference to the fuss and bother, provided, of course, you have exact change.
And with exact change, armed with it, because the super model crisis waits for no one, you leave your place of residence, the rezidentura, with the precise amount of coinage necessary to read all about it.
There’s no oozing here. No rush to the corner where the five star edition, hurled from a passing truck, has yet to be unbound by the swarthy guy from somewhere else, yet to spill free from the brutal constraints of barbed wire, trapped and crushed, front to back, while he dawdles the supermodel situation is getting out of hand, the story growing, you have exact change, he can’t find his wire cutters, and the entire enterprise shudders to a halt while he rummages around? Where’s the drama?