Noir in Toto
A while ago, I chatted at length with my at-a-distance
relative who, sadly enough, was dismayed by the fact that
she was continuously searching for media personalities who
supported her demographic preferences, epitomized her niche,
her longtail interests--those issues for which a decision
had been determined, but not validated. Upset, she shared
with me her list of broadcast programs, both public and
commercial, that have [sic.] changed in personality. Instead
of telling the audience (her) what to think, how to feel
and why, the program's objectives, according to her, were
to survey the audience's agenda to find out their purpose
for congregating so the personality (of the program) was
more enabled to aggregate the appropriate content. This
approach, for her, was counterintuitive, making program
selection a daunting task: the target market targeting the
market, both moving. Being a constant channel-flipper, I
could immediately empathize.
She and I chimed in how we converge the media by way of
television, radio and content gadgets. We lamented that
each "way" required some form of technical assistance.
All of this conversation concerning individual infotainment
infrastructure became overwhelming, amounting to my craving
for the Olde City, a penchant similar to someone
who had passed through Ellis
Island with the desire to return to her or his Old
After my relative and I shared our disillusions, I determined
that I was becoming depressed. I decided that I should go
for the remainder of the day; however, I decided that I
should attempt to enlighten myself by going to a used bookstore.
I would have to just keep in mind not to slide into old
The used bookstore had a panache that warranted the "near
extinction" status--a rarity that gives patrons allowance
to browse the refuse and acquisition composed by lost and
found psyches, categorized. After glancing over the shelves
and flipping through some hardcovers and paperbacks, I selected
an oversized picture cookbook. These two hundred and ninety-two
pages were not a step-by-step instructional tome, but instead
were a style life guide introducing the homely and luxury
makings of a meal with brief descriptions concerning food
itemization, preparation, presentation, and repurposing.
There was even a chapter on kitchen design. Recipes were
Satisfied with this found lost, I acquired the refuse.
Relieved, I began my departure from the Old(e) City/Country.
As I made my way back to my automobile, my attention was
drawn to the tune Happy
Trails, which was being played rhythmically on the
cobblestones by a horse-and-buggy, transporting a driver
who was confabulating the passengers.