I’m not getting any smarter, but at least I continue to be educated.
As tempting as it is to do nothing but make snappy posts on Facebook and Twitter, somehow I’ve managed not to succumb to the developing cultural profile of knowing a little about a lot and a lot about nothing.
This is the Age of Knowing Dangerously, or knowing just enough to be dangerous.
Assumptions routinely made are atrocious. Things are not as they seem. Alfred Hitchcock and Rod Serling never lived to see it. George Orwell lived too soon, as well. Irony is so prevalent that it almost isn’t ironic anymore.
Oh, I’m guilty, too. I’ll have to answer at Judgment, in whatever form that takes, for the considerable time I spend posting, tweeting, texting and talking with “Siri,” who isn’t actually real.

Excuse me. Which isn’t actually real.

I find time every day to read a book. Yesterday I killed some time at a barbecue joint, and this morning at breakfast, too. I’ve got this antiquated notion that the best way to learn how to write is to read.
People look at me as if I’m some quaint local eccentric.

You know he reads.

That’s crazy talk right there. From a latter-day Miniver Cheevy.