Could it be cornier? Whatever. Chambray shirt, vest, Japanese jeans, and Reeboks. WTF? Well, it was 1994. The fellow was making a splash at the International Hemingway/Fitzgerald Conference in Paris. Of course, you knew where it was. Could the photo be more phallic? He submitted a paper that the conference accepted. One of the professors on his dissertation committee submitted a paper that wasn't. Oh, fuck. . . how awkward was that? There's bound to be more on this later. I'm still scanning old photos. It will take me years. Once they are all done, maybe I can put together some narratives. If I can still see and my fingers aren't too arthritic. I wish I could remember who he was. What was his name? I wonder what happened to him?
What I need, I have decided, is a "Panel of Experts." All the "news" shows have them. You can really fill up the hour that way. I'd be able to tell you what happened and then turn it over the experts for analysis. They could make some predictions about how what I reported might play out in the future. You'd never remember if the expert panelists were right or not because we'd move on the next day and the post would become yesterday's newspaper. Brilliant. Who wants to be on the panel?
Or, on days like this, I could just have AI write the post. I just did. Then I deleted it. ChatGPT writes like a high school senior. But you know. . . that's good enough for most things and better than a police report.
No matter. People don't read or write anymore. They just listen to podcasts. 95% chaff. But it fills the void.
Oh. . . but wait. . . something DID happen last night. It just came to me. I watched a BBC doc on how Mowtown music blew up in England in the early 1960s. Good God, what music. The Supremes emerged, of course, as one of the big Mowtown groups, but they were like so much music for me, too commercial and overproduced. Martha and the Vandellas, though. . . my, oh my. . . there's the group for me.