chirps in the forest

I am kind of ashamed that I like Twitter as much as I do. A friend once described it to me as the place where you can fling those thoughts that are always pestering you — How much salt is too much? What happened to Melanie Griffith’s face? Do the people next door really need the lawn care guys to show up and mow thrice weekly? Will 2010 be the year that I finally make it past page 26 of Empire Falls? Why do Illinois tomatoes taste like felt? — out into the proverbial ether.

I do find that it has kind of cut down on my blog and news site reading, as I just now link to the things that seem interesting and skip the rest. Which means I am using Twitter as a multi-channel RSS feed. That may be the laziest sentiment that a person could ever express. Thank goodness for late capitalism.*

Twitter works, I suppose, on the principle that if you have enough masses of random input, something worthwhile will be churned out eventually. If you have millions of users, then it’s statistically likely that someone will deliver a funny one-liner in due course.**

As long as I can stave off this, I should be A-okay:

Or this.

Anything that makes fun of Ashton Kutcher is fine by me. “I’m more important than news!” No shark here.

*Although I would like to take this opportunity to publicly apologize to my immigrant forebears, who worked no less than sixteen jobs at once so that my father could successfully integrate into American middle-class society, and I could sit on my ass and eat Nutella from the jar. Probably there’s a story in this about third-generation children, assimilation, and anomie, but fuck if I know how to tell it.

**This is the monkeys-in-a-room-full-of-typewriters-will-eventually-produce-the-compleat-Shakespeare scenario, which is patently a lie. Everyone knows that monkeys write just like Eugene Ionesco, if they’re not laboring under a deadline.


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