THE FIRST RULE OF GOAT CLUB
March 21, 2013 § 13 Comments
The first rule of goat club is to admit you are a goat. I don’t know exactly when it happened but that’s what I am.
I used to be a squirrel. Very thoughtful about the nuts I gathered and buried. I read books. I saw interesting movies. I wrote things. I avoided my mother, who owns a shotgun and hates squirrels.
But the internet has changed me. Now I eat what’s given to me, 24/7.
I know things I shouldn’t know about people with no last names. Justin and Selena and Miley and Liam and Snooki and Kayne and Taylor and Harry except they’re not together anymore.
I don’t really know many celebrities by their work – only by the rumors that follow them, their fake feuds, the time they appeared in public without makeup or got a new tattoo or ran to Starbucks clutching Seraphina’s tiny hand or carried Suri down a Manhattan street though for God’s sake isn’t she about thirteen right now?
Don’t eat that! You might say. Too late. I already did. I’m a goat. And here’s the worst part. I am a goat that thinks it’s too good for Pop Culture. That knows the Bachelor is cruel (watching it) American Idol is insipid (watching it) that I don’t care about an article on whether Taylor Swift is mad at Tina Fey (my hoof spasmodic, uncontrollable, as it clicks on it)
My clicks, my eyeballs, my attention registers somewhere out there, joining the pulses and bits and flashes of light of other reluctant goats, feeding the machine that in turn, feeds upon our souls, dispensing new idiotic information, chasing down new idiotic celebrities, capturing them on fascinating Soul Cycle runs and tanning on a beach in St. Tropez and wearing dresses that become transparent under flashing lights and being late for their court dates and maybe being secretly gay or secretly pregnant or maybe having a secret about someone else’s secret during a secretive afternoon in their trailer in between scenes of some scripted reality show.
I am so way too good for this, I mumble, but it all comes out as Baaaaahhhh.
I keep watching, reading, clicking, my four stomachs working overtime.
It’s not even culture. It’s culture’s detritus. The litter, the scraps. This useless ridiculous stream of (forgive me Maaaaa) bullshit.
I once read Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Now I know John Hamm doesn’t wear underwear.
I know you’re thinking. Just get off the internet, stupid goat.
Can’t hear you. Chewing.