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A Reflection 8/25/2008 9:19:53 AM
A short comment on the modern state of marketing literature.
I was marooned, stranded helplessly, wandering famished through the cold environs of B Terminal, Newark International--the name itself sending primal shivers through my spine. My mind, as was its wont, began its cruel games, imagining large fresh salads replete with nutritious ingredients, purchasable at reasonable prices. I found only cinnamon buns for four dollars.
I salivated for the melodic strains of Sibelius, Mozart, or Moby. The cacophony of jets and Manilow on Muzak railed back.
"Unfair" I cried. "Is there no compassion, no creative voice in this desolate place."
"Hush," a fellow marooner whispered. "Geraldo is on."
I wandered away, searching forlornly for a haven.
Then, on the distant horizon, I spied an island, a low cay, marked only by a familiar sign, Books. My hunger would be sated. I would be nourished. I rushed blissfully, ignorantly headlong to the shores of Fiction. But what? What is this? What cruel trick has Fate foisted upon me?
Clancy, Grisham, Ludlum, Patterson.
The nightmarish mantra repeated itself over and over and over again. "Have you nothing more substantial to satisfy my hunger," I cried to the young attendant.
"I'm afraid not," she sighed.
I hung my head in sadness. "Yes," I replied, "Afraid is what we should all be."
