A couple of years back, as I sat at my desk having another existential episode with one of Murilee’s Finds loaded up on my monitor.
Junkyards have been something that have always fascinated me from an archaeological standpoint, even as a young lad. Many are more than just discarded automobiles. Often, you’re looking at the story of somebody’s life frozen in time, a bug in the amber.
I gazed at that mundane ’77 Plymouth, and then tossed out an intentionally absurd, yet profound, comment into cyberspace — sort of an internet version of “Hold my beer, and watch this.” Nobody really noticed, so I subsequently polished my
sickness “craft” until people did.
This satirical drivel became an amusing device for laughs for me, but alas, the sunset has come to my column here.