Noir in Toto

A while ago, I chatted at length with my at-a-distance relative who, sadly enough, was dismayed by the fact that she was continuously searching for media personalities who supported her demographic preferences, epitomized her niche, her longtail interests--those issues for which a decision had been determined, but not validated. Upset, she shared with me her list of broadcast programs, both public and commercial, that have [sic.] changed in personality. Instead of telling the audience (her) what to think, how to feel and why, the program's objectives, according to her, were to survey the audience's agenda to find out their purpose for congregating so the personality (of the program) was more enabled to aggregate the appropriate content. This approach, for her, was counterintuitive, making program selection a daunting task: the target market targeting the market, both moving. Being a constant channel-flipper, I could immediately empathize.

She and I chimed in how we converge the media by way of television, radio and content gadgets. We lamented that each "way" required some form of technical assistance. All of this conversation concerning individual infotainment infrastructure became overwhelming, amounting to my craving for the Olde City, a penchant similar to someone who had passed through Ellis Island with the desire to return to her or his Old Country.

After my relative and I shared our disillusions, I determined that I was becoming depressed. I decided that I should go noir for the remainder of the day; however, I decided that I should attempt to enlighten myself by going to a used bookstore. I would have to just keep in mind not to slide into old habits.

The used bookstore had a panache that warranted the "near extinction" status--a rarity that gives patrons allowance to browse the refuse and acquisition composed by lost and found psyches, categorized. After glancing over the shelves and flipping through some hardcovers and paperbacks, I selected an oversized picture cookbook. These two hundred and ninety-two pages were not a step-by-step instructional tome, but instead were a style life guide introducing the homely and luxury makings of a meal with brief descriptions concerning food itemization, preparation, presentation, and repurposing. There was even a chapter on kitchen design. Recipes were an afterthought.

Satisfied with this found lost, I acquired the refuse. Relieved, I began my departure from the Old(e) City/Country. As I made my way back to my automobile, my attention was drawn to the tune Happy Trails, which was being played rhythmically on the cobblestones by a horse-and-buggy, transporting a driver who was confabulating the passengers.