Picture a factory. No, not like that. Like a mega metronome fueled by space and time. Billowing smokestacks ascend into the ethers, releasing sonorous aphorisms born of byzantine soothsayers. Turning cogs crank such a hyper neo sea change that your atmosphere reverts to primordial Babylon. There, can you see it now? This is the C+C Music Factory.

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I swear, Googling myself was an act of laziness rather than ego. I’d accepted but not started a new job, and I needed to find out my exact title. (Is it marketing and communications coordinator, or communications and marketing? That’s the kind of thing a communications and marketing coordinator, or even a marketing and communications coordinator, should get right.) I could have found the offer letter in my email, but my inbox looks like Jane Austen’s rage room, and my new employer had hinted that they might be making a public announcement, so I thought an online search might be the way to go.

The elephant in the room wants more attention than we are willing to give, and frankly, if five guys out of a proverb want to come over and fondle him in the dark while hypothesizing as to the beast’s identity, they are welcome. I’m sick of our pachyderm. Have been for over a year, if truth be told.

With all the uncertainty in the world today, I am no longer comfortable making any permanent decisions about which applications my smartphone will automatically use to open certain files or links.