verganheitsbewältigung

I’m not sure when it happened. Sometime during this past decade.

Do you remember when you last went to a wedding or function or any type of show or event and there wasn’t a rabid herd of cameras snapping and flashing every ten seconds? As a friend of mine recently noted, the snap-happy mentality even reigns at funerals these days.

Once upon a time, the past could be lost in the mists of time. You could remember shit the way you wanted to. Every time you told the story of what happened, it would alter slightly: some parts embellished, some downplayed, until you reached a reconstructed version of history that you could live with.

Now there are photos – and even worse, videos – to blow those mists away. No matter how much you rationalise, philosophise and comfort yourself with a few healthy delusions, the truth will always exist on YouTube.

Much as I would like to know who really wrote Shakespeare, who really assassinated Kennedy and who wrote my telephone number in that public toilet in Blackpool, I hope we never invent time travel. History is a dish better served braised.

As you may have guessed, tonight’s gig could have gone better and I’m hoping none of those filming their sets caught the mc by accident.

Ah well, maybe I’ll tell this story of telling stories a few times and see whether it takes me closer to, or farther away from, the truth.