Staring out the window at rue des Remparts, Caunes-Minervois, Christmas ’02.
When I was a teen, there was a fad to design flavored snack crackers and then sell them with pretend names. Like Bacon Thins and Chicken in a Biskit. Artificially flavored and preserved for posterity, these things got in my blood. They are the original bad taste in my mouth. But, thing is, they tasted good. The implant on my palate is still intact, like a chip loaded with all the taste-bud data one might need in order to successfully foist a new, fake snack product on me. I was the target market and they sunk the arrow in so deep that I just left it there, snapping the shaft off at the skin and resigning myself to the barbs buried in the flesh.