A bartender the other day was telling someone a few stools down from me about a regular he served the night before. He was some corporate lawyer drunk who the bartender theorized had a need to subdue his conscience with booze.
“It doesn’t work, but he has fun trying,” he said. And they all laughed.
“You can tell when he’s wasted because he reads the closed captioning.” He gestured toward the TVs stationed behind the bar. “He sings it. He sings the closed captioning.”
I looked up at the television sets. Words scrolled, line by line, disappearing up into a netherworld of text. It just keeps coming and coming, with spelling errors, with missing words, missing phrases. Sometimes it’s just gibberish for a few seconds until something, a computer or a human, catches up.
“He always said the closed captioning looked like Morrissey lyrics,” continued the bartender.
Well, I’m not sure if this says more about the lawyer or about Morrissey.
... but enough about me 
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