I cannot stop watching fucking Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and I think there might be something wrong with me. Actually, there’s nothing wrong with me. It’s a very enjoyable program.
In fact, I need KUWTK to keep me from having a word-induced seizure after watching the first two episodes of The Newsroom. I knew Aaron Sorkin used to be a cokehead, but do all of his characters have to talk like cokeheads?…ZING! That joke is just about as dated as the premise of the show.
Anyway, this post isn’t really about the television that is wasting away my youth, but rather about the old forts that dot the shoreline of Savannah.
One of the many undiagnosed mental diseases that runs in my family is a pathological love for war fortresses. My brother has no fewer than 10 Facebook profile pictures of him shooting imaginary guns at Gettsyburg. My father used to take us once a week to Sing Sing, the high security prison in Ossining, after dropping my mother at her meditation class, to see how many security checkpoints we could get past before we had to turn around. The answer was always zero.