I was never one of those admirers of William Safire’s columns largely because I couldn’t forgive his paleo-Victorian defense of English against the unmannered and unlettered hordes. If you were to grill me, put sodium pentathol in my Ovaltine, pepper in my tea, I’d reveal a fondness for neologisms and street slang. There, I’ve done it without coercion. I’m impatient to get on with the point.
That being my favorite new term: the dopamine squirt. Matt Richtel’s article in today’s NY Times detailing how overloaded techno-charged citizens are becoming addicted to their fight or flee neurological “squirts” is well worth reading. But subject aside, its the juicy precision, the faux eros of the term that I love. The dopamine squirt! God yes! Apparently, according to Richter’s article, Americans can’t concentrate anymore because they’ve got the dopamine squirts! One wonders if the passersby see? Do they surmise that the itinerant i-Phone toting monster talking like a lottery seller has the squirts? “Oh the poor bastard! Dripping, unconscious eternal weather vane.”
Me? I have the squirts but good. O what abstractions these mortals are, til they leak…