Sure, we may use cellphones and e-mail hundreds of times a week, but we say very little. […] Most of our talk, even in privileged IM circles, is no deeper than the words we exchange with the pizza guy. […] U C wt I mn?
After giving them a feed and potlaching some grub for their back trip, we paid the Indians off, after making arrangements with them to return at a certain date.
We have to get the report done. If the boss doesn't get his bimonthly he'll scream.
Since first tossing its cartoonish, good-time cock-rock to the masses in the early ’00s, The Darkness has always fallen back on this defense: The band is a joke, but hey, it’s a good joke. With Hot Cakes—the group’s third album, and first since reforming last year—the laughter has died. In its place is the sad wheeze of the last surviving party balloon slowly, listlessly deflating.
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