The bottle of goo, about the size of a shot glass, cost $35.
Laughing a little at Tom Brokaw's goo about our generation, groaning at the choir music behind the titles to "Band of Brothers," we can think, I was in that stuff, too, but in truth what we've been good at all this time is bystanding.
We interrupt or normal tech geekery to go a little gaga and goo-goo about a subject that it likely to come as a saving grace to you if you are at that life stage involving the reproduction process, to whit: messy babies during feeding time.
"Gee, gee, gee, gee, babe, babe, babe, babe".
And, she concluded, "never, ever did I talk about, well, gee, is it a country or a continent, I just don't know about this issue".
Yet, there is nothing gee-whiz about his attitude.
This week, Keith Ridgway's story "Goo Book," about a pickpocket who serves as a chauffeur for a London crime boss, appears in The New Yorker.
No Sandersesque call for a revolution, no Trump-like promise of greatness, just a gee-up about how these are terrifically exciting times and a modest request for a bit more of a go because he has a plan that might take away that nagging fear about where the economy is heading and what new plot is going to explode in Canberra and wouldn't that be nice.
There is nothing gee-whiz about the experience.
In many ways, the popping of a pimple has all the drama of your blockbuster horror film: the swarming, brewing monster hidden under the bed (of skin), the hapless teens armed with whatever tools they can find (tweezers and toothpicks and stuff), only to be burst onto by an ejaculating cavern in the dermis, covered in off-white goo, surely about to burn its way through the victim's clothes.
