Reading Nick Ripatrazone’s piece in The Metropolitan Review made me feel like a bad critic. I like reviewing things - for fun, mostly. To get my thoughts down, to reflect. But is that interesting? Am I offering anything unique? Probably not. There’s an art to criticism, and it’s easy to forget that just having opinions isn’t the same as being insightful. “Criticism without flair is dull, and criticism without sensibility is useless.” ...
On the air you catch a whiff a perfume of mildew, fryer oil, and recycled breath. Everything smells like it was deep-fried six hours ago, including the people. The lighting is harsh fluorescant and it’s way too humid. You take off your jacket but still sweat. You can’t stop moving. There’s someone on your heels. You constantly catch glimpses of familiar faces but it’s always just a stranger. The signs are all lies, or maybe even outright jokes. The “You Are Here” sticker on the map covers two pathways that don’t connect. The only thing you can find is another anonymous food court. ...