Stantonland

I’m so glad there was no internet when I was growing up. Sure, it would have made writing a term paper on the Louisiana Purchase easier. But on the other hand, when I did something embarrassing, no one was posting or texting a photo of it around for everyone I knew to see. We ruined each other’s lives face-to-face, with gossip and slander, like civilized people.

Usually, if my car is weaving out of its lane, it’s because I’m doing something I shouldn’t, like straining to reach an errant Tic Tac, or trying to scare a roadside drifter.

On this particular Friday, however, it felt like the alignment was off. I’d had the car inspected at the dealership the day before, so I called Joe, the service department manager. He said they hadn’t done anything that could cause any steering problems, and told me to bring it back in on Monday and they’d take a look.

Right.

Note: There comes a time when we heed a certain call. That time is now, and that call is “spoilers ahead.”

If you haven’t seen The Greatest Night in Pop, Netflix’s documentary about the making of “We Are the World,” stop reading this, go watch it, and meet me back here in 97 minutes. I’ll wait.

From the project’s genesis to the planning to the execution, it’s fascinating. All of it.

Sometimes I hear voices. Well, one voice, really. It’s sort of my voice, but it’s sort of not. It belongs to my alter ego. And he’s a raging prick.

He knows exactly what buttons to push, and gets his jollies by telling me what a phony I am.

His formal name is Impostor Syndrome, but I call him B****y McCharlatan.