where the writers are
GOOGLE SLUT

It was Groucho Marx's mustache which enhanced the fact I'm a Google slut.

A character in the screenplay I'm writing referred to his mustache and said it was taped on. This is a long-ago nugget of information which this humble author thought he knew. However, best to make sure, and that's what Google can so often allow. And it turns out Groucho used greasepaint in the movies. And that he indeed had his own mustache for the TV shows. And perhaps if I had kept following link after link I would have found some reference to black tape once used.

And it was all relatively moot anyway because the character uttering the comment is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and could make such a mistake. However, unless announced on high like Mrs. Malaprop's comments in Sheridan's "The Rivals", the doubt probably falls upon the author.

But, just as I this minute used Google to confirm the information about Mrs. Malaprop (I would have spelled Sheridan's name incorrectly), so, as with Groucho's mustache, I find myself a willing slave to Google.

Last week I was reading an online Atlantic Monthly article about how our minds are altering with this great influx of information. Our attention spans are becoming fragmented. I have not yet finished reading this article because I moved on to other things. I cut-and-pasted it and emailed it to myself for later consumption. I do this more and more often. For instance, I eventually read Doris Lessing's Nobel Prize speech just last month.

So, does Google bless me as it ruins me? Does it offer me the wealth of the ages yet diminish my own innate abilities? I know I'm not going to rein in my use.

By the way, I just Googled "Google slut".  According to Urban Dictionary "google slut isn't defined yet". Is this where I make my name?