I constantly wonder why everyone's attention span has taken a vacation, perhaps to somewhere on the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, like Port Aransas in Texas. I'm not a terribly bitter person, and I'm not a fan of boycotts, so I forgive Red State travelers.

I despise that Texas is home to Ted Cruz, but I recognize he's an interloper to the state that more honorably gave us Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt and Willie Nelson.

I fairly imagine that if everyone is, indeed, at Port Aransas, they are far removed from daily realities at home. But it's more than that. The distances between all of us are not just physical map points, they're emotional voids, too.

It's more than simply not paying attention. It's the exponentially growing notion that few of us are ever on the same page at the same time—culturally, politically or emotionally. For example, in between playing all The New York Times' mobile games (you're lying if you say you don't start your day with Wordle, Connections or Strands) and death scrolling on Facebook, Instagram and Threads, few of us seem to ever watch the nightly news or evening network broadcasts.

At one time—not so distantly—the entire country witnessed and discussed the same topics daily.

Case in point: The Beatles. One day, America was still post-JFK-assassination morose and the next day, it wasn't. All thanks to four kids from Liverpool, England, who cheered everyone up and changed history by gleefully belting out just five songs on The Ed Sullivan Show that nearly no one had ever heard before.

By the way, John Lennon's rhythm guitar on "All My Loving" is second to none. Discuss.

Watercooler discussions used to be a real thing. Office employees would make excuses and get a drink to commiserate with co-workers, while analyzing the latest episode of Friends or chuckling to whatever David Letterman had to say.

Never mind that the watercooler itself is basically passe—especially for those who are the same age as my FOMO daughter, Eleni, millennials who get their hydration (it is no longer just water, folks) from a colorful array of show-off, eco-friendly metallic containers.

You've seen them, sucking noisily from their Owala or YETI, oblivious to their slurps because they can't hear their own obnoxious gurgles thanks to all external sounds being blocked out by their earbuds.

It gets worse for those who still watch programs on television—while also doing Wordle, texting and death scrolling the mobile, natch. It was once considered a marvel that a person could record a ball game or a newscast and watch it later. But who still records such when you can catch the highlights of nearly anything via YouTube or a social media sports or news channel?

We no longer need to see a movie premiere as it's just as easy to stay home, where everyone is watching different movies anyway. In a good year, I visit a movie theater maybe twice. "Maybe," because, why? It's going to be available on demand in a few days anyway. But hey, what's a little lost context between friends?

Equally, few of us stream the same Netflix series at the same time. And even if we do, we're not on the same episode. I like weekly episodes, such as the recently ended Righteous Gemstones on HBO. But even then, people can wait and view every episode in a few days to catch up.

I remain partial to being on the same page at the same time with people. So it was nice going week to week with Danny McBride's insanity and wondering aloud with folks about what might come next. That's a rarity.

A deep conversation these days goes something like: "Hey, did you see Pedro Pascal bite it in The Last of Us?" "No, I'm binging Ted Lasso. Again. Should I watch it?" "Oh, hell yeah. It has that little Lady Mormont girl from Game of Thrones who kicked ass." "Oh, I like Maisie Williams." "That was Arya." "Right, right. I forgot. What happened to Pedro?" "I already told you." "He died again? Was it gruesome?" "Well, yeah, of course! He's a great death character." "So true, so true."

Same as in politics—all we discuss is the "whatabout," not the "what." It's one thing to resign to the notion of not being on the same page as everyone else, but it's made adjusting ever harder for someone like me, who still regards the "same page" as being in the printed form. There was a time when a page was read, not viewed.

So, what's a boy to do? Well, what this boy did was make the decision to start a podcast. Never mind that my depth of knowledge of podcasting is thus: I love Only Murders in the Building. That's it.

Well, my reporter friend Amy Donaldson told me she's fully aboard with the genre. And I was once a guest on Chris Holifield's podcast, I Am Salt Lake. With just that as armor, I reached out to Ron Yengich with a podcast idea—we'd call it "The Bingham Boys," wherein we'd tell stories from our beloved roots home of Bingham Canyon, Utah, spit-shine our Democratic blue-collar bona fides and let the chips fall where they may.

Ron was all in on day one. We're now part of the attention deficit problem, just as God planned, and we were pointed to KRCL's Lara Jones for indefatigable courage and to TV TAN podcaster Bill Frost for technical expertise and reasonably good advice. The best part? Ron had never listened to a single podcast before.

It feels new and important, just like when this paper began—and Ron was there, too. Find "The Bingham Boys" podcast on YouTube, Spotify, Substack or anywhere that fine podcasts are found.

Send comments to john@cityweekly.net