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I’m not particularly angry with
anyone, nor especially pleased. Nothing strikes me as exceptionally funny. The
political plays of the day aren’t piquing my interest and family life seems
fairly routine. In fact my strongest desire at this moment is for a nice long
nap.
I’m not ill. But for the first time
in a good long while my main inspiration is my deadline. My Muse has blown a
fuse.
Not that there isn’t anything to
talk about. Just scan today’s paper and take your pick. Or turn on the news,
go to work, spend time with your family, or call a friend. Check the Internet,
walk through the park, take a long drive. Go to church, read a book, take a
class. Simply put: live.
Then write about it.
Just kidding. I don’t want to give
my editor any ideas. The point is that sometimes you simply don’t feel like
doing the things you have to do, or even those you love. Not that I won’t crack
wise, spout off, or plain go nuts as the mood strikes. For instance I certainly
reserve the right to tee off on Dr. Allan Zarkin of New York. Dubbed “Dr.
Zorro” for carving his initials into the abdomen of one Liana Gedz after
delivering her baby, he now blames a temporary mental aberration. Turns out the
new mom is a dentist; if I were the judge I think I’d sentence Zorro to take out
his fees in professional services from his ex-patient.
But I don’t want to be the judge
right now. I want my nap.
On another
day I could make ten columns out of the presidential primaries. I can not
understand why Bill Bradley is dropping faster than Bill Clinton’s drawers when
the only difference between him and Al Gore is 6 inches in height, a $4 haircut,
and his squeaky clean reputation. By all accounts the ex-New Jersey senator is
free of Gore-like ethical baggage, but, heaven help him, he is also the only
person on earth who can make the veep seem lifelike. Still, why wouldn’t voters
of that leaning take substance over style?
And how have we come to the point where Al Gore
can be referred to as having “style?” I don’t know. I don’t care. Maybe next
week.
Here’s one I would ordinarily take as a
challenge: Proctor & Gamble wants someone to compose Mr. Clean’s first words.
The chrome-domed cleaning genie will soon break 42 years of silence on his own
web site, with web surfers invited to pen the soon-to-be immortal words. Maybe
something like “I’m just cleaning la vida loca,” or “What’s the deal with Bill
Bradley?”
But not today. I can’t get into it.
I
do confess a pang at the passing of Jim Varney, know-whut-I-mean? Varney made a
living playing the lovable idiot Ernest of cheesy commercial and lame movie
fame. Automobile ads will never be the same; maybe Cal Worthington will have to
haul his dog Spot out of retirement.
OK, I care
about that a little. No one can sell a car like Ernest, Cal, or Spot.
Then there’s
the do-it-yourself suicide video recently aired on public television in Oregon.
This should kibosh once and for all the notion that that state’s right to death
movement only wants to end the suffering of the incurably ill under the care of
a loving physician. Oregon already allows that but I guess there wasn’t enough
action to suit some activists, thus the need to recruit freelancers.
I doubt even
Spot would touch that one, but I’ll worry about it later.
Then there’s
the rash of hack attacks on prominent web sites, suspension hearings for
baseball loudmouth John Rocker, Jesse Ventura’s noisy split with the Reform
Party, the Knight initiative on marriage, and so on. Not to mention what my kid
did last week and my wife’s latest contest win.
But not today.
Today I have only the blahs, a deadline, and the strong desire to take that
siesta.
And a complete
column. Good night.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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