Writer’s Blahk

I haven’t written in more than a week,

because I haven’t felt like writing. A whole bunch of life is happening to me, and it’s going by so fast that I can’t find time to blog it. This will be the gap when I’m old (OK, when I’m really old) and I’m trying to remember what I was doing just before I spent that mad year in Rio, with that crazy, crazy redhead from that goofy modern dance troupe. I will try to refer to my blog, because I know that blogs are forever, and all that I write will remain here for me and the world to read for all eternity, or until the ozone layer is completely gone and the entire human race has departed for another star system, lush green and yellow and silver planets that beckon and welcome, hiding their deadly secrets until all of the spaceships have been dismantled and beaten into plowshares…

But long before the Great Exodus, I will be a doddering old geezer yelling “URL, schmoo-R-L! Just find that blog!” And the great great grandchildren with their Intel Argos Brainchips will call up Google and frantically search the database of over 50 trillion blogs and vanity web sites for some record that I ever wrote anything at all, much less described the goings-on of June, 2006 but instead they will keep getting sidetracked by pictures of Paris Hilton going down on Jenna Bush, the future First Lady and President of the United States, before the Last Election, in 2032.

But I haven’t felt like writing, and so nothing will be found. I feel bad about this, although I know I’ll get over it before I am a doddering old coot. I feel bad because I keep thinking this would be a cool opening sentence – and then I could go on to show how this is a good example of… but right about then something else swoops into my mind and washes that idea away, and I’m not telling you what idea it was because I have no fucking idea, because I can’t concentrate on anything long enough to remember it five minutes later.

It now occurs to me that perhaps these are symptoms of already being a doddering old fool, much as the overuse of italics could be seen as a sign of a decreasing facility with language and thus a need to resort to ever more typographical tricks to make one’s writing seem vibrant and relevant, emphasis callously and frivolously superimposed over meaningless text in a pathetic effort to fool you, the reader, whom I love desperately. I know, you’re thinking “He’s saying that because he knows he’s the reader, and of course he loves himself, the narcissistic fool.”

Ah, but do I love myself? Maybe I loathe myself. How would you know, really? Notice how you only have to replace the “v” in love with “ath” to totally reverse the meaning? Merely a coincidence? I think not, and you’d think not, too, if you just thought about it.

So, what’s everybody doing for summer vacation? I’m planning to catch up on the laundry, maybe shellac a few picture frames. I could come over if you need some company. I’m a little eccentric, but I totally hide it in public, so you wouldn’t be embarrassed. I could bring some killer weed. I don’t have any, but I’d get some if you wanted it. We could pitch a tent in the back yard and stay in it all night, and tell your parents not to come and check on us no matter what.