| Clean
Living in
the Great Midwest
January 5, 2005 Well I’m fucked. My writing career is over. If I’m really super lucky, I might be able to get a job writing copy for the Port-O-Let Corporation. At this point, I dream of writing a line like “Our entire team strives to provide you with the reliability, service, and value that you, our customer, deserves (sic).” Now that I think about it, writing persuasive copy about plastic booths that people can shit into is way beyond me at this point. Instead, I would probably to engage in a lengthy price-per-crap comparison battle with the Johnny on the Spot people. It’s all over…I’ve got fuckin’ writer’s block. I’d almost rather have the flu back. I’ve tried everything. I have taken walks. I’ve read more. I’ve typed absolutely every thought that entered my head. Still nothing. I kept wondering to myself, “How the hell am I going to impress a few hundred people that I’ll never meet if I can’t get my column in on time?” I finally decided to try an exercise that is designed to do nothing more than get you writing again. First, you type one word. I chose the word “Chocolate”. Then you type a sentence. I wrote, “The monkey shot the purple.” The fuck? Okay – the last chore is to type a paragraph. I wrote: “My dad is crazy. I'll never forget the Christmas that he and my Uncle Jerrod punched the Rocketts for not smoking Lucky Strikes. Then they jumped on the subway and lunched with Christopher Hewett. Don't even get me started about their bobsled team. That was one crazy summer.” Worse than a damn mad-lib...The mental picture of my dad and non-existent Uncle Jerrod hopping into a bobsled that is being pushed by Mr. Belvedere tells me that I have more problems that mere writer’s block. I am most decidedly screwed. I arrive at the conclusion that it is time to panic. I hysterically pound out a story about how Pat Sajak rigs the Super Bowl by manipulating the players during “NFL Week” on The Wheel of Fortune so that he can bet on the game, make a billion dollars and never have to talk to freaking Vanna White again. Not only was it not funny, it was not entertaining in the slightest. Having abandoned the Pat Sajak thing, I remembered that I had met with a measure of success when I humiliated myself a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps I should share one or two more stories of embarrassment. Shit, I’ve got enough that I could spare a few. I could tell you about the time that a girl and I were fooling around and I tried to get her hair out of the way by tucking it behind her ear, only to have her rock forward and get her nose broken by the back of my hand. She had weak cartilage or some shit – it’s a long story. A long, disturbing, embarrassing and not-all-that-funny story. Finally, I revisited the idea of trying to interview Jeff Kay. It’s the perfect idea because it doesn’t involve any writing at all. My only responsibility is to ask the guy the questions that all of us have been asking for years. For example: Okay, we realize that these people are not named Sunshine, Mumbles, Nancy, Banana Nostrils or even Papa Half-Shirt – their anonymity is pretty much guaranteed. However, your name is Jeff Kay and the WVSR sees a lot of traffic. How can you write what you write without fear of Sunshine beating you to death with a bag of Splenda? All I have to do is insert the answers and I’m golden for another week. It wouldn’t work though. The difference between the WVSR and some blog is the story telling and the characters. The need to maintain the delicate character structure that has been built around this tawdry soap opera cast is much greater than satisfying any personal curiosities. As Spock said, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few…or the one.” Or something to that effect anyway. So no interviews. Ahhh fuck it! I think I’ll just take the week off. Maybe during the week something interesting will happen to me at the gas station or something. At least it’s better than another hodgepodge. See you next week. Love, metten comments to metten0@lycos.com |
