Let it be written…
Dudes and dudettes, I’m lagging.
Mentally, physically, emotionally, I’m a freakin’ slug.
The spark is missing, people!
The Phoenix fire has petered out. It’s times like this I have the utmost respect for professional and Olympic athletes. I don’t care for sports but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the discipline and superhuman feats required of these athletes, especially considering the physical body undulates in cycles of efficiency. The natural rhythms of our biological cycle. No one can be at the top of their game every day.
The intellect is a “muscle” of sorts. There are days you got it going on. Sharp of wit, sharp like a razor, you can barrel your way through any cognitive mine field.
And there are those days you can’t think your way out of a box.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not claiming that this blog is in any way the result of finely-tuned intellect. In fact, more often than not it’s quite the opposite.
And today, I am not feeling it.
No great treasures to be found here. If I was a baseball player, I’d probably be having an 0 for 4 day with a couple of strikeouts and a pop up.
I’m sure anyone who has attempted to maintain an allegedly vibrant blog can testify, you have those days you post some utter embarrassing, worthless shit. My first blog taught me an important lesson when it comes to coping with these slow brain days.
Don’t fight it. Go with it.
If your synapses are flowing like a clogged drain, don’t attempt the extraordinarily intelligent. You are fighting yourself.
Don’t fight yourself.
This is key. It is the driving force behind my new bloggerized incarnation. David, circa 2009, now 2010.
Blogging as an honest expression of my present state. It’s a fucking diary for chrissakes.
A public diary and the question is how honest do you choose to be?
If you’re having a bad day and all you can do is shoot mental blanks, accept it.
Only by accepting the petty nature of our moods do we rise above the constraints they may otherwise place on our freewheeling intellectual nature.
If I can’t be thoughtful, I’ll write about my inability to be thoughtful. Or I’ll write about this miserably stalled “East L.A. Makeover” project that has seen no progress for a month.
Write. I love to write.
I’m actually an aspiring writer, believe it or not; in spite of…this.
I write short stories which notoriously invite form-lettered rejection notes. I think it would be Goddamned hilarious if I sent a blank rejection form with my stories. The reader would only need to fill in a flew blank lines and check off a box or two. The boxes could have various reasons for the rejection.
-Story was too long
-Story was too short
-Story went nowhere
-Characters were unbelievable
-Are you really a writer?
Hmm, that would be an interesting form to include on each blog post, wouldn’t it? It’s been said that most blog readers don’t feel compelled to comment. What if you accompany a field with each post that is similar to a rejection slip. Listed are an assortment of reasons the post sucked and you I can even inlude a write-in section allowing the reader to voice his displeasure more candidly. Anonymous of course.
The internet requires serious “anonymity.”
How else would all these keyboard Alphas have such large balls without a good dose of anonymity.
I see the way some of these guys comport themselves online.
Whatever, whatever, whatever! Ha. In fact, I suspect many of them not only attempt to come across as hardasses, I think many of them shamelessly embellish their masculine credentials and they inevitably sound like caricatures of the maledom they seek.
Well I’m lapsing into serious and I am lacking the mental energy to sustain it.
And lacking mental energy means only one thing.
A cyberpantheon dedicated to bakery disasters. Dedicated to lapses in communication and cake assembling skills.
My favorite (probably because I’m such a computer geek) is The Problem With Phone Orders.
Rather than paraphrase, I’ll snip directly:
[answering phone] “Cakey Cake Bakery, Jill speaking! How can I help you?”
“Hi, I need to order a cake for my boss. We have a photo of him playing golf that we’d like to put on it, though – can you do that?”
“Of course! Just bring the photo in on a USB drive and we’ll print it out here.”
“Great, I’ll bring it by this afternoon.”
“Hey, Jill, what am I putting on this cake?”
“Oh, check the counter; I left the jump drive out for you there.”
[calling from the back room] “Really? This is what they want on the cake?”
“Yeah, the customer just brought it in.”
Got that visualized?
The customer brought some cutesy ass little jpeg on his flash drive and dropped it off so the photo could be transcribed to cake top. We’ve all seen it. Kinda freaks me out. The thought of eating my cousin’s 3-year-old son is a little too Swiftian for my tastes.
Anyways, the cake, when delivered, quite literally reflected the customer’s request. The flash drive.
Hahaha. I bet the HBD herd would go apeshit about that one.
Now that is the extent of my cerebral offerings for the day.