I’m lagging. I’m having a crisis of creativity. It’s not writer’s block. It’s just good writer’s block. I’ll snap out of it. It’s like what Jerry Jeff Walker sings.
Gimme a beer or two and I’ll be fine / At least it worked every other time / I’m a rodeo-deo-deo cowboy / Bordering on the insane.
I could be that I’m running out of TV shows to watch, and the Boston Red Sox aren’t helping. So far this season, they’re thoroughly unreliable.
David Letterman’s gone. Don Imus is going off TV after Friday, and I’m damned if I’m going to drive around every morning in the off chance that I can find him on the radio. Jon Stewart is on the way out. Brian Williams got thrown off TV for exaggerating. Hell, most people get fired in that business for not exaggerating enough.
Next thing you know, the Republicans will shut down PBS.
It’s like Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard are singing these days:
All the whiskey in Lynchburg, Tennessee / Just couldn’t hit the spot / I gotta hundred dollar bill / You can keep your pills / ‘Cause it’s all going to pot.
I’m not sure whether those two are singing about David Letterman or not.
Ah, the wind will fill these sails again. This old ship isn’t going to drift aimlessly through the doldrums forever.
By gosh, I’m going to finish that short story that’s been sitting there, three quarters done, for two weeks. I’m going to dive back into that next draft of my crime novel, Forgive Us Our Trespasses.
I’m going to memorize some songs I’ve written and finish some others I’ve started.
Hell, I’m going to get the grass cut. Friday. It’s damp today, and it’s supposed to rain Thursday. The weather reminds me of me.