The thing is, I get up absurdly early every day in order to give myself time to write. And great googly moogly, it's not as though there's nothing to write about.
The baffling persistence of Newt Gingrich, for instance, and the stunning hypocrisy of the Republican party. The post-death treatment of Joe Paterno by the press, which may make a few concessions to his "tarnished legacy" but still insists that the greatness of being a winning football coach somehow trumps looking the other way as his assistant fucked little boys. Or even the Oscar nominations, which...seriously? Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close? Did anybody like that?
But, as always, I find something--anything--to do with my time to avoid writing. Playmate Of The Apes was on cable, and who can resist the lure of fake tits and bad puns? That was followed by The Pope Of Greenwich Village, the movie that by itself derailed the career momentum of Eric Roberts and Mickey Rourke. Neither of these movies are remotely worth watching, despite either abundant nudity or a fine cast that includes Geraldine Page, Kenneth McMillan and M. Emmet Walsh, and yet I sat through them anyway.
Then sat down and knocked this thing out in a couple of minutes, just to reassure myself that, yes, I'm still writing. Sort of.
