Still nothing much to say

Even if the well is still pretty dry, it's hard not to wonder about the outcome of the upcoming Democratic primary for mayor of New York.  Will Weiner walk? What will Huma do? And what about Miss Leathers, who gets all hot and bothered listening to wonks debate health care policy? Actually, you really do have to feel sorry for Huma. Here she is, a proud warrioress of Islam, devoted to spreading the True Faith by any means necessary amongst the loathsome kaffirs who dwell in benighted darkness in the Dar al-Harb with their loose women and their thirty minute pizza delivery and their flush toilets, and she is stuck with this idiot Jew who can't stop showing off his tallywhacker to any woman who wants to take a look at it.  Taqqiya has its limits, after all.  Perhaps she thought a little rehab and a lot of hudna would help; the Americans have the attention spans of gnats, you know, and if she could just get this dopey son of apes and pigs to keep his weener in his pants, then all would be well and she could be well on her way to a position of great power and influence amongst the unbelievers, a position where she could aid the cause of Allah and His Prophet, may peas be upon him.  But it wasn’t to be.  Wiener’s weener is once again a topic of conversation throughout the length and breadth of this our Great Republic, and poor Huma, she is stuck with a pathetic loser who has not only turned himself into a joke, he’s made her one too.  Life is horribly unfair sometimes.

Writer's block, or the adventures of Superman, Man of Steel

The thing of it is this: I am totally devoid of ideas. You wouldn’t think anyone could be devoid of ideas to write about these days, what with the former junior Senator from Illinois suspending the laws of physics as a sop to the quantum mechanics union, most of whom voted for Himself in 2012, or in following the adventures of Angela Corey, Florida’s own Red Queen, who wanted to cast George Zimmerman as the Knave of Hearts and have the verdict first and the sentence afterwards, but what can I tell you?  Nothing is ringing a bell for me these days.  You wouldn’t think that the decline and fall of this our Great Republic would be so devoid of things to write about, but it is.  Maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m just not trying hard enough these days.  Or maybe it’s writer’s block. I hate writer’s block. I don’t mind writer’s cramp so much; with the cramp, you can just look at your hands and think, well, it’s not really my fault, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, and, in this case, hurts like hell. But writer’s block is just a drag all the way around. It’s not your hand’s fault this time, bubba, and you can’t even claim to be too damn lazy to write, which one of the best excuses in existence, right up there with Dorothy Parker’s the pencil broke, an Olympic champion of an excuse for not writing if ever there was one.  No, you want to write, you need to write, but unlike Abstract Expressionism, twelve-tone serial music or anything with anchovies on it, you can’t get away with slopping whatever comes into your head on the page and then saying that the audience is too dumb to understand your literary genius. There’s a reason why no one but college professors read Finnegan’s Wake and self-indulgent logorrhea is one of them.   James Joyce could get away with that sort of thing because he was Irish and James Joyce to boot, but the rest of us are stuck in a never-ending struggle with clarity, unless you work for a university or the government, whereupon you can get away with writing all manner of idiotic drivel with a clear conscience.  So as soon as I get an idea, I’ll be working on it forthwith and have it up for your perusal as soon as possible. In the meantime, it’s summer: go to the beach, enjoy the sunshine, drink a pina colada.  It’ll make you feel better about yourself.

Just a thought

So, here’s the thing: the niece is now the proud owner of her very own tattoo.  I suppose this development was inevitable; she is twenty now and she was looking for a change more permanent than that provided by her ever-shifting hair color.  I have not seen this tattoo and neither has anyone else, as far as I know, and I believe the reason for this is that she does not want her grandmother to find out that she’s gotten one; my mother has what might best be described as a profoundly negative opinion of tattoos and tattooing brought on by my naval brothers’ enthusiastic patronage of the art.  Still, I hear that the niece is very proud of the tattoo, so I will keep my opinion to myself when next I see her.  Tattoos are the fresh fruit of art; one sees them to best advantage when they are brand-new, as the canvas does not, to put it mildly, age very well.  I must, however, admit to a certain bemusement about all of this; I know that tattoos are all the rage nowadays, and one should excuse the young for wanting to follow the fashion of the day, but there are few things in life that confirm my belief that no twenty year old ever believes they will be fifty some day than a tattoo.  One may as well tell the young that the sky is not blue than tell them that their youth is not a permanent condition. They will smile at you and think, what does he know, the old coot?