Monthly Archives: May 2010

Blaming Blogger’s Block

Over the past few weeks, I have endured a severe case of writer’s block – or, to be more specific, blogger’s block.  Blogger’s block is the over-alliterated, ugly stepsister to writer’s block, in which a normally-loquacious blah-ger can’t find anything to blah about.  

The recommended “cures” for writer’s block (literary exercises, meditating, or—from one website—writing down “Remember, We Die” on a post-it note) don’t apply to bloggers.  Whereas a writer is ostensibly producing three-course meals of high-quality, literary material, a blogger is just churning out frozen pizzas: it has to be short, quick, and immediately satisfying.  Essentially, it has to be Delonte West.  

Therefore, blogger’s block is rare.  There is almost always a topic in which we can provide our most-unnecessary commentary.  On this blog, I’ve written about bathrooms, napping, and aliens — all topics that are naturally top-of-mind in the blah universe.  Yet, I’m finally at a point where I feel that I’ve exhausted all original thoughts in my head. Within the vastly-narrowed expanse from my left ear to my right, there is nothing remaining that can be easily snippeted into a blog post.

I recognize that blogger’s block is just a phase.  We all have those moments when we are temporarily unable to perform.  With the help of writing exercises, alcohol, or low doses of Cialis, we’re usually able to overcome these execution issues.  Only on rare instances do we Knoblauch ourselves into an ignominious oblivion, never able to regain our past glory.

But human beings are like Pringles. Once we start having these blocks of impotency, we’ll never stop. These frustrating moments will just come to us intermittently, shamefully, as if we’re riding an unpredictably ornery donkey that kicks us off every once in a while. We’d almost rather be Knoblauch – at least we’ll have accepted that we just can’t cut it anymore.

Still, we try. No matter how ugly, terrible, or incomprehensible the result, we try. We take ‘The Little Engine That Could’ and put its picture right up next to our “Remember, We Die” post-it note.  So therefore, to combat my blogger’s block, I am blogging about it.  I am trying.  This, my friends, is the lowest of the low, but hopefully it will re-inspire me to produce some more lowbrow, low-quality, quick and dirty blog posts.

And if that doesn’t work, then I guess I’ll just start taking drugs.

 

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A Letter to My Future Husband:

Dear Potential Future Husband:

I’m going to give it to you straight.  I expect this relationship to be 60% about me.  I don’t do halfsies, and anything over 60% means you’re a pushover and therefore uninteresting. In return for you giving me 60% of your life, I promise to clearly lay out all of my terms and conditions upfront.

In this relationship, the only thing I’ll demand of you is that you laugh at all my jokes.  I have a sense of humor like a twelve-year-old boy, so be prepared to field some foul balls.  I often make inappropriate comments at work about organic growth, hard drives, and liquid assets.  I will now refrain from making a joke about foul balls.

With regards to home life, I don’t cook, I don’t clean, and I don’t talk about my feelings.  I only cry at movies when I’m by myself, and that’s mainly just to check that my tear ducts still work.  I prefer to keep my emotions bottled up inside, releasing them in intermittent and unpredictable bouts of rage, just to keep you on your toes.

In terms of style, I sometimes dress like I got fashion tips from the costume department of Blue’s Clues.  Sorry.  Still, I expect you to tell me that I look beautiful in stripes-on-stripes. And aside from my wardrobe, I do have a strong opinion on print aesthetics: formatting is fashion for your words, so if I ever catch you using Goudy Stout font (and you’re not making a clown banner), we’re done.

When it comes to exercising, I prefer that we stick to skill sports.  To me, running and swimming are just a waste of time: as hard as Michael Phelps tries, he’ll never outrace a humpback whale.  It’s not even close.  So, I really don’t see the point in trying (it’s like watching women’s basketball).  Thus, if you want to run a marathon, you can run yourself out the door.

Also, given our happy (potential) future life together, you should probably also know that I’m terrified of giving birth to my own children.  I would be perfectly fine if a responsible surrogate mother did it for me.  (It’s not like the baby is going to remember: they don’t sit around, swapping stories about what it was like as a fetus.)  But, if you insist that I carry our baby, then I will do it… Of course, I will also draw stretch marks on your belly so that they can match my ruined body.

Finally, I believe that we should only invite people to our wedding who would come to our funeral.

What do you say?  Are you in?

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The Columbus Dilemma

Imagine that it’s 1492, and you are Christopher Columbus.  You’ve just discovered this swampy, quaint land that will one day be called America, the most powerful country in the world.  But, instead of being an ambassador to Spain, you (let’s call you Crisco, for short) have been sent by the altruistic joint leaders of the world.  And now you’re being asked to populate America with people from all around the globe.

So, how would you do it?  Would you make it all black, all white, all Australian, or (keep it) all Native American?  Would you make it 62% Caucasian, 15% Hispanic, 12% African-American, 4% Asian, 1% Native American, and 6% Other, the demographic breakdown of the U.S. in 2008?  Or, would you perhaps make it more like a pointillist painting, with various dots of color blended together to form a whole?  There’d be no minority and no majority in your Crisco attempt at Seurat – the country would just be a rainbow smorgasbord.

In today’s society, we all publicly claim to support diversity (except you, Arizona).  But yet, do we really like different all that much?  It’s one thing when different is small, quiet, and non-threatening.  But when different is brash, loud, and taking our jobs/wives/parking spaces, then we need to put a stop to it. 

I don’t like change.  In fact, I’m oftentimes scared of it.  But as a minority in this country, I would support Crisco’s attempt to bake a truly equal pie, reflecting all slices of the world (have I killed this metaphor yet?).   All major races, religions, and cultures would be represented in this new America, where having a black leader is not historic, just commonplace.

I still do understand the significance in having some sense of you: your people, your culture, your experiences.  While I value my diverse friends, the constancy of my ethnicity is always gnawing at me.  It’s forever with you, and as a minority, you can’t escape it.  Recently, I’ve found myself buying a lot of Asian bath soaps, which are purportedly better for my skin.  So, in the end, perhaps I do have one thing in common with the original Christopher Columbus… we’re both fans of ethnic cleansing.

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