march fifth twenty eleven

Allow me to indulge in some neurotic rambling.

I am testing an open source word processor called Verbum. When I say “testing,” I mean I downloaded something and am evaluating its usefulness in my future career as a rambling manifesto writer.

It marks every single word as misspelled. What’s up with that? Can’t print either. No matter.

I saw a photograph of a woman diving into staggeringly clear blue ocean water, reaching for the white sand of the ocean floor, and it seemed to be emblematic of everything I  don’t have: the luxury of a tropical retreat, and a super model. How tragic is life when I don’t get to spend my weekend in Tahiti with hot babes? Tragedy indeed.

I want to write a 30 Rock spec script, but I don’t actually have any ideas. I just really enjoy the show and know the characters well enough to pull it off. Except for the lack of ideas. I worry that my complacency and relative relaxation of the moment may inhibit  my creativity. Can you worry about being too relaxed? I can! Maybe that’s just an excuse. Yes, it’s an excuse. Professionals don’t worry about it. They go to work. and then they worry because they have deadlines and other people depending on them and mouths to feed and people to take care of. I worry about running out of clean socks. Is that a story line?

Alas, what is harder than coming up with ideas is coming up with funny ideas. Does humor really come from pain and darkness? I don’t know; humor probably develops as a tool when you are young, whether it is as a defense mechanism or for escape or as means of gaining attention. I never knew I could be funny until a high school English teacher referred to me once as “the comedian.” I literally looked behind me to see who she was referring to, only to find my ass in the breeze. Humor and angst. They go together like peanut butter and angst. (As Steve Martin once said, some people have a way with words, and some people… don’t… have… way). The angst comes and goes, but lately I’ve been happy as a clam. Relatively. Like I already mentioned, I am not in Tahiti with a bikini girl. Which is to say, I am not Charlie Sheen. I deal with my not-being-Sheen every day.

I have no definite future. That should certainly cause some angst. I know that I owe a huge amount of money because of student loans, and working part-time as I do now isn’t exactly an economically sustainable model. But there will be money later. I don’t actually worry about that. I worry that I forgot to buy laundry detergent. Could there be a story line in that?

I’ve fettered away a lot of time, though, drinking coffee, pondering, watching movies, pondering, drinking whiskey, pondering, with a dearth of action. Sometimes I have some fun, but fun isn’t a story. (No one wants to hear about the time that everything was good and everyone was happy). I am proud of the dedication I’ve maintained to my professional job, but that is only a few days a week (with minor tasks most every day, simply because I want to maintain high standards that exceed the actual hours I am paid for). La dee dah, John Galt, the world truly rests upon your back. But I consume and consume in my free time, books and magazines and television and film, as if I’m trying to crunch before the big pop culture test that is never to come. Getting ready for Jeopardy!

Maybe I need to do the opposite of relaxation. Like taunt the tigers at the zoo, or do some air traffic controlling. Do you know any small airports that allow for amateur air traffic controlling? I’ll learn from my mistakes, I promise.

Around now, one thirty in the afternoon, on days that I’m not working, I almost always talk a walk down Valencia street to get a cup of coffee at Philz, my favorite coffeeteers. It wakes me up, both the walk and the coffee. I better get going.

I’ll try to keep writing here and I’ll try to bring the funny.

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