A brief interlude-

What to write, what to write? I find myself lazing around my overpriced one bedroom hotel of an apartment contemplating that very question. I've taken quite a liking to writing over the last week of so, with the launch of my blog. Having just finished up the second season of Californication, I find myself listless and bored. Why not write something? I say to myself. But what? I answer.

Good fucking question.

Let's think about this. I've been writing regularly for a week. That's seven days (give or take), and I'm already stuck. I feel no end of sympathy –or is it empathy? I can never remember to difference-- for someone who truly writes for a living. I'm not talking some middle aged jackass sitting in a cubical at the Tribune's office jotting down his comments on the latest fish report or baseball game. I'm talking about a writer, someone who attempts to debug this crazy little thing called life through the magic of words.

I recently (this morning) finished up The Nasty Bits by one Mr. Anthony Bourdain (maybe you've heard of him). It's a collection of articles and rhetorics about food, people, and places he's encountered. It was precisely what I expected from him, great non-fiction writing about what he's experienced through his 50+ years. If you watch his Travel Network show; No Reservations, you've pretty much read this book. But at the end was a little glimmer of something different.

No doubt still drawing on his past as a cook/chef/food guy, it's a little fictional ditty about a restaurant that's going under and around Christmas time has some remarkable experiences that change the lives of those involved. All in 30 pages.

I sat down tonight wishing I could write something similar. Something I'd want to read. That's how I tend to judge things. From the only perspective I know how. Mine. Should I do something? How would I feel if I found out someone else had done the very same? Sort of a Golden Rule code of ethics. Short and sweet, it gets the job done (mostly).

Then again, there's no accounting for taste.

It's Labor Day here in the good ol' US of A, and most people are sitting around campfires or barbecues, drinking something intoxication and hanging out with friends. I'm pretty much doing the same thing. I'm sitting in front of my outdated POS laptop that has threatened to burn a hole through anything it sits on (including my lap and it's precious contents), sipping a crystal light, and writing. Not too long ago, I was playing video games.

And...I'm stuck. If you haven't figured it out by now, I've simply been blathering on talking via text to my computer in the hopes that something worth writing would pop into my head. I've got nothing. Fiction. Non-Fiction. It's all a big blank (big surprise there). I could talk about my thoughts on healthcare or politics, but I don't really feel like it.

I find myself getting in this kind of mood often as of late. I strongly suspect it's a manifestation of my depression (diagnosed two and a half years ago). I've been dealing with it through the use of prescription drugs, but I would deeply enjoy a way to cope without the use of medicinals. I can almost guarantee you that I think about things on a daily basis that don't even cross your mind.

When I die (probably sooner than I think), will I have left a lasting impact on the world? Is a common one. Jesus- I sound like a middle aged man. I guess there's nothing left to do but buy a bright red sports car, get some more tattoos and rock and roll t-shirts and start banging a model.

I have a deep desire to work on military technology- but could I reconcile that with...

There's the buzzer for my Pork Loin (dinner). I'll catch you on the flip side.