Blame
Well, we knew this day would come, didn't we. I will tell you right up front here that this is going to be one of the worst columns I've ever written. The reason for this is that I have no idea what to write about, and I don't feel like it, and I'm doing it entirely out of a sense of obligation to myself. Oh, I've done columns before where I didn't have anything to write about, but this is going to root underneath all of them and take its rightful place at the bottom of the shitheap that is my writing career. I mean, just look at some of the complaints I've gotten recently, from unnamed sources who will remain nameless, so long as I get the checks in the next week or so.

Complaint #1: "You always write about yourself."

Strap in and keep your hands inside the car at all times, because every single word of this column is going to be about me and how I can't think of anything to write about, and I don't want to anyway, and get outta my face about it already, like I don't have enough problems. And I lied, anyway. I have LOTS of things I'm thinking about writing about. I have a little notebook, and whenever something occurs to me, I scribble a little note in it, so I don't forget all the wonderful, amazing, terrific ideas that come to me on what seems like a weekly basis. Too bad it's a daily column, eh? But the point is, I have this notebook waiting to have its peaches plucked and squashed all over the page, but there is no way I'm gonna waste any of those precious peaches on a night like this. No, this is the day where I just throw down whatever crap comes into my mind and stick it up on the webpage and ask all of you to never mention it again, because I ain't proud of it either. I went to a fancy dinner party last night which featured like a twelve or twenty-six course meal, and I'm only through (if you know what I mean) about eight of them, so I am pretty much worthless in the authorial sense. Also there was wine with each course. I should mention that too.

Complaint #2: "There's not enough variety in your stuff."

If ever a column was less variety-y, I'll be shocked, horrified, and disappointed. This is one long ramble about absolutely nothing. I wouldn't let my cats piss on this column. I wish it would get cold again so I could print out about a hundred copies of this, throw 'em in the fireplace and roast marshmallows. No, no metaphors tonight. No Orwellian nightmares for you. Not even a story about how I keep seeing that same waitress over at the restaurant, and I'm getting ever closer to some sort of social point-of-no-return where I either make a move now, or it becomes too weird to make a move at all. On the one hand, she seems to dig me and stuff, and I could even take the rejection if I'm just making this all up in my head, but on the other hand, if she did reject me (or didn't reject me, but immediately introduced me to her three crack-babies with bad teeth) then I'd never be able to go back to that restaurant again. Nothing is worth that.

"Just find another restaurant."

You don't understand, dude. This is central New Jersey. This is where every single restaurant is required by law to have menus that show pictures of food with names like "Ultimate Cajun Skillet" and "Bitchin' Blossoms", and there's a guy wearin' a big ol' cowboy hat telling you in a voice bubble that only real men could handle their outrageously spiced 12 ounce center-cut sirloin. C'mon, eat it, boy! What are ye, some kanda faggot? I knew you was a pussy since I gave yer mother a good backside-ridin'! And make sure to save room for our Simply Sinful Chocolate Bomb! Here, look! Here's a picture!

Hey, I love a good Chili's Ruby Tuesday's TGIFriday's Applebee's Bennigan's as much as the next guy, but occasionally you'd like to have something that didn't make you instantly feel like lower-middle-class herding, grazing buffalo being served by sixteen-year-olds with bad skin who won't bring you the extra guacamole even if you kill their math teacher and buy them a car. Occasionally, I said. Not always. So this is the only place in the area that could actually, when put to the test, pretend it's a real restaurant. I can't blow that. My epicurean appetite is insatiable! So, I'll just wait for her to make a move, and if she does, I'll complain about the service and get her fired.

Goddammit, he's not talking about that stupid restaurant again, is he? I told you, this is not the night to come here for variety. This is as familiar as a pair of old, stinky shoes that the dog chews on because you haven't fed him in three days because you're zonked on in front of the TV watching Altered States for the seventy-third time with a needle in your arm. You know who you are.

Complaint #3: "I don't get it."

This one kills me. What is there to get? First of all, 90% of everything here is a joke, five percent is me trying to learn how to write, and the rest of it is a slow-leak to keep me from perching on a bell tower and blowing things up. It's really not all that complicated. You come here, you read, maybe you laugh, maybe you revel in the variety of the psychoses, and maybe you post a message on the BBS, which you still haven't, by the way. That's it. Real simple. Now, when there's something to get, I will be sure to tell you. It will be a glorious day for everyone, and I think we're making good strides already. I mean, take that last one. That was pretty good, right? That kept your interest, didn't it? It's just too damn bad that I have no idea how to write anything other than this first-person kaleidoscopic smart-assed mishmosh that I've become famous for. As you've noted, I can talk about me all day long. I can talk about me until the cows come home, get all fatted up, and then get cut into tasty 12 ounce sirloins. But the minute I start talking about what "he" or "she" did, forget it. A doctor never pulled this many teeth. First of all, who cares what he or she did anyway? Second of all, they have to react like people other than myself, and I'm not quite sure how anyone manages to do that.

He hit her in the head with a shovel.
She sat down and wrote a humor column about it.
Nope, missed it again. But something very special occurred to me upon realizing this realization. Maybe the reason I can't write is because I can barely read. I've read about ten books in my whole life, and six of them started, "So, you've decided to play the Lotto for a living!"

So I ran right out, sped down to Barnes and Noble and bought me some actual, real-life story-tellin' books! And here they are, right on the desk, waiting for me to soak up their styles, techniques, big words and descriptions of things other than DMV offices and waitresses. But I can't read them, because I had to write this stupid column! And how much you wanna bet the same thing happens tomorrow? This is all your fault, you know. It is!

So quit complaining, will ya?