I Throw Excuses at Me for Not Writing:
‘Too Early’
‘Too Late’
‘Too Hot’
‘Too Cold’
‘Too wet’
‘Too Dry’
‘Too Sober’
‘Too Drunk’
‘Oh Wait!—There’s ‘Breaking News on CNN!’
(I am far too Easily Distracted!)
Eventually, I empty out my ‘Excuses-Bag-of-Tricks’
Then I Park My Ass On The ‘Writing Chair’
And I Begin trying to write.
I have SO Much Shit to ‘Write’ ABOUT!
Not Un-Like So Many Fire-Flies
Swirling About in My Head–
As Fire-Flies On A Hot Texas Summer Night
***
But then My Mind
Wanders.
“Meanders.”
NO!
Not the proper, suitable Metaphor.
My Mind is trapped in a Pinball Machine.
Stolen (by me) From The Movie
‘Tommy’
I am the Stainless Steel Little Ball.
Just Bouncing About.
Aimlessly
Flying All Over The Fucking Place.
Just Looking to Rack up ‘Points.’
And for what?
****
Fun Fact: When I, Bob, Peanut Et al, used to hang out at the Pool Hall (er.. ‘Recreation Center’) on Sixth Street, Honey Grove America…
We would place empty Marlboro packs underneath the front legs of the pinball machine—Thus making it impossible for us to lose…
Yes. We all had larceny flowing through our veins.
***
But To What Purpose?
Just for Fun, I Guess
(And we had a limited cache of quarters)
I will never write like Hemmingway
(But at Least I can drink like him)
That’s Half the Battle/Bottle Won.
Ain’t it?
Apocryphal Hemmingway Quote:
“Write Drunk. Edit Sober”
Ernest never said those words, but he should have.
Right?
Right?
RIGHT??
Will never even be a Two-Bit Paperback / Pulp-Fiction Writer.
Yet I ‘Sailor’ On!
Pour yet another drink
Park my Butt on my ‘Writing Chair‘
And attack that GD keyboard
****
Cheers!
See You in The Funny Papers!
****
I just drop this photo because I am infatuated with Info-Babes
(See Below Recent Post O’ Mine)