Con call in half an hour and I just can’t be bothered. Book to read, less than 50 pages to go, and I just can’t be. Bothered. Just watched Weird Al’s “Fat” video, followed up with Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Laughed the whole time I was watching the MJ. Not that it’s a horrible video. Actually it’s pretty darn good. Actually, and this might be the old man in me talking, it hearkens back to a day when music videos where a thing. I don’t know if they’re a thing anymore. Have not watched Mtv in years. I guess I do see things on Youtube, so maybe they’re still a thing.
Naw, I laughed the whole time because I had just watched the Weird Al version, and during the MJ I was only able to think of the WA lyrics. That happened the other day too: we were in the car, some new remix of Bad came on, and I was singing the Fat version throughout. Al Yankovis is a genius. It’s been said before, it will be said again.
But this is a rambling blog post about how I can’t be bothered. Normally, in this mood, I’d go to Reddit, or Pinterest, or Tumblr. Woe is you, I’m writing instead. Already wrote two lengthy emails to friends this morning.
I’m STILL clicking on Facebook every ten seconds, but that’s mostly megalomaniacal, since I like it when people respond to any content I generate. That’s why I have everything linked to Facebook. I had a dream about Mark Z last night—I was at some friend’s wedding, in the hotel in the hours before it all got started. Mark Z was there, played by Justin Timberlake when he was still in N’Synch, with that bleached hair with the tight curls. Except it was orange, and he had a black goatee.
Meaningless, all dreams are meaningless, so I only mention it to entertain. Are you not entertained? Gladiator quote.
Cause that’s what most writers are, you know. Bloggers, self-incarcerated gladiators pitted against the soft-copper armor of their own ennui, their self-perceived inaquecies, and all of us desperate for that ironical insight that makes what we spew funny if not interesting.
Me for example: I sure do spend a lot of time by myself. I’ve taken to talking to myself, or, if not to myself, to imaginary interlocutors, out loud. I even had a conversation with myself out loud about it today while making a sliced-turkey-and-lefotver-satay wrap:
-Do you think I’m stupid?
-Yes.
-What?
-Yes, I think you’re stupid.
-Oh, you think you’re smart, eh?
-Yes, I do. And I think you’re stupid. Can we talk about something else, please?
-You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
-Hence my requesting it.
-What?
-And we’re back to how stupid you are again. Brilliant.
-Yeah, you’re the brilliant one.
-Your sarcasm is ill conceived I’m afraid.
-What?
-Oh god I could use some illegal pharmaceuticals.
Not that I’d know what to do with them. Lately running a little too much and writing things no one reads has been my pharmaceutical, but for what, I don’t know. I mean besides boredom. Lately, and I don’t know why, I’ve been in a really bad mood. I drive places, the radio is on, the Mariners are losing, some asshole in a Lexus is driving ten miles under the speed limit and so some other asshole in an Acura cuts in front of me to take an exit; meanwhile, I’m thinking I need to change lanes but there’s another asshole in a Prius sitting on my left rear bumper, talking on his cell phone, and then I notice the handicap sticker and I get even angrier because, handicap parking, grrr, don’t get me started.
What’s the point of all this? I don’t know. I don’t have a thesis statement. Con call in 15 minutes, Pandora keeps playing ads at me whenever I skip songs that DO NOT FIT THE STATION I AM LISTENING TO and I don’t feel like rereading this and editing it into making sense. Nothing makes sense. Nor does it have to. There, there’s your furshlugginer thesis statement.