January 15, 2003

***The Litter Box***

WRITER'S BLOCK. There. I finally wrote it, if only to see something, anything, on the otherwise blank computer screen. The whole idea of not having an idea for a column must seem pretty idiotic, especially if it's something you're supposed to be doing to earn a living. But there you have it. In a nutshell, my usually fertile wellspring of thoughts has dried up, and that dull clanging sound was the bucket hitting rock bottom. Meanwhile the rent is due, and I'm walking around the apartment doing anything I can think of to avoid sitting in front of the keyboard. The computer is my albatross, a high-impact, plastic-encased reminder of my failure.

I'm not really sure if I can explain how it all went so bad so quickly. Being a writer who can't write is kind of like being a mechanic and not remembering how to lift the hood of a car, or a chemist whose understanding of the periodic table of elements evaporates overnight. I'm powerless in this recent turn of events, and it is only getting worse. In fact, I'd be willing to wager that if I ate an entire box of Alphabits, I would most likely crap a better story than what I'm capable of writing. And the sad part is I've really got a lot to say these days, if I could figure out how to deliver the package.

I could tell you about the Scramblers, a band of crusty, old bartender farts whom I stumbled across this past weekend while out on a mission to drown my sorrows. They've been around for quite a while, and the rumor about town is that they're just starting to pull it together and not stink every other show. What I witnessed was relatively inspiring. There was no flash, no fashion, and only a minor amount of bullshit, though lead singers are prone to the occasional antic. It can't be helped. Anyhoo, the point is these cats got up there and proceeded to bludgeon the crowd with a straight-ahead assault designed to rip up everything from ear drums to apartment leases. It was raw power of the basest type – the unrefined meat-and-potato stuff that has been driving combos since the dawn of punk.

The specifics are a little fuzzy, but I do recall a significant amount of frenzy whipping around the room, and being completely bowled over by a cover of Spirit's "I Got a Line on You." This reaction was due to the fact that not only did the Scramblers pull off a fantastic rendition, it also happened to be a friggin' Spirit song! I couldn't get over the way this girl was shrieking so loudly in my ear until I realized that girl was me. What can I say? I always was a sucker for the classics, and apparently it seems I dig the not-so-classics as well.

Either way, it was worth my time, because, while I still haven't dug myself out of the mental hole I got into, at least for a while the Scramblers made it possible for me to forget what I can't remember how to do. Someday when I figure out how to form basic grammatical statements again, the rest of you will know about them too.