The nice thing about not having to write or blog for your life is that you are in fact not doing it for a living, otherwise it's "Ooh-ahh! I'm on top of deadline and I haven't got a single idea."
I am told, in fact that in the case of a male writer, if he constantly keens "Oh-oh, I'm f*cked now," it probably shows gay streak.
This on top of everything else? Egad. You mean that on top of World War Two, some ugly sisters, a dirty fireplace, and--say it on!--career failure--I'm queer on top of all that?
"Well, no," says my friend the existenitial psychiatrist, though I had some doubts as he seemed to wave a cape at an imaginary bull in front of him, with the exhortation of 'Go on through! Go on through!'
Folding his cape, the psychiatrist says, "Nah. You find these thing early in childhood...Getting a biggie-on for the captain of the football team sort-of-thing....The brutality of those cleat boots..."
And don't forget, says the mad shrink, "You're supposed to say 'not that there is anything wrong with that.'"
"Funny thing, I told him in the hope that the polically correct crowd wasn't listening. "I thought GAY meant 'Got Aids Yet?'"
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, said the guy who looked a lot like former comedian David Steinbeg, the guy with the comic MD embazoned on his lapel.
He seemed to suddenly go off into a reverie about some imaginary lover "Mona, why did you...How could you?"
"Ontario Hospital Insurance is paying for this?" I am laughing.
Said the existential shrink: "Trust me. I am a doctor, see?" He puffs out the MD on his lapel.
And then : "Mona!" , he moans.
Obviously, he may have had a hard time with anatomy in med school and he chose the crazy -doctor route.
"So I'm not gay," I sigh with relief.
"Probably not," but you show some traits that used to be called feminine, that "Oh-oh, I' m f*cked again cry when you're on top of a column deadline for a newspaper and you haven't got a thing to say.
"Fact is Doc," I really don't have much to say.
"Whaddayameanwhaddayamean? You think ya spending all this money for nothing?
"I am a doctor, trust me."
I was starting to get the idea.
I took off my shirt, urging the imaginary bull to ' Go on through! Go on through!'
Every so often, I'd look up at the ceiling in supplication, and sigh, "Mona!"
"That's it, said the existential shrink. You're getting it! You're getting it!
"Now go write you blog"
I suspected for some time that psychiatry was done with mirrors.
Well, who cares. I got this blog done, didn't I?