Sunday, May 10, 2009
Thoughts of a Rowdyman on this rowdy Mother's Day
Comes a time when I ape my old editor, John Slykhuis at THE NEWS, when I stare at the screen, say, "I can't write anymore" and head for the pub.
We had had some inspired editorial meetings there, in the Grey Goat's fuzzy interior of brass and oak, and then we'd get drunk, constructing great sprawling novels in the smoky air and shouting wild promises to the wind
Well, for me there are no great sprawling novels, no wild promises to the wind today.
I had tried to blog on this Mother's Day, but suddenly my lights went out, as they used to do in my drinking days, more often the result of a punch than not.
This morning, this "Pole" has been pole-axed.
Petit mal, probably-lots of Eastern Euopeans get that way, but probably too much drinking and too much thinking, which usually results in either a breakdown or ending up in some strange bed, echoes of a "Flying Dutchman" in your head, who is nagging, "Whatever you are trying to find, you won't get it from a whore."
Well, you can get lots from a whore. Build up your ego, call you handsome, wonderful. But the hand is out for the tip.
And yet, St. John in his masterpiece notwithstanding, what man does not love a whore? And how many times have we gone to Babylon?
Gad, I just can't stay on topic. I had intended to write about Mother's Day and had a personal power blackout.
Worse, I can't write any more.
I think I'd better make a phone call.