A lack of quantity has a lack of quality all its own, it seems.
I’ve been trying for days to write something that’s at least vaguely interesting, but I can’t find the hook. I’ve assembled a few clever phrases, like “that’s like telling Stephen Hawking he needs to start looking at the bit picture”, “what’s the going exchange rate between bitten and shy these days?”, and a passable paragraph or two that analogised a protracted sushi dinner and a game of battleship. But it’s just not coming together for me. I’m pretty sure that even if it did it would still be second-rate crap. Most of what I’ve been writing lately has been. At this exact moment, for example, I want to take the well-known anecdote about the boy looking for a pony in a pile of horseshit, put a writer in the boy’s role, substitute a decent metaphor in for the pony and have an editor on hand saying “There’s metaphors all over the place here, kid. Keep looking.”
And that’s not really working either, but that’s appropriate, I guess.
Well, shake off the rust and get back in the ring, I guess. I’ve always found the aphorisms of elderly robot fighting champions inspiring.
Last weekend I spent on a whirlwind tour of, er, North York, visiting Arlene’s family. It was what is usually is, but the food was pretty good, though the fried, battered octopus balls with fish-flakes, wasabi paste and mayonnaise was a snack I probably won’t revisit. I fixed Antoine’s computer, and ate fine food there as well.
I now own a copy of Shaolin Soccer which, you may not be aware, is the single finest moviegoing experience available to mankind. It’s not widely available to mankind, because somebody at Miramax has shovelled so much coke up their nose that they can’t smell money anymore, and if you live in some bizarro world where laws bought by entertainment conglomerates actually mean anything, that might be a problem. The rest of you, I’m sure, already know what to do.