The MON Blogs

I recently had a conversation with a good friend of mine. For the purpose of privacy, this friend has asked me to conceal his identity.

The conversation I had with Mr A occurred at a local sandwich shop I like to hang out in, not far from where I go to pick up my dry cleaning each week. Usually A and I discuss philosophical issues, current events, politics, etc. Occasionally we consider matters of a more personal note.

On this most recent meeting Mr A raised with me some problems he was having with his writing. Mr A and I are alike in that we both dabble in writing as side projects. Mr A is a noted food critic, while I’m of course a well known script writer, as well as biting social critic and political cartoonist.

Mr A had been having trouble coming up with inspiration for a review he was attempting to write on a little Italian restaurant he had visited two weeks ago. Apparently he was having trouble remembering how exactly the second course had reminded him of a little known battle which had occurred towards the end of the Crimean War.

I attempted to console him but my efforts were rather hollow as I had never before suffered the dreaded affliction commonly referred to as writers block.

But I did relay to him the problems I had been recently having with my writing.

Recently my mind had been clear and was revealing to me many secrets of the universe. These flashes of brilliant inspiration left me dizzy and excited and I felt a great need to record them so that the entire world could bask in my limitless wisdom.

But soon the inspiration would pass, and I would have recorded nothing.

Mr A thought this most strange and asked why I did not instantly race to the computer to record my thoughts.

I replied that I had recently felt a general apathy towards my writing. I could not bring my self to write any thing more complex then a few short Deonistic poems like:

I can’t fly
But I can dance
And if I dance
Oh noes, my nose
That cat stole your nose!

I told Mr A that at first I had thought that I could not just write my thoughts straight down. I needed a medium. So over the last few weeks I had mastered (in no particular order) oil painting, air brushing, photography, web page design, Cajun cooking, bonsai and the tambourine, but nothing could adequately convey my true thoughts.

So I decided I needed more inspiration to fuel my passion for writing. In one frenzied night I flew through the works of Kafka, Kant, Joseph Heller, Arthur Miller, Joyce, Shakespeare, Dickens, Wells, Tom Wolfe, my mind was spinning with all the secrets of the universe.

I fell asleep assuring myself that tomorrow I would write the greatest cantos the world had ever seen.

That night I dreamt that I was back at my old high school. I was being chased by no less then seven six foot tall Chicko rolls. As fast as I ran they were always just a few steps behind me. Finally they caught me and dipped me in Tabasco sauce. (No mean feat since they had no arms, and I seem to recall the whole event being aided by an eight legged hippo)

I awoke the next morning in a cold sweat and when I sat at my computer to write all I could manage was “I am not Shakespeare’s pantaloons”.

Mr A suggested that I had best not eat fried chicken before bed.

I thanked him for his advice and paid the bill for the both of us.

On the way home I was struck in the head by a flying saucer and required seventeen stiches in my pineal gland.

(*Note, the above events may not have actually happened)