Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Punch Drunk Love

If Marshall Mathers had a million dollars, he'd "buy a damned brewery and turn the planet into alcoholics."


I'd likely get a boat.

Or someone to edit this freakin' short film...

When I worked at a certain newspaper, a certain editor of mine (Let's call him Brian Clark) had a certain saying that went a lil' somethin' like this: "Make it happen."

Can't get a lead on a story? "Make it happen."
Can't get the Mayor on the phone? "Make it happen."
Can't string two coherent sentences together because Brian Clark has hidden your "thinking bat" behind the obnoxious stuffed Aflac Duck on a sled? Yep. You guessed it: "Make it happen."

Basically it means "no excuses."
"Failure's not an option."
Or, my favorite, "NO WHINING."

As whiners often inflame my inner sense of "shut the hell up before I bitchslap you in the mouth," I tend to try to avoid said activity by either: a) resorting to epic bitchery or b). scowling (seems the laser beams that shoot from my eyes are often quite enough to communicate my irritated inner monologue: "My God, you are a fucking idiot. It is incomprehensible to me how you remember to feed yourself. You know what would please me at this moment? If you were to reenact for me the conclusion of Thelma and Louise. Nope. I don't care which character you choose--although you look more like Gina Davis than Susan Sarandon. Either way, that's not the point. The ending is all I'm looking for here. Yes. Yes, you imbecile. Both characters DIE at the end.") I spelled it out here for those of you who can't currently see my eyes. Courtesy and proper breeding? I have it.

So--given my desire to direct whiners to a fiery conclusion at the base of the Grand Canyon--why is it that recently I have caught myself squirmy and mealy-mouthing with my voice at a noticeably higher-pitch?


I'm not afraid of working hard. In fact, were I to condescend to advertising speak, I'd say I'm usually what one might call a "go-getter"--especially when I know what I want. So why am I having such difficulty lately?

I think the answer may lie in the observation.

"When I know what I want."


Therein lies the kicker.

Recently, I can say with full certainty that I have absolutely no idea what I want. A boat, sure. But in the grander sense. I mean, take Eminem for instance. The man knows what he wants: to make the entirety of the human and animal population chemically dependent upon his output.


I dig it.

And at one point in my life, I thought that's what I wanted too. (That and the power to enact the Thelma and Louise thing.)

I wanted people to be drunk on my ideas. To stumble on my thoughts--and, thoroughly intoxicated, ask the bartender for another hit. In short, I wanted nothing more than to enter your mind through your throat and seep down to your very guts. I wanted to make you giddy with my presence, and, on occasion, make you unable to stomach me. And while you may vomit me in the back bathroom of some sleazy bar or from the passenger side of your best-friend's Aveo--while you may curse my name and swear before Dagon that you will never imbibe me again--we both know the next weekend would find you drinking from my fountain. And your best friend knows it too.

Maybe I still want the same things. Maybe all I need is the proper vehicle for my ideas. Let's just hope for your sake and mine it's not a 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible.

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