Anger Non-Management

Ever had one of those days when every word is torture, every preposition feels wrong, and every simile comes across like…like…like…hell, I dunno.

This is one of those days.

I had planned to write for this space a contextual analysis of Cicero's later speeches, but this writer has no energy for it. In fact, I have no energy for anything except saying that I have no energy for anything and repeating it henceforth. I don't know if this is a cold, allergies, or the effects of repeated exposure to the harsh elements of the Northeast. Maybe due to those goddamn moths that have infested our apartment all summer. But the last frickin' think I want to do is write, fiction, blogging, or otherwise.

I've bellyached about my health in the past, offering it up as an excuse for a lame posting. And I've recently sang the many virtues of coffee. That made me wonder what, precisely, is more fun to write: bitching or praise?

Bitching, hands down. I could sing the praises of Jackie Chan, Judge Judy, Invisible Man, and Schubert until my fingers are ground into dust. I could say how great a writer Wife is, scoring many brownie points to cash in when eventually I make the inevitable Husband Fuckup. I could tell you why the Cubs epitomize good, why Pynchon is a god, and why Kurosawa rocks my world.


Born to write

But why do that when I can say that the Cardinals embody evil, Raymond Carver is a fraud (keep those cards and letters coming!), and why The Pillow Book sucks ass. That's more fun, less challenging, and ultimately more rewarding, if only because all the Cardinal, Carver, and Greenaway fans reading this are feeling their blood boil to the temperature at which steel melts. Forget the love, feel the hate!

It really is remarkable how much jealousy and anger fuels writers, particularly writers of fiction, whose jealousy of another's work can destroy their own fragile sense of self-esteem.

But I'm thinking of something else, actually. Once, in college, some friends and I were going to take some extremely attractive ladies dancing, but a brain-dead co-ed got the idea it would be wonderful instead to see a midnight showing of Purple Rain (which she'd already seen six times). Everybody thought this a good idea except for yours truly, who was never a Prince fan and didn't envision getting any bootie in a movie theater.

As a result, I went home in a fury, and composed a three-page letter outlining Why I Hate Prince and Why People Are Stupid. I mailed it that night to a friend. I never know what happened to that letter (the friend and I haven't spoken in 13 years) or even if the letter was any good (no computers in the good ol' days of the early 80s). But it did get my juices flowing.

So much, in fact, that the mere thought of it has gotten me to write this entire posting without help of coffee, bootie, or "1999" ringing in my ears. Who needs coffee? Let's hear it for bitching! Hoo-fucking-ray!