Snippets.

I've decided that gym passes are too frugal an expenditure right now. Instead, tomorrow morning, I begin something new. Gonna head down to the office highrise near my place and climb their stairs. 15 floors, see how I do. My starting goals are low, see how my bum knee holds up, considering that it's the real deal, none of this hydraulic gym equipment crap.

Indoors, free, and a bitch to do. Ha.

***

Will Smith has taken on a pretty challenging role in his new flick, The Pursuit of Happyness. Thing is, he's always had some pretty good skill in him. He blew me away as a legless homeless guy in a wheelchair in Where the Day Takes You, long before Independence Day and Men in Black.

The film flopped, and he stayed pretty mainstream after that. Great flick, tho. Hopefully he continues to try to have a little more depth on the screen. I think he could be a lot less shallow than he has been, but maybe I'm overrating the dude.

***

Yeah, okay, Michael Richards is an asshole. Can we move on? Yes. Biggoted statements were made. Down right pointy-white-hat things were said. What makes Mel Gibson so special that everyone's moved on from his antics? Oh, that's right, he's an irresponsible alcoholic. The demon drink made him do it! Richards was just born ignorant and yellow, right? According to the pundits, Richards' rant is supposed to be a career-ender.

I dunno. Giving people a second chance seems to be an all right notion in my mind. If he's so sorry, let him prove it. It'll do more good than sitting around flaming the fucker.

I never just accept apologies. It's always "prove you're sorry." Prove it. Let him. What's the worst that can happen, some guilt-ridden public service? That'd suck.

***

I took the bus this morning. I was doing some writing. Some of my then thoughts:

I think I'm deliberately starting work late so I have more excuse to avoid writing. "Didn't get around to it" in the morning and "too tired to bother" in the night. It's hard right now. Real fucking hard. Takes too much. So, I'd rather not try, just scrape the surface in an effort to distract you from the fact that I ain't cracking much of a nut.

(An image I wrote: I feel like some horribly disfigured survivor of an unthinkable accident, staggering through her days, doing almost anything she can to avoid catching her reflection. In this analogy, the reflection is the introspection of writing. Twisted, eh? Yeah, you don't get to see my journals, boys and girls. We're rated G, as in games the whole family can play.)

I was watching the Kennedy Center Honors last night, when Neil Simon received the Mark Twain Lifetime Achievement Award. If anyone deserves it... (Now why did Steve Martin get it before Neil Simon?) Paul Reisner was telling a story about how Simon would travel to his set with "that PBS bag that they give you and you never use? Well, Neil uses his!" for carrying five or six ragged notebooks, each with a work in progress. Some going well, most not. Problem plays that needed solving and his next big production.

Reisner remarked about how it seemed so easy, since he was Neil Simon and all. Simon responded, "Writing is always hard. It is never easy."

And then it hit me. Of course I don't want to write. Right now, I'm not wanting to go spelunking through my inner self to churn up more deep, dark secrets. I'm pretty damned tired of adversity, and the problem with writing is simple: All writing, whatever the topic, whatever the genre, is about conflict. Hell, all life is. And writing is life. Cliche, cliche, sound bite, ad nauseum.

Whatever the case, I don't wanna fire up the goddamned microscope and get analysing. I don't have anything to really say about society, not in the way I want. Something has jarred me -- could be any number of things. The recent weirdness with Dad's illness, work instability, "who am I" bullshit 30-something when-am-I-gonna-be-THAT wonderings, "the Right Stuff" internal queries I've begun, the seasonal "wish I had a mom" mundanity. Or, PMS.

Thing is, I'm not begrudging life too much. It's all right. For the moment. There's an element of volatility I hate. Suspense is not my friend in most aspects of life. Far too many of my surprises have sucked ass. No, no suspense for me, pal, unless it's a la Spanish Prisoner or the Game or something.

If I felt creative, that'd be different. My new extreme idea of doing the real-life stair-climbing for exercise is also as a result of realizing I need some blood flow going on or nothing's gonna flow, period.

* * *

So it's interesting, then, that I should learn tonight that experts say the three best places to develop creativity are: The Bed, The Bath, and... wait for it: The Bus.

I do love to write on the bus. This is bus season. Bring it on. Riding the bus has given me a great many good writing moments and has planted the seed for some darned good pieces. The bed's a good place. Baths, yeah, I get out of it often and get hit by something to write. More than a few things have been done in a towel, I must say.

I'm gonna hope the turbidity (level of silt and other matter in tap water due to storms of late) has decreased enough that having a bath doesn't seem so unappetizing now. I could use one. It's a cold world out there tonight as the cold front gets closer. Throw the warm air in the mix and a nasty chilly bank of fog is forming to my immediate south. I'm gonna bundle up somethin' fierce for bed tonight.

It's nipply. Brr!