Will's Coffee House

John Dryden, Dramatist, Critic, Poet Laureate, and my ancestor, frequented a coffee house called Will's almost daily, where he would hold forth on sundry subjects with great wit and aplomb. Same deal here, only without the wit or aplomb.

Location: Large Midwestern City, Midwestern State, United States

I am a stranger in a sane land...

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Renewed Apologies

My blogging has been even more sporadic than usual--this has much to do with the terribly imminent approach of the school year (tomorrow morning, 10:00 a.m., I start twisting young minds with my gay-agenda pushing, atheistic, big-government supporting, America-bashing, bleeding-heart liberal perversity), and also to do with the personal issues to which I constantly allude, but which I seem never to directly address herein. This obliqueness on my part is largely the result of a general sense of gentlemanly discretion--and also a certain, hefty amount of embarassment. But let's focus on the former, shall we? There's a proper forum for the airing of one's miseries--it's called "a bar" and only works with total strangers you're never going to see again, and who are cushioned from your snivelling by much booze. Oh, and I suppose there's counselling, but really, why be dull?

So the word continues to be 'mum'--it's just crass, the b*tching and moaning some people do about whomever in their lives is giving them grief--all lives are strewn with misery at one point or another, and again, a quick flip of the news channels will confirm that I and most of us actually have precious little to b*tch about. And besides, is there anything that gets tedious faster than hearing other people describe their woes? I mean, apart from their dreams. And, come to think of it, I suppose their joys are pretty dull, too. Overall, people are at their most interesting when they're talking about something objective--a movie they've seen, a book they've read, a reaction to something outside themselves. These things tend to be varied, and engage the frontal part of the brain where the better parts of the vocabulary are stored. But if you've ever had to listen to a girlfriend complain about her mother for the umpteenth time, or a guy moan about a girlfriend who won't stop complaining about her mother, you'll know what I mean when I say that other people's problems are usually repetitive to the point of inducing catatonia in listeners. If you need to whine, see a shrink, who at least is paid to endure the tedium of your inner life. That's what I do, at any rate.

Anyway, as for the failure to blog, the continued bashing of Bush for various obscenities just seems old-hat--though as well-justified as ever it has been--and I haven't been keeping my head above water long enough to notice anything in the wind of pop culture, either good or bad, to fulminate about. I am therefore substantially mute, and if forced to write, would be thrown back upon the blogger's worst and most unreadable of entries: a description of the minutae of my day-to-day life. Yet, upon reflection, since I live an essentially hermetic existence these days, even this would be worse than the standard "hung out at the parking lot of the Gas 'N Go with the other guys--Brad's totally got this new move on the 'board that he hasn't got a name for yet, but which totally rocks ass" line of tedious crap. So I choose to remain silent, which is best for us all, yes?


Anonymous Anonymous said...

You goddamned tease. You're just trying to get your readership all worked up, so that when you FINALLY surrender to salacious revelation, we won't all feel the sudden and immediate need to go balance our checkbooks.

11:41 AM  
Blogger Yr. Hmbl. & Obdt. said...

Damn. You've seen through my subtle, unscrupulous plans. Yes, it's all true, every word, even the bit about the checkbooks, and so I owe all four people who read this blog--myself included--a serious apology. I'll start with the most important person: I'm sorry, Me.

4:33 PM  

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