Screwin the Pooch, Number 70

For my 70th post, I am wordless, thoughtless, the bin is empty. But not being one of the important posts like the first one, the 25th, the 50th, or that biggee, the 100th, skating on 70 seems almost okay. Wheat always comes with some chaff anyway.

My daughter came home for Spring Break this week. She brought all her dirty clothes, 2 Cds, and an ear infection that soon morphed into more than that. She has been staked out on the couch for 4 days now using tissue by the boxful and pumping fluids hard. All her college buds are in Florida, Can Cun, Aspen or Idaho. It's lucky she had made no plans to join them. Being sick in some tropical paradise is worse than not going at all. I spent a week sick as a dog in the Keys back in the day. I still partied, but all the substances I ingested combined with the 101 temp ended up leaving a week long blank in my long term memory. All I remember is I went and then came back. And I felt miserable the whole time.

One of the Cds she brought home was Pearl Jam's "Lost Dogs". A compilation of tunes that did not make it into any other CD. The songs not deemed worthy at some earlier time, but now, they apparently have some relevance. Pearl Jam must be in need of some quick cash. From what I have heard, these lost songs should have stayed lost. Less than impressive. Way less then impressive. Matter of fact, most of these tunes are barely listenable, if that. I am not sure if I am going to be able to deal with every song in the 2 CD set. No, I am not. Time to punch it out and put something else on. 10,000 Maniacs, "MTV Unplugged". Now there's a CD I haven't listened to in awhile.

I only sat down here to avoid the TV tonight. In my quest to realign my priorities and break some negative cycles, I stopped watching the tube at 8:00 PM, choosing to do something either creative or substantial. Do anything but veg in front of the idiot box. I write now to hopefully find something of interest to share with any who might stop by. I am also practicing my typing by pushing for a faster pace than my normal 20 to 30 words a minute. Let's see, how many fingers do I actually use to type. Both forefingers, both 2nd fingers, both thumbs, and an occaisional pinky. That makes 7 out of a possible 10. Hmm. Not bad for a guy who flunked typing in junior high. Of course, the accuracy with which I use those 7 digits leaves something to be desired. If I failed to re-read what I write, the words would have extraneous letters attached or odd combos of astericks, = signs. an unplanned colon or two, and several lines all in caps cuz I hit the Cap lock button.

I just positioned my fingers on the key pad according to the rules I learned back in typing class. And I also am attempting to type without looking at the keyboard. The pace has dropped to a crawl. But I am not doing so bad. My fingers seem to have a clue even if I don't.

Enough typing rundowns, sick kid reports, and basic run of the mill fooling around. I need to actually put some words of interest down. I keep typing whatever comes to mind in the distant hope that something of substance will reveal itself. Make itself known. Become apparent. Knock on my door.

Do I fall back on the reliable and possibly over utilized distant memories? Wax poetic about how it used to be with that dependably objective 20/20 hindsight I have? Do I pick a subject like politics or religion to rant on, creating hate and discontent among the throngs who wait in line to glimpse my blog? Or do I continue this Seinfeld post and write sweet nothing for 1000 words or so?

Back in my younger and crazier days, I could get into a drug or alcohol induced stream of conciousness piece and keep it going for hours. Just plug in the brain and let it drain onto the paper. Most times, it was garbage. Occaisionally it would be funny and often worth keeping for future enjoyment. The problem with most of it was it was for my eyes only. Not because of deep personal shit, but more because I was the only one who could make sense out of the drivel. As I matured, I found the spontaneity of letting it flow tougher to do. Either I was developing more hangups or I was starting to care about what and how I wrote. I found making a point in less than a 1000 words a challenge worth rising to. I had come to realize that most of my stream of conciousness crap was just that, crap.

So I sit here tonight with no subject in mind. No point to make. Nothing profound to lay down. I just sit and type in pursuit of the new direction I am aiming for. Doing something, anything to avoid being the after hours slug I usually am. It is apparently working. It is now past 10 PM and I have successfully screwed the pooch for 2 hours. But not in front of the tube. All in all, a successful night.