So much to say, so little urge to say it
Opportunities for political comment are popping up all over. Antiwar activist Cindy Sheehan made a visit to my little patch of North Carolina a few days ago, Valerie Plame’s lawsuit against the Bush administration was thrown out of federal court, and the former speaker of the N.C. House suddenly remembered he’s an alcoholic and will need treatment while he serves his federal prison term for corruption, and it’s just coincidence, naturally, that said treatment, if successfully concluded, might reduce his term in the hoosegow significantly — but remember to keep a straight face at that news and be gratified that he’s confronting his demons, because to do otherwise would be cynical and uncompassionate, not to mention an unconscious demonstration of your retrograde belief that just because you’re a stinkin’ drunk doesn’t mean you shouldn’t serve a full prison sentence. (I’ll save you the trouble of counting: That abomination of composition you just read was 129 words long. And I call myself a professional writer.)
So what do I have for you this morning, aside from one absurdly convoluted sentence? A big ol’ steaming pile of squat.
Call it boredom. Call it ennui. Call it an utter lack of anything insightful or profound to offer. I’ll go with whatever you decide. For the moment, I’m desensitized to all things political. Sometimes that’s the effect of working in a target-rich environment. There’s so much in your sights that paralysis sets in.
This happened to my daughter once when she was a toddler. One of her uncles, a notably generous soul when it comes to children, took her to a huge toy store at the mall on her birthday and told her to pick out whatever she wanted. They wandered the aisles for a long time, and by the end of the visit my daughter announced she wanted — nothing. She was overwhelmed. With so much to choose from, she chose to not choose.
That’s what I’m doing, at least for the moment and in regards to politics. I’m choosing not to choose between the many selections of low-hanging fruit. That’ll surely change soon, and when it does I’ll take a huge swan dive back into political punditry. (Hey, if I’m gonna write crazy-long sentences, I may as well traffic in cliches and mix metaphors, too.)
In the meantime, have yourself a fabulous Monday. And be glad you haven’t publicly declared yourself to be a boozehound before you set off for prison. Because let me tell you, when you get out of prison, you’re gonna want a drink.