Couple Miles South of Normal

Still in the mother of all funks.

I think the problem might be that, now that Norman Mailer is dead, his personal writer's block has hit the road, looking for some place to roost. And it's landed on our Santa Monica couch.

Let me just say, for the record, that Norman Mailer's Writer's Block is not welcome. I did not invite Mailer's Block in, I did not offer to inflate the Aerobed for Mailer's Block. If I thought burning sage would help, I'd torch a metric ton of the stuff, smoke detector be damned.

The fundamental disconnect, I think, is that NMWB used to hang out with the big guns -- Ernest Hemingway's Block, F. Scott Fitzgerald's Block, John Updike's Block (although I think Updike's Block killed itself in despair at its consuming failure to actually stop Updike from cranking out a Talk of the Town every two hours.) Mailer's Block expects me to drown it in aged scotch and Marlboro Reds. A 16 oz non-fat latte bounces off Mailer's Block like a Nerf bat.

Generally speaking, the kinds of things I consider to be mood boosters only bewilder Mailer's Block. It sits on its haunches, licking its scaly balls, while I strip the bed, do three loads of laundry and make the bed. "How is that supposed to scare me off?" Mailer's Block wonders, following me with its yellow eyes as I trot off to the kitchen to empty the dish washer.

This could be a very, very long weekend.