In March 2013, I started producing a weekly blog and podcast, and now at the end of July 2016, the total adds up to approximately 40 months, or 160 blogs, each one running between 500 and 600 words. Easy math tallies up to a minimum of 80,000 words. The typical word count of a novel is 80,000 words, and Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray ran a mere 78,462, which means I have surpassed that by almost 2,000 words. Oscar, you slacker.
Is this my long-winded way of telling you I am now suffering from writer’s block? Not at all. What I’m suffering from is what I call writer’s Mount Vesuvius. I have so many thoughts running through my brain right now I could ramble on and perhaps rival Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, which ran 587,287 words. I can hear my editor pleading right now, “Please don’t.” Yes, I desperately need an editor because I have an apparent disregard for punctuation and a stream of consciousness that could make William Faulkner step back and say, “Say what?”
Here are some of my thoughts right now. The end of VHS is near. I know that because I just read it. I have a box full of old cassette tapes in my closet containing years of radio shows, and those tapes died with the dinosaur. The vinyl record disappeared but is now making a comeback. And the Republican National Convention featured an entrance by Donald Trump that rivaled the WWE; Rudy Giuliani did his best audition for the lead role in the Hermann Wilhelm Göring story. In his attempt to discredit Hillary Clinton, the Double WHOPPER from New Jersey Chris Christie angered the people of Nigeria with his statements about bringing back our girls, when in fact Nigeria’s government also opposed designating Boko Haram a terrorist group. And Mike Pence, the man who wouldn’t shut the f— up, delivered a filibuster, not a speech, and the Trumpet missed a kiss on Pence’s forehead. Long live the air kiss.
So I watched the CHEETOS-colored fool strut and fret for over one hour on the stage, and as I sat drowning my fears and anger with ice cream and cookies, wondering why I had given up alcohol. lt occurred to me that Donald Trump intended to talk long enough that people might forget that he had made anti-gay speeches, made fun of women, Latinos, and African-Americans not to mention my mother’s Native American people, and literally mocked with his body movements and words a disabled reporter. Donald Trump did one thing very well, as did Hitler. He delivered gloom and doom and played on people’s fears. He said he was the “law and order candidate,” and I expected to hear the theme from Gunsmoke in the background. I saw enough ten-gallon cowboy hats being held up by half-gallon brains to last me the rest of my life and not one black Bart in the crowd.
I’m not going to believe that a lying misogynist, bigot, racist, homophobic crook can change his stripes no matter how many speechwriters he and his wife and little trumpets overpay or how long he looks smug and rants and raves on the stage. Now back to my ice cream and cookies. I wonder how a scotch and vanilla ice cream float would taste?
In the podcast, there will be rock and roll and the answer to this trivia question: What do Joe Walsh and Ringo Starr have in common? I hope you’ll join me on the shores of Rambling Harbor.