I had a brilliant idea last night. But I wasn't at the computer. From now on I'm going to have a notepad next to my bed so I can jot down all these brilliant rants to nobody and maybe someone will think I'm an insightful person for it. There's something about writing, something like athletics that relates to the psyche of the performer. Like the athlete, the writer has to get "in the zone" to do his or her own best. I've done some of my most inspired, most quickly-finished reports while dancing back and forth in my chair while techno music rocks on in the background. I'm doing the same right now as I wait for a sportscar to arrive to take me to Fry's for tonight's festivities since I'm kind of in a hurry. And to compensate for the fact that I was purely inspired 24 hours ago but now can't for the life of me remember what it was about the sentences that ran through my head connected like a $1,000 platinum-and-gold luxury jigsaw puzzle. It was political, it blasted people I didn't like, and it was extremely jaded. Nobody would have liked reading it anyway - but in 75 years it would have counted as one of the essential writings of the pre-World War III era.
The way my thoughts bounced around my head last night had the same brilliance as a Dennis Miller rant on a good night. Maybe I've got a career as one of the future Mahers or Millers of the world - speaking of which, I'm buying Bill Maher's new book because it's damned genius, every word of it. Imagine what would happen if the liberals used the same kind of aggressive rhetoric that the conservatives did. And yet every word was interjected with a brilliant logic that hasn't been so clear since the Greeks.
Buy it now.