Well, folks, we're rolling into that time of year where I just want to kill myself, where it's easier to report on what isn't happening than on what is happening, because THERE IS NOTHING HAPPENING!
I remember early in my lengthy, dignified, and storied career as a respected local music journalist I would find this to be one of the most challenging times of the year because of the entire absence of anything to write about, and though a great deal of time has elapsed since then, in which man has made great strides in so many different regards, still, it must be noted that nothing is going on now at all. Nothing. At all.
Or, you could look at it this way: all those things that go on the rest of the year, aren't going on now either. Not here, anyway. And all the things that are going on everywhere else (and there are many of them, too, fascinating things that we can barely even dream about) are likewise completely missing. I would be happy to tell you about something, but I can't because there isn't any. And, speaking as a journalist, that makes this a particularly harrowing time of year for the writing and everything, because there's a complete lack of subjects.
This is where my years of expertise in the field go right down the drain. No one could possibly write about anything now. A lot of people would start making up things, and in the past, when I was just a cub reporter and the vast confines of the Community Newspaper Company were way smaller, I, too, went this route more than once, inventing fake bands and giant, lavish non-existant nightclubs for them to play at. However, over the years, my prose has ripened to the point that the integrity of my unflinching gaze spares the reader nothing, leaving me crusty, bitter, and frozen, like an out-of-date bagel.
The club report reads like this: stay home! Give up. No one is playing anywhere, and I'm not sure when or even if they ever will again. This could be it. All that fun we had already? -just be glad you had that. Sit down and shut up.
I thought the Sopranos starting up again would help, but jeese, Tony's in a coma- great! When I grew up, that never would've happened. Can you imagine tuning into “I Love Lucy” and she's on life-support and Ricky and Fred and Ethel are all standing around the bed, waiting for her to come to, and that's the whole show? And it took them two years to think of that?!?
Somebody, book a show, get divorced, have a heart attack, make a sandwich, anything! I will be happy to write about it. In fact, if anyone, anywhere, knows about anything that happens, I will pay you five hundred dollars and publish your picture on the front cover, practically (except for those last two things.)
For not until people do things can we write about them. To write about things that don't happen, honestly, and with the kind of detail and focus which should've won me many national and international journalism-type awards, that is the challenge, and it is a challenge from which I shall never shrink.
[For a taped transcript of tonight's commentary, please deposit $18.50 and kick the machine once, sharply, on its snout.]
