Constipation: The Choice of a New Generation

My friend, Machismo Wainwright, recently suffered a bout with constipation. Now, I know you may not want to know about it. Hell, I didn’t even want to know about it. The thing is, we both know about it now, so what the hell.

Machismo simultaneously informed myself and several other infirmed souls of his constipation. I guess that’s how to tell that someone really values one as a friend. Telling someone about one’s own bowel movements, or lack thereof, is a level of trust only reached by the best and most trusted of friends. A quick gogel* search states that the only things higher than informing a friend of your constipation are, leaving in Vegas what happened between you two in Vegas and helping each other dispose of a body. Just like Jeremy Piven and Andrew McCarthy in that movie they were in! Now that’s friendship! Wait, or did one of them shoot the other one. Who cares I’m only watchin’ that movie once. Maybe twice in spirit, if I ever watch Rough Night.

Here’s the thing. I’m writing about Machismo’s constipation because I myself, was suffering from a constipation of a different nature. Not that I was suffering from Writer’s Block, it was more of a preparation thing. I needed a post and this topic just seemed to flow faster than the others. Sometimes, some things just percolate faster than others.

Along the way, I had an epiphany. I bet if Writer’s Block were called Writer’s Constipation, there would be a lot fewer MacBook toting, double chai expresso* macchiato, non-fat, extra whip drinking chodes talking about their affliction. Instead of prattling on to their, jealous of the creative lifestyle accountant friends, they’d probably keep it on the down low. Maybe read around for some inspiration. Then again, there’s always the tried and true writer’s ex-lax of adding a gun and killing everyone. Go all George R.R. Martin on that shit and drive it over a cliff.

 


Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to go see a man about a horse. For more Machismo Wainwright check out this post.

*Yes, I meant to spell it like that.

**Yes, I meant to spell it like that as well.

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Writer’s Block

I have been doing this blogging thing for a small bit now. I have seen many posts and articles on the topic of writer’s block. The symptoms, the consequences and how to get through it. So this morning I figured, what the hell, I am going to throw my opinionated hat in the ring.

Writer’s block only exists because it has a name. It isn’t anything special that only affects writers. This type of blockage affects other kinds of creative types to: visual artists, audio artists, even mimes.

Oh, but it is also encountered by those who aren’t shoehorned into the traditionally creative lackadaisical types. Except for them, it is called Monday, not accountant’s block, like it is an affliction only the number crunchers that keep the world turning can catch. Seems kind of pretentious doesn’t it? When people would be doing anything rather than what they have been doing. When laziness catches up and just won’t let go. When the duffle bag labelled Fuches (pronounced: foo-chez) is unzipped and found to be empty. When only if one’s abode were to burst into flames could one peel themselves off the couch and put down the streaming television service. It isn’t necessarily a blockage of inspiration, it can also be an unwillingness to work.

So, do what the rest of the world does. Get behind the wheel of the old busted ass battle worn car. Lift kit and dually axle on the hind end. Rusted and bullet riddled, three toned because the passenger door and hood needed replacing. Netting on the windows. Steel windshield with viewing slots like a tank. A trunk full of guns and sorrow. Bumper stickers that inquire “How is my driving?” state “I am proud of my VES Honor Student,” and “Honk if you are horney.” Kyuss’s Blues for a Red Sun has been stuck in the tape deck for over twenty years and is queued up, right where it needs to. You know, the car you keep in the garage of your heart.

When laziness stands hulking and angry, in tighty whities and a Nixon mask. Drive directly into that son of bitch. Nets on the windows down and flapping in the breeze while you lean out the window unloading a submachine gun. While the other you – this is a metaphor after all – riding shotgun hits the button on the rocket launcher. Then says something funny about how they are riding rocket launcher instead of shotgun. And of course the part of you who subscribes to Freudian thought standing on the hood with an electric guitar slung across their back while unloading a shotgun into the air, for no reason other than to make this scene more awesome.

That is how everyone gets through a Monday. That is how one beats writer’s block. By effing doing it. So go do it!