…or I could just lay on the couch all week and masturbate to Victoria’s Secret catalogs

Life (such as it is) with Jimbo:

The good news: the next book may be pushed back, giving me a little more time to polish it up. The bad news: that would mean this site gets short shrift for another month or two, and the big stone block hanging over my head will stay there into the summer.

…and here we thought this was a win-win for us. But here’s the really big news.

But I cannot continue to spend my days drinking Seed Corn Smoothies forever. I need two days to myself and two days after that. Looks like I’ll get them, too – my wife and child will be taking a trip with her Mom and sister in the summer, and I’ll have nine days alone.

I know exactly what I’ll do. I’m going to drive home along the old highway 10, the road that tied Fargo and Minneapolis together before the interstate was built. Small towns every 20 miles. I’ll stop whenever I want, take pictures, maybe even hole up in a small motel, drop into town, find a bar, open the laptop, and get my ass kicked for being from the city. No, that wouldn’t happen – Highway 10 is the road all the big city folk take to their cabins and resorts; they’re used to the cosmopolitans showing up Friday with their creels and creased pants.

That’s my dream, anyway. Dog in the back and the road ahead. We’ll see.

We assume that this little trip will bear Jasper’s forthcoming Steinbeck-ian travelogue: Travels with Forehead-Boy. But in the meantime, we want to address Lilek’s inability to actually get any writing done.

Now, we’ve read his Newhouse columns that he’s always going on and on about (” Finished Friday’s column on the mysteries of mayonaise and went outside to smoke a cheroot and see if the neighbor lady left her blinds up again”) and we’re not talking high art or even middle-brow art that risks inducing a “It’s funny because it’s true” snort before we turned to see what hijinks Marmaduke is up to these days. So it’s obvious he’s not suffering tortured artist/writers block syndrome. Or at least not suffering enough. So it must be the books? Go here to see the hard work he puts in. I’ll wait. Hmm hmm hmmmm

(Its all about the he says she says bullshit
I think you better quit
Lettin’ shit slip
Or you’ll be leavin with a fat lip
Its all about the he says she says bullshit
I think you better quit talkin that shit
(Punk, so come and get it)
Its just one of those days
Feelin’ like a freight train
First one to complain
Leaves with a blood stai-)

Okay, you’re back. So I assume that you saw that we’re not talking meticulous wordsmithing here. So why does it take him so long to generate a book that Joyce Carol Oates could knock off while buttering a bagel (did you know she writes an entire 600 page novel everytime she takes a poop? You can look it up). Maybe because of this:

Today: the second week of spring break, continued. For variety’s sake we played Crazy Eights, which is UNO without the drama. Off to the Play Place to kill some time; much fun, and an excellent opportunity to observe other parents. A few Dads – some have the stolid big-belly look of a grandpa spending time with the squirts, or an older guy who married a younger woman and finally said, okay, what the hell, we’ll have kids. One young Goth dad watching his wife and child with no expression whatsoever, but you could hear the wheels whirring: let me out let me out let me out. Then we went to Target to get the chairs for the gazebo.


Anyway, the boxes didn’t fit in the Galileo, so I had to drive back after supper. Why? Because I want the gazebo with the chairs and sofa in the backyard. Because I want to spend at least one summer day reading a book in the shade, or at night by lamplight listening to crickets itch themselves, drinking a cool Effen, working on a harsh cigar, pausing only to get up and dance with Gnat in the twilight to “Jump in the Line” by Harry Belafonte and the PSB “Ab Fab” mix. (Sorry, they came up on the shuffle while I was writing.) And I’ll have it. I will.

We don’t begrudge Lilek time with Gnat (although she may differ on that account) but, Jesus on a feeding tube, can he go a day without running down to Target to buy more crap? So when he starts talking about hitting the road with laptop and dog in tow like a Kerouac for mouthbreathers; don’t believe it. He’s going to be watching Saved By The Bell: Season Two on DVD and wondering how he can stretch three columns and five complaints about how busy he is out of it.

…and maybe another book. Sooner or later.

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