Getting Nothing

I got nothing today. I knew this day was coming, because it started a few weeks back and I feel like I’ve been petering out ever since.

I should be spending the hour mocking the Chevy Suburban driver who was about to have a fit that I had parked to close to his back bumper when he saw me getting Ike’s wheel chair out of the back of the 402. I should be filling this up with statement like “When you drive one of the biggest cars out there, a car so big that it seats 9 comfortably, don’t come crying to me when you don’t feel like there’s enough of a space cushion surrounding your car. “And then I’d probably use the word “Asshole” a number of times, wrapping it up in a way that you’d know my middle finger is showing.

Or if not that, then I should be telling you about the Suitcase Project that I taking part in. Local artist Lynn Dinino is putting together a public art project in which more than 50 local artists (and here I use the term loosely, because I count myself among them) have created art out of suitcases for public display. But I want to wait a bit on that story. I want to wait until after the party where everyone brings their suitcases in and tells their story. Otherwise all I’d talk about is the process of my own piece, and that’s about as dry as a text book.

There’s another story about how this website is getting mentioned in the Tacoma News Tribune’s article about local bloggers. But to write about that seems a bit premature, as the story hasn’t even been published yet and for all I know the Trailerpark could just be a small www.footnote at the bottom of the page.

I also could mention last Saturday’s show at Shakabra Java, but it was a sloppy mess, one where Dave and I didn’t manage to get together before hand and then turned out the way all poorly rehearsed shows do: poorly. But here I’d just be whining, since I have no one to blame but myself.

So instead, I’m sitting here at my favorite Wi-Fi truck stop drinking iced coffee trying to shake that feeling of obligation that seems to have taken root today—obligations to write, to take advantage of a wind swept afternoon, to talk about life and truth and beauty and what it means to be alive living in this city of destiny. It’s days like today where the more apathy I muster the more nagging that voice becomes.

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