Until Dave Barry returns . . . .

My senior year in high school, I had a column in the school newspaper. "Dirty Laundry," it was called. Oooh, wasn't I clever.

Actually, I was, a little bit. I reread these columns every once in a while, when I stumble across the box they're in while I clean out the closet. They hold up all right. (Either that, or I simply have not improved as a writer or thinker in the past 13 years.) (That's right, 13 years since I was a senior in high school. For more information, see previous post.)

I mean, they're not works of ground-breaking literary genius or anything. I lost my wallet, I wrote about that. I did my income taxes for the first time, I wrote about that. I initiated a contest for my loyal readers to create a new superhero just for our school, all 4 of them sent in entries. No, my witty musings weren't changing the world. But they were good enough to get my journalistic colleagues at the Cavalier Chronicle to vote me "Most Likely To Be Dave Barry." That, my friends, was high praise indeed, and I say that with nary a trace of my usual smarm and sarcasm. I even got a national award for one of them--I wrote about the time I was over at a good friend's house when she was getting ready for a dance, and I got to see the whole preparation process, which of course is something of a mystery to the male gender, especially at 17. The National Association of Press Women gave me an Honorable Mention for that one. What can I say--chicks dig me.

Actually, upon reading that column now, I can see with the X-ray glasses of hindsight that I was completely and hopelessly in love with this friend of mine, and the award that I thought was bestowed upon me for my writing prowess was actually more of a consolation prize from those nice ladies in the NAPW. Thanks, ladies. But I digress. What I actually wanted to talk about was not my glorious achievements as a high school journalist nor my unrequited teenage obcrushions. No, what I was thinking about originally--what I was somewhat surprised by, actually--was that back then I somehow always managed to have something to say about something, and I usually managed to say it reasonably well. Well enough, at least, that people enjoyed reading it. And I used to occasionally lament the fact that I no longer had a newspaper column of my own from which to hold forth and expound on such weighty topics as buying a first car or cleaning one's room.

Those days are over. Newspaper column--bah! That is SOOOOO 20th century. Here I am with my very own blog--no editors, no length restrictions, no punches pulled, no quarter given. Look out world, and be advised that nothing is safe from the sting of my wit, the glare of my scrutiny, or the good stiff shot of truth that is poured from my metaphorical flask.

So, now, what do I say?

*SIGH* I find myself at a loss. I'm trying to decide if my life has become that boring, if I'VE become that boring, or if having so much freedom to speak on whatever I choose has paralyzed me into a half-lidded, drooling silence. This, I guess, is what my 6th-grade English teacher (Ms. Mansfield, Swift Creek Middle School, Go Sailors!) used to call "The Power Of The White." She was referring, of course, to the intimidation produced by staring at a blank page. If you're like me, you're glad I explained that quickly--when I first walked into her classroom, there was a sign on her bulletin board that said, "Conquer The Power Of The White!" and, not seeing any further explanation, I wondered if she was part of some militant minority group.

See, you laughed a little. I suppose that's as good a reason as any to say something.

I always liked the Janis Joplin recording where she says, "I'd like to do a song of great social and political import," and then launches into "Mercedes Benz." I've always thought that there was truth for her embedded in that bit of stage shtick. I, too, would like to do a song of great social and political import. Alas, I think I have spent my intellectual capital on an e-mail I sent to my brother-in-law earlier tonight. What started out as a simple, quick response to an article he had e-mailed me became, as layer upon layer of my thoughts were peeled back, a complete skewering of the article's hapless author. Fun and invigorating (Ross' response: "Dude that was an awesome email!"), but a bit draining. Without subjecting you to the whole thing, let me sum up my diatribe by saying that:

1) I don't believe that noted sci-fi author Orson Scott Card wrote the Ender's Game series of stories and books to be Nazi propaganda.
2) "Propaganda" that you have to research, decode, squint at, and polish with your shirttail to find probably isn't going to convert many people.
3) If you want your scholarly opinions to be taken seriously, don't use the title of your article to spew forth personal attacks--for example, the title "Orson Scott Card Has Always Been An Asshat" tends to diminish the intellectual impact of your message.

And, P.S., don't screw around with one of my favorite books. There's your social and political import. And that's all the import you get today; that, and random stories of my high school glory are all the Power Of The White I am able to conquer.