I have been meaning to carry a pen and paper with me at all times so in the event that I am struck with an idea of pure brilliance (nude laudramats) or even semi-brilliance (Nantucket: A novel based on the Limerick) or even non-brilliance (we are almost out of Jell-O) I would have some sort of written reminder. Of course, this will never happen. The problem with this idea is that I cannot make that watershed note to myself that reminds me to purchase a pen and pocket-sized notepad because I am constantly without these materials. And the scratches I make on the inside of my forearm with my fingernail are worthless; the writing sloppy, the flesh far too moist for any lasting inscription.

But now I have a notepad. Actually, it not a notepad so much as it is 17 ATM receipts held together by a roofer's nail, but it serves the same purpose. I use it. I create. I review. I share. All brilliant thinking, however, came to a screeching halt the minute I pieced this thing together.

To wit:

Put an ad in the newspaper saying you have found a portal into Helen Keller's brain and that, in exchange for $200, readers of this ad can enter this portal and have control of Helen Keller's mind for fifteen minutes. Get the money, lock them in a closet and, for fifteen minutes, keep the noise level down. Retire when wealthy.

Find out if there is a band called The Rhythm Method. If not, start one. Perform every day except for the six days immediately preceding and immediately following ovulation.

Even the smallest tattoo parlor has room for a spelling dictionary.

Hillary Swank is The Devil.

Buy Jell-O.


It's basically 17 pages of that. The funniest part, of course, doesn't happen until page nine. That's the page where it says my checking account balance is exactly nine cents, but I can only take partial credit for that one. I still have checks outstanding, you understand.

A while ago I shared an elevator with a fellow writer person who had a digital recorder on a key chain that was designed for this very sort of thing, recording fleeting moments of brilliance/humor/irony for later transcription.

"How do you like that thing," I asked.

"It's okay," he said. "But ever since I bought it, I haven't had any good ideas."

"But isn't that Ironic in itself?" I countered. "Isn't there value in irony? Maybe you've stumbled on something that no one has thought of, that the only certainty of portable, convenient and infallible record keeping is terminal vapidness. Maybe you should make a note of that."

He furroughed his brow for a moment in consideration.

"I think you're right," he said. Then, to his digital keychain: "from now on we're taking the stairs."

Irony, you see, has always been a touchy subject among writers. If find this very, um, forget it.

Friends, life is precious and when it's not precious it's laughably pathetic and when it's not laughably pathetic it's preciously tragic and when it's all three at once then it's ironic. Sometimes the turtle wins, sometimes the rabbit dies, but, in the end, they both pretty much taste like chicken. And if I had anything left in my checking account, I'd write that one down.
posted by 123454321 at 2:33 PM