The Darkness Right Before Dawn

The Great Plotnik had a series of dreams last night, none of which he can remember, but what he can remember is they left him with his eyes wide open, not wishing to close them again until those dreams went away. What were they about?

What he knows is the general feeling he had while he was lying there in the darkness, which was one of malaise -- uselessness -- drifting -- not the nice sailboat in paradise drifting either, but the what the hell is the meaningless point of it all? drifting.

Ducknik used to laugh whenever Plotnik would have his Home Run Dream, when the pitcher threw the ball and Plotnik smashed it over the fence and out of the county. Oooh, that was a nice dream. He always woke up smiling.

He probably had that dream when he'd finished a new song, because right now he is having trouble finishing another one and when that happens he starts to wallow. He is asking himself: does the world really need yet another one of your quirky takes on humanity, Plotnik? How about a love song, for once? How about something simple, please, without the tempo change? Maybe something somebody could dance to? Waddayasay?

Well, he is trying. Everybody loves "American Joe" so Plotnik is trying to write another simple guitar pattern song. He is trying, goddamit, dreams, let him alone, willya? If this song isn't good enough for you, YOU write it, SHEE MON!

Of course, maybe it's because he talked to his brother Shmeckl on the phone last night. Conversations with Shmeckl Plotnik always end up with Shmeckl going off on the government thieves and the corrupt bankers and the liberal media and how everybody is a liar and it's only a matter of time until this whole boat tips over and we drown in our own sputum.

"Nice talking to you, Bro," Plotnik says, then hangs up and broods for hours. Maybe that was it.

But it's more than that. It's also realizing Shakespeare wrote Julius Caesar at 35. It's not that he couldn't have written another Julius Caesar at Plotnik's age, but that he wouldn't have. What's the point of doing it twice? And if you're not going to do it twice, what else can you do? Travel to Chile?

In Shakespeare's case, he got consumption and died.

This is not an acceptable alternative, thank you. Turn on the f___ing computer and stop whinin'. Get to work.