“It’s better to be dead and cool than alive and uncool.”
Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man, screenplay by Don Michael Paul
Writing a newspaper column can sometimes be difficult, especially during cosmic catastrophes. But I usually find a way to break through even the most debilitating mental anguish.
For example: It was just the other day, and I was trying to help a slick fielding young shortstop improve his hitting skills. As my daddy used to say, the kid couldn’t hit a ball with a boat oar, so in desperation, I decided to try something new. I put a ceramic pot on his head and told him to stand in the batting cage while I engaged the pitching machine.
“But how will I see the ball with the pot on my head,” he whined.
“You must learn to use the force, Luke,” I said.
“My name is not Luke,” he countered.
“Zip it!” I said. “This is MY column. Once you learn the ways of the force, get on base you will. You must feel the force all around you; between you, me, the bat, the ball, the pot on your head.”
So, he shrugged his shoulders, walked into the batting cage, and stood right on top of home plate.
Good thing I put that pot on his head, or else the force of the ball striking his skull would have rendered him a lifelong Democrat for sure, perhaps even a future Senate majority leader. And I didn’t want to be responsible for that.
So, we put away the ancient Jedi religion for the time being.
But just as I was leaving the batting cage, I suddenly felt a great disturbance in the force, as if millions of Braves fans had suddenly cried out in terror.
Sometime later, I learned the source of the disturbance: Ronald Acuna Jr. had torn his ACL and would be lost for the remainder of the season.
The melancholy that settled over me made me want to write a lament, an elegy, a dirge, a requiem mass. Certainly not a light and playful newspaper column.
I considered waiting for a chum with a bottle of rum but decided that might take too long.
So, I decided to see if one of my lucky hats might help me cheer up the part of my brain that does the column writing.
First, I tried my lucky column writing visor. Still, after wearing it for a few minutes, I threw it on the ground. I started writing a column about Georgia’s most lopsided losses to Florida, a column I discarded because quite a few of my newspaper colleagues graduated from UGA.
Later, I dusted off my hounds-tooth fedora, but it only inspired me to haul out my guitar and write a song called “Crimson and Fescue.”
We’ll do it using the key of “E” with lots of tremolo. Sing along if you know the old Tommy James and the Shondells tune.
Crimson and fescue Bribes we’ll confess to Crimson and fescue Dogs don’t impress you Crimson and fescue Refs to the rescue Well, that’s about enough of that!
Almost to the point of desperation, I tried my column writing sombrero, but that made me write with a clumsy Spanish accent. I didn’t think our editors and proofreaders would be amused by my taking such liberties with the language.
So, I put on a headband and forged ahead. My hair successfully pulled away from my eyes, and I put my hands over the keyboard, expecting brilliance to surge from my fingers onto the page like always.
Instead, I experienced a case of writer’s block as demoralizing as trying to cross the Hwy 44 bridge over Lake Oconee on a Friday afternoon at 5 p.m.
But I refused to be a victim. If Trump can run the country from Ryker’s Island, I told myself, I can certainly finish this column.
So, I decided to become the villain, or at least the varmint. Let the world pour derision and blame upon me. I had a column to save.
So, I put the visor back on and wrote an ode to Steve Spurrier celebrating the 52-17 shellacking Florida put on Georgia in 1995. I signed it, George P. Burdell, just to drive the knife in a little deeper. A villain must have no heart.
Then, I put my houndstooth fedora back on, took the Telecaster out of its case again, and wrote a song called, “I’m a Ramblin’ Wreck named Carson Beck and a hell of an engineer.”
Finally, I put on my sombrero, but all I could think about was chips and salsa, so I walked down the hill to Jalisco and had some.
But I had defeated writer’s block.
Selah.