My friend Dick Daley spends a lot of vicarious time here on GCA after Superbowl Sunday, but how to fritter away the months between football and The Masters without going mad is simple in a world that has actual seasons. You icefish, hunt, drink, ski, sled and try to ring the bell three times a night with the wife.
Gibby, I'm flattered you've noticed the cabin fever clinical symptomatic patterns of gloom in my seasonal writing. You should be in the head shrinker biz.
Alas, you have to additionally factor in the ravages of age to the suggested alternative passtimes one can turn to, in order to drive away the sun affected disorders (SAD). Icefish? Well, you can be older to do so I guess, but even in my darkest moments, the prospect of sitting on a bucket in the great white north on a lake, staring into an ice hole the circumference of one's hat size, waiting for the odd crappie to bite, is beyond my cluttered mind to settle for. Hunt? Nah, I never could see the fun in that. I'm not on the PETA mailing list or anything to morally oppose, it just don't appeal to me. Drink? Ah, now that was something I was once a very low handicapper, but finally age and common sense, and aversion to anymore headbanging mornings has made me into a 2- or 3 limit, near tottler. Ski? See entry on age and aversion to orthopedic injury healing process. Sled? We just had a geezer run his skull into an unfortunately planted pole, as he slid down a snow hill on an innertube. He'll be lucky to match wits with a gerbil after that. And, last but not least... for whom does the bell toll... and when was it ringing? I forget. More like the monthly gong show...
That may bring it down to more repetitive prattle written on GCA, that has already far exceeded my limitted golf travels resume. Or, perhaps starting that opus every washed up old copper thinks they have in them, with the sardonic attitude they think they've seen just about everything, and wouldn't there be a market for yet another novel about a lovable old alcoholic beleaguered by large caseload detective, just trying to make in another year to the gold watch, and now this pesky axe murderer on the loose? Perhaps, just bypass the novel and get it down to a screenplay, and send it to the Papazian Indie Film Production Company, that it be made into a movie to go straight to the grocery store rental rack. (you missed your big chance to get me cheap to act in that scene of the coppers at the door of your coming film release, "Writers Cramp"!!! Portly Detective Sullivan, Daley -no difference, all the Irish ones have the gift...
Come to think of it, with this pathetic missive, and the Packer loss to the Vikes, I'm already in the throes of the Winter Blues... and I'll probably just need more cow bell -if any bell is to be rung once, twice or thrice (dreamer) tonight.
