What's to say? Life's good, and nobody's interested in reading about that.
For some reason, the late Ricky Nelson comes to mind. 1950's child-star, 1960's teen-idol singer. His career waned. He tried returning to the music world with new material. Unfortunately, his fans demanded he play his "golden oldies" and booed him when he didn't. That experience was the inspiration for his final top-40 hit.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I'm reading The Quad-City Times, plodding through another anti-Trump tirade by a familiar, frequent letter-writer. When I'd finished, I thought, "That's the same letter they wrote last month, with the insults re-arranged." No originality, cleverness or sensibility. No humor or wit. Just another string of derisive adjectives piled around this week's outrage du jour. Hate-on-a-plate, if you will.
A pall came over me. Writing should be fun. The whole process; topic selection, point of view, word choice, proofreading, brings me joy. How sad to be so consumed by anger that the topic, "I hate Trump" is pre-ordained.
I couldn't bring myself to pen a rebuttal. That letter, like dozens of its clones, wasn't worthy of response. Been there. Done that. Boring.
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Which brings us back to Ricky Nelson. I now truly understand the meaning of his song, "Garden Party." If predictable, monotonous, hate-filled diatribes were all I wrote...
"I'd rather drive a truck."
Eugene Mattecheck Jr.