Damn Dog

So here is my problem. My writing sucks. I used to be able to sweat up a good rant somethin' fierce a few years ago. The angry years. I could write a ten page letter to my friends about riding the L in Chicago. Walking through the zoo would give me fits of inspiration. I once wrote a two volume essay on the size of an oatmeal cream sandwich. Then much like James Hetfield of Metallica, I came to terms with my shit, and now I have lost my touch.


My Wife blogs. She can write very well. I don't know where she comes up with this stuff. She notices random crap and writes really interesting commentary on it. Its like sleeping with Dave Berry.


One of my friends regularly sends out e-mails regarding mundane crap like getting together for running workouts or dropping her cell phone in a porta-potty. Outstanding.



Even the shampoo bottle label made me crap myself (well, I was already sittin on the can looking for something to read, thus the shampoo bottle.)



So why is it that when a situation practically writes itself, I am stuck. Case in point: My dog, the namesake of this blog recently had a big day. Tori walked across the street to talk with our neighbor, Tracy and brought Maddie with her, off the leash. In moments Maddie took of to play with Tracy's dog, Jake. She totally ignored Tori's commands, running all over the yard with Jake. Pretty embarrassing, but not unusual for a dog. Certainly not ridiculous.. One of our other neighbors was coming out of her house. Maddie runs across the street, into her house, pees on the carpet, and runs out.



Ok. The guy who writes the market reports ought to be able to write a gripping recounting of this. It almost writes itself. In fact, if Maddie could type better, she could write it.



Instead, it falls to me and my only-slightly-better-than-the-dog typing to make sure the world hears. God help us.