I was sitting here wondering what I would write today, thinking it might be something deep for a change — a belated message of hope for the new year perhaps, some profound nugget of wisdom to share with all of mankind. Something, anything, that might somehow justify my huge salary. Like all celebrities, I live in a state of eternal guilt, too embarrassed even to show my face in public, so ashamed am I that my monstrous wealth is so ridiculously out of proportion with the size of my mortal abilities.
And as I pondered how I might use my humble talents to make this world a better place, I reclined in my black leather office chair, all the better to place my brain in what is known in creative circles as the Inspiration Position.
When I woke an hour later, I was none the wiser, but then I remembered I’d forgotten one vital ingredient of what is known in the artistic world as the Inspiration Recipe. So I went and poured myself a large glass of wine. I find a good Merlot is ideal here, though cheap European beer is perfectly acceptable for those who seek to be inspired but lack the funds to acquire the vintage produce of the world’s finest vineyards. Properly equipped for the task ahead, I took the time to enjoy a few healthy sips, then reassumed The Position.
Almost instantly I knew what it was I had to write, what gift it was I should impart to my fellow man — a blessing of peace and love to ease his earthly burden, to light the often perilous path that each of our souls must tread.
And I knew that I must write this down immediately, lest I forget. But before I could even begin to ease myself back to a sitting posture — as my kindred creative spirits will know, it can be dangerous, even lethal, for the relaxed brain to be shifted too quickly from the Inspiration Position — my chair broke.
I have a long and colorful history of breaking chairs, a career that stretches back to early childhood. There is hardly a chair that ever came into our house that wasn’t in some way harmed, and often irreparably damaged, by my inability to sit still like most normal people. I had to be reclining, or rocking, or “swinging”, as my longsuffering mother used to put it, right before swinging for my ear as the remains of yet another piece of furniture lay in pieces on the ground.
It was she who bought me the black leather office chair as a birthday gift a few years back, no doubt mostly because this chair was actually made to recline, and so surely it could withstand the abuse. There was no way it could succumb like all the others to my destructive and incurable habit.
Alas, she was wrong. And now, with the chair gone from under me, and laying in the position known to all creative artists as Flat On My Back, the inspirational message which had come to me, and which I had intended to pass on to all of humanity, had gone. Disappeared. Vanished into the ether along with the equally inspired swear words I uttered in my brief moment of shock, as I hurtled to the ground.
In a desperate attempt to recapture the moment, I drank another half bottle of wine, and went to lie down on my couch. I dreamed I was poor, that I lived alone save for a fridge stocked with cheap beer, and that instead of a yacht and a Hummer, I owned a ship in a bottle, and a 20-year-old Fiat.
I woke up screaming on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of one more chair in a long line of shattered furniture. One more shattered dream.
I’m sorry. Maybe next week.