Meanderings: March 21, 2000

Tuesday,
March 21, 2000

Listening to:	Björk, Björk
Reason:	I dunno -- because it sounds good?

What the hell am I doing wrong here, people? I found yet another blindingly brilliant journal (Erm. . .), and as I read through it I was struck dumb by the sheer humor, passion and elegance of Mrs. Minge (and the Oncoming Mingelet) as she describes the horror of the office "do" and the perverse frisson of spotting Posh Spice in Safeway's.

And then I look at my entries, and I see. . .burbling. And not particularly interesting burbling at that. I write for a living, dammit -- why can't I produce entries like this?

Of course, I know why -- I'm not English. I wasn't raised in a culture that still glorifies flashing wit and dazzling repartee (as opposed to American culture, which glorifies the willingness to go on The Jerry Springer Show and discuss your penchant for sex with transsexual midgets. If you can be convinced to throw a punch at your SO's bisexual Klansman brother afterwards, so much the better). And -- even more damning -- I'm married to an Englishman who evinces these selfsame qualities (having honed his talent in an university improv troupe, he was heartbroken when the troupe finally made it to Edinburgh the year after he dropped out to concentrate on his studies, otherwise I might have been married to Wolverhampton's answer to Hugh Dennis), so I'm exposed to them on a daily basis. In more ways than one, even.

I just can't imitate them. I wish I could -- being able to write like Minge or Grinder would be a delight beyond earthly comprehension -- but I simply don't have the bittersweet humor or grasp of ironic wordplay that's necessary for this sort of writing. So I will stand here on the sidelines, filled with an appreciative wonder only slightly tinged at the edges with envy, and watch the masters at work.

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