A couple decades back, the Rolling Stones sang, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Whodathunk they were talking to me, Joe Journalist.
I want to write about the NCAA basketball tournament, but that’s way overdone. I wanted to write about how every final buzzer simultaneously makes a dream and breaks a heart. How the flight of a leather ball through an iron hoop can send people to heaven, hell or somewhere where reality doesn’t register. But I can’t write about that. The market’s already a little saturated with March Madness columns.
I want to write about 13-year-old Brittanie Cecil, who died after being hit in the head with a puck while attending her first NHL game last week in Columbus, Ohio. But I can’t write about that – way too sad and really nothing left to say. I want to ramble on about the fragility of life. How no matter how much we might acknowledge to the contrary, we never really know how good we have it or how many beautiful people might grace our existence. How life can take a backseat to sports until an innocent girl dies or a plane crashes into a tower. But I can’t write about that.
I’m supposed to be the funny columnist around here.
I want to write about the sweet elixir of music and how it (much like sports) can send relatively reasonable human beings into hysterical states of jumping, jiving and/or wailing in the middle of the night without a care in the world. Can’t write about that though, seeing as I write a SPORTS column.
But if I had my choice, I’d scribe on for hours about my absolute adoration of anyone who can craft any piece of music. How chords from a piano or guitar can reach people on seemingly orgasmic levels. How music is my absolute fuel – waking me up in the morning, putting me to bed at night. How I’ll be a lucky man if I ever find a woman who treats me as well as the music of my life has: always there when I need it, picks me up, gives me solace, flips the think switch in my brain and the dance switch in my body. (And, wow, do I sound like a freak right now. Probably wouldn’t write about that).
Nope, can’t write about music. Wouldn’t be appropriate.
I want to write about alcohol and how, in the words of Homer Simpson, it is “the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems.” But man, how pathetic would that sound?
I’d write about the absolutely awful taste of Jim Beam and Coke, and how I can somehow continue to pound them away on a lonely Friday night. Now I’m just sounding like an alcoholic. Better stop.
I want to write about love and how I think I have a clue. But I can’t talk about that. Too much whiskey in my system.
If I could, though, I’d write about my head spinning from relationships gone wrong. How I know everything happens for a reason, though I’m never really sure why. I’d write about how great it would be to make out at center court in Moby Arena or “make with the love” on the 50-yard line at Hughes Stadium. Can’t do that, though. I think there are journalistic codes against it.
I’d write of love and of hate. I’d speak of touchdowns and turnovers. I’d talk of the harmonic and the horrific.
Truth is, if it were up to me, I’d talk about a lot of things. Oh well. There’s always next time.