That's what this blog is lately.
L. A. M. E.
Of course, it's not like there's nothing to write about these days. Unfortunately, what there is to write about is the same-old, same-old that there was to write about last week and that there will be to write about next week. It's like the Pulitzer Prize-winning, Oprah-blessed book I just finished reading, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. Also lame. (And how does a book that doesn't use contractions garner the Pulitzer? What are the criteria these days? Laziness in grammar? Saving trees by eliminating contractions and quotation marks, thereby saving 3.6 sheets of paper out of a 287 page book?)
I'm not even going to bother fully reviewing this book. Suffice it to say, the same scenario plays out over and over and over again with only minor variation here and there. In the end, the father dies and the son is left alone to fend for himself, but only long enough to cry crocodile tears before other survivors of the nuclear holocaust come along and take him in. This is a book that many of the nation's largest newspapers have anointed "the best book of the year."
How or why, I haven't a clue. If you've read it and can tell me how this book is comparable to a classic like William Golding's Lord of the Flies, I'll give it a second chance. Until then, lame. Out of five stars, minus three.
And continuing on a theme of lame...
Nothing happenin' here.
I need to dig my head out of whatever hole it's buried in and get back on the horse.
Hm. Mixed metaphors; a sure sign my writing is going to hell in a handbasket.