Moon Pies Over Marana

Racing mobility scooters at Walmart before a double double.

Anthropomorphizing writer’s block.

TGC Substack pitch meeting.
Writer’s Room
July 3rd, 2023, 11 pm

Well, I’m not going to take attendance today Good Citizen because it’s just you and I again my buddy. Whatchya got for me today?

Today? For a year I’ve had thirty posts in various stages of incompletion in the drafts folder, and we’re not buddies.

Well, why don’t you publish one?

Because you never let me finish them and then demand something new and better and nothing is ever good enough.

That’s true, but I just want the best for you. Why don’t you pitch me something new, something exciting, something that will rouse the key demos we need to really expand this place into a spectacular digital show of attention extraction and monetization?

Those “key demos” are all broke. They don’t want to work. And they don’t even read.

There you go. Great idea! How about a think piece about the rise of hyperindividualism and immediate visual gratification destroying the middle-class work ethos of young kids through focal depletion with rampant nihilism also opening the doors for woke culture, victimhood mentalities, learned helplessness—

Piss off! That’s been done a thousand times. I don’t need to present anything to you. In fact, I don’t want you here at all. Why do you keep showing up to these meetings?

I’m your writer’s block. I keep you from writing regrettable content.

Bullshit. All you do is eat the pastries and keep me from creating anything interesting. All you do is make me doubt everything.

Doubt is good. It forces you to filter out the—less good content. You’re a content creator now whether you like it or not.

I’m a writer asshole. Content creators are douchebags. They have no consideration for the time and attention of other humans.

But! Their ability to capture people’s attention makes them lots of money. Content creators drive Lambos, you don’t even own a car.

I don’t want one. They’re a nuisance.

Content creators smash hot chicks and—

They’re another tribe of social controllers justifying their scams with hysteria, neurosis, staged do-goodery for emotional appeals, false optimism, misguided takes, clickbait, shameful displays of grotesque hyperconsumerism, quick cuts of mumbo-jumbo, and meta dialogues involving subconscious phantasmagoric insecurities that all end with desperate pleas for more money.

There you go! Hyper cuts! Join Tik Toc and start choreographing dances.

Piss off! I write. And Tik Toc is for idiots.

Fair enough, but every good writer needs ideas, and you need me to help you filter out the bad ideas.

Every idea that has worked here has been a result of ignoring you. You’ve never approved anything.

That’s not true. I approved—uh, I approved that piece on—

On what? Go on then, name one piece you’ve approved.

Are you gonna eat that last Danish? I just don’t want to see you embarrass yourself, because I care about you.

Why don’t you start by caring about yourself, and stop embarrassing yourself?

What do you mean Good Citizen?

I mean put that disgusting Danish down and ride your stupid mobility scooter out of this room and never come back.

Ok. Fine. Can I take the Danish with me? Ok. Fine. Can you at least get the door for me, I’m disabled.

Get the hell out!

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The southwest heat wave has been relentless. The long-term forecast shows no reprieve. After the first week, things seemed, not so superbad. Triple digits around here feel like the low nineties back in Orygun. It’s all relative with the right attitude, a willingness to acclimate.

“It’s the dry heat,” they say, “it’s not so bad.” And maybe they’re right. Dry heat like a sauna without dumping half the bucket of humidity on the coals is tolerable, and sometimes pleasant.

Anyway, it’s all a dance between air-conditioned zones. House, car, office, car, big box retailer packed with diabetics on mobility scooters, car, house, car, pancake house, car, House of Szechuan, car, fun house, car, donut house, car.

Bouncing between cool zones in the Sonoran desert, the sweat on your skin evaporates as it exits your pores. The hot wind blasts the exposed epidermis like a hair dryer at close range. The body knows it should do something to cool down but it doesn’t realize how useless its attempts become.

It’s a blazing Friday evening.

The parking lot of Walmart is cooking over 110 Fahrenheit in the shade (44C).

I’ve never been inside a Walmart. Ever.