A Nation Bored: America Waits Patiently for Something, Anything to Happen

he country as a whole has not been doing anything recently. In fact, leading news analysts propose that the total United States has just been going through the daily grind since, approximately, Thanksgiving weekend.

Though a slate of news stories and pop culture events dominated American consciousness in recent months—including the potential war with Iraq, the November election win for Republicans, the murder spree by serial snipers, movie releases like Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and the new James Bond movie Die Another Day, and exciting episodes of favorite TV programs—the past two weeks has found America completely, utterly bored.

A recent survey on what Americans were doing included answers such as, "Nothing much," "Nothing really," "Nothing," "Just chillin'," "Nada, man," and "Not a damn thing."

Periodic droughts of news are nothing new to the American media, such as months ago when the anniversary of Elvis' death was arbitrarily declared important by major news outlets. However, stagnation in news is usually off-set by major events both personal and public, movie releases, new albums, celebrity deaths, even birthdays and individual bits of good luck such as job promotions or marriages. During this unique time it appears virtually nothing of interest is happening; not only on a national scale, but for everyone.

Mechanic Mike Pinzer of Detroit, Michigan, is hopeful for upcoming events, but admits nothing is on the agenda at present time. "It's not like it's bad or anything. It's not bad. It's not good, either… it's just… enh. Y'know?"

Big news is promised in the immediate future for all, from the possibility of military action in Iraq to the Christmas and New Year holidays. Until then, most Americans are left in a state of blah awaiting better times.

"Next year will be the best yet, I believe," said Hoboken, New Jersey Office Manager Stacey Krendel. "I have a strong feeling I'm getting that promotion I've fought so hard for. My boyfriend and are set to get married in February, and after that we'll start house shopping. But right now… piss on all of it. Even the new episodes of all the TV shows are turds."

"My life is completely miserable," said Kansas City, Missouri Barnes & Noble sales clerk Byron Hymen. "But on the up side, the new Lord of the Rings movie is coming out real soon. And the new Star Trek! If I can avoid suicide just another week or so things will be great!"

Politically, news is ready to bloom as well. With the ever-escalating Iraq situation, the growing possibility that Bob Kerry will announce his bid for presidency, and the Supreme Court ready to hear arguments on affirmative action, late December could be filled with presents for the news media. Yet this week, at least, America will need either patience or booze to get through the malaise.

Joey "Glory Hole" Stucker, a resident of the California penal system, summed up: "I'm up for parole in a month, which is good. And I hear the Supreme Court is going to rule on sodomy soon, which will be fantastic. But right now, it's just the same ol', same ol'. Hey, what is Michael Jackson doing right now?"

Conservative Woman Found

Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings

Isaac Hayes Recognized on Bad Mother’s Day

'Paris Hilton Autopsy' Sculpture Signed to Three-Picture Deal

In all the other hubbub since the year began, I may have forgotten to mention my old bassist roommate Lee returned. He arrived shortly after Christmas, when his plan to storm Tokyo with techno rock failed miserably. It's okay, though, because he has started a Christian rock band. It makes sense, if you think about it, since he believed he died in the car accident years ago and is now reincarnated as a street preacher.

Surely you don't expect me to mention every minute detail that happens in my life, so sorry if some of this stuff comes as a surprise. I had originally planned this column, in fact, to be an update of how the X-M radio purchase was going when Camembert suggested I write about Lee to my "loyal reader." Camembert thinks that's funny. Ever since he started dating Girl Elvis he thinks he's a hoot, there's no other word for it.

Back to the Lee story, good people. Lee is back, yes, and he believes he's a street preacher, out to promote the gospel, yes, all this is true. And as I said, he's started a Christian rock band which operates out of my basement. I'm obviously too busy trying to make my A.M. radio station profitable to consider all of this too seriously, but apparently it makes Lee happy.

I wish I could say Lee has been easier to live with since coming back, but it's not the case. You may recall old Lee was something of a pain in the posterior, constantly making fun of me, never paying his portion of the rent, and spending most of the day high. It's more of the same now, except he has sworn off drugs, he's too polite for everybody's taste, and he's convinced we're all damned to hell for our behavior. Same ol' Lee, except for he's mostly different.

It may hardly be worth mentioning, I can no longer tell, but Lee has developed an unhealthy fascination with TV's Scott Baio as well. Ever since finding out he was a kind gentlemen with conservative politics, Lee has thought him quite a role model to adopt. And of course, for Lee, that kind of thing naturally leads to obsession and death threats, the usual circumstance in life where you become convinced you're the celebrity and the celebrity himself is an impostor taking your place—we've all been there, I tell Lee, but just because Carroll O'Connor won't take your calls doesn't mean it's your mission mandated by God to kill him. Lighten up, fella, I tell him.

In one ear and out the other, with new Lee. Old Lee at least would have lit himself some doobage and "chilled" for a while, realized he was perhaps getting ramped up about something silly. But new Lee wants to move forward with the "kill Chachi" plan immediately. Honestly, Lee, nobody has time for all this nonsense. I've got X-M radio options to consider, those take up more than half my week alone. Then there's running the radio station, not to mention the five minutes it takes me to write my commune columns for the next two months. If you're jumping out of the closet and dry-clicking your gun every ten minutes, shouting, "Now who's in charge, Charles?" a man will never get anything done.

My first instinct is to ask Lee to move out, but you know as well as I do, I'm not capable of that kind of cruelty. Except for to Camembert. Maybe Girl Elvis can be persuaded to do it for us, she's never thought much of him, I can tell that much. She's already threatened to call the police on him, but I tell her his band's cover of "In the Ghetto" may be bad, but it's hardly illegal. Heck, kids, at this point I might even kill Scott Baio myself just to get on with the world. I don't have time for another caper at this point, I'm stretched way too thin.

º Last Column: Solid Gold A.M. Radio
º more columns

Shake up that Mason jar, there, Shorty. You see how them bubbles form? How they split right down the middle, just like a ol' zipper? That's how you know you got you a good jar o' 'shine. This here's some o' ol' Clem's best. Taste that, Shorty... whoa, not too much, now! That stuff'll put hair in your ears and make your pecker stand up and pay attention! Don't it? Huh?

Hee hee... ol' Clem's about the best 'shine-stiller goin' anymore, Shorty. Learnt it from his daddy, who learnt it from his daddy afore him. I guess that tradition goes way back. Anywho, ain't nobody does 'shine like Clem. Pass me that Mason jar afore it's all gone, wouldja, Shorty? I need me another snort.

You remember how Clem was havin' all that trouble with them hippies up there near his place not too long ago? They was a wild, raggedy bunch, yessir. All shaggy and like that. They was about eight or fifteen of 'em, runnin' around half-nekkid there in the hollow, and they was so hairy couldn't no one tell the boys from the girls. All they did was talk about free love and smoke that there herojuana all day, I tell you, it was damn disgustin' is all it was. You could ask anybody.

Clem, now, he didn't cotton much to people too close to his works, seein' as how it might draw attention to what he was doin' up there. So every oncet in a while, he'd take a few shots at that ol' hippie house, just kinda friendly-like, you know, plinkin' away, not really aimin' at no one. That wasn't no big deal until one time, I guest he jus' got a little too close, and he winged a couple o' them hippies, and Lordy, you shoulda heard the screamin' and the carryin' on like Satan hisself was flyin' around inside that ol' shack. Them hippies was runnin' around like wrung-necked chickens, ever' which way but up. Ol' Clem near laughed hisself to death that night, watchin' that bunch.

What finally got rid of 'em, though, was when ol' Clem brought a few copperheads back from the Pentecostal service and tossed 'em in the window late one Sunday night. Come Monday afternoon, they wasn't no more hippies to be found nowhere in the hollow, and Clem was just as happy as a ol' blue-tick hound under a shady porch. He went on down to that ol' hippie shack, and poked around inside, just to make sure they wasn't none o' them still hidin' in there. He said the smell o' that herojuana they smoked and them patchy-oily sticks they burned like to make him heave his guts up, but he stayed in there long enough to find a few things.

They was all kind o' them Orientalist rugs and such, and he brought a few of 'em home to patch up his ol' place, even though he said the colors and the patterns on 'em was enough to make you dizzy if you looked at 'em too long. The other thing he found was some kind o' hippie still. They was all these big ol' glass tubes and beakers and that, and they had them a Mason jar full o' clear liquid, just like 'shine. Only when Clem tasted it, it didn't taste nothin' like 'shine. Fact is, it didn't taste nothin' like nothin', is what he said. But after he carted all that stuff back to his place, he said he spent the rest o' the day talkin' to his dead gran'pappy and watchin' the trees breathe.

He figgered it musta been the hippie 'shine that did him like that, so the next day, he went back to the ol' hippie shack and brought up the whole hippie still and all them jars of chemicals and everythin' they had there. He says maybe he learnt a few things about makin' 'shine from them hippies, but I don't know. I never had no problem with the stuff he been makin' all these years, you know what I mean, Shorty? Ol' Clem's stuff is the best around, and that's one hunnert percent true. You could ask anyone.

Hey Shorty, lookit what I can do with my hand. I can catch my own hand! Lookit that, wouldja! Wouldja just- hey, Shorty, how come your face is meltin'?

º Last Column: An Eye for Catfish
º more columns