The Naked, Unemployed Writer

People are so opinionated.

I wrote my first blog last week and followed it with an email to a fair number of people (not just family members). Not only did they look, but they also flooded me with responses.

All I did was ask.

The quick lesson here is about expression. People express themselves in many different ways. They find comfort in it. The discomfort comes when their means of expression are stymied. What is more frustrating than not being able to get across your point?

I'm lucky (but you knew that, if you read the last entry here). I like to write. Writing is my avenue of expression. My expression expressway. But that's just an expression.

Wait. Huh?

There, I have done it! I have expressed my confusion by confusing the reader, thus putting us all on the same level. Now I am comfortable. As confusion abounds among the masses, I always think straight. You have a look on your face like you just lost your keys.

Now that I am thinking straight ... people are more interesting than things. Anything that happens in our own daily lives might become boring, but you need not look too far to find something to capture your interest or thoughts for the time you spend reading this blog.

Start with Michelle (spelled with two Ls, so as not to confuse my friend and former charge with my sister).

Last week, Michelle was rushing home from the gym on a dark, rainy night. Like yours truly, she is addicted to the reality show Survivor, so she needed to reach the house by eight o'clock.

But something happened on the way.

The white van that was in front of Michelle suddenly stopped. On a dark road with no one around. In Fair Lawn, a town with which she is not familiar.

The driver -- a shadowy, imposing figure – exited the van with his hands up in the air, as if to signal her to stop.

Panicked, Michelle did not know what to do, save for trying to keep her heart from exploding all over the dashboard.

She saw the monster come out. He grabbed her and hauled her into the van. Then he explained how he was going to chop her into little pieces and that her face was going to be plastered on fliers and milk cartons all over New Jersey.

Then she got back her senses, realizing those were just a few of the million frights going through her head.

"YIKES!" she shrieked, slamming the transmission into reverse and backing up the car with the alacrity of a Colombian in search of the perfect coffee bean.

As Michelle guided herself to safety, another zillion thoughts replaced those thrust into her head by the panic. Mainly guilt.

"What if this person needed help," she thought. "Why did he stop so suddenly? Should I have been a good Samaritan?"

Hell no.

Hell no, I will not write a sewing column for the Big Dog. Hell no, I am not going on rants about fantasy sports in this space, Rubble.

Elevator etiquitte, Jerry G.? I mean, go watch Jerry S. rave about it better than I can write about it. Reverse discrimination, Kristin? Just deal, and get over it (although I, too, would like to know why so many students claim to be Democrats).

I am going back to my fox hole, now (oh, I did not expect to see you in there, Corrado, but it is nice to know you're there). You now know the thoughts of The Naked, Unemployed Writer. Nothing to hide but my hide.