Cold engine

Creativity has an engine and for me it runs on a fuel of sleeplessness.

I've always wondered why I'm a mental sloth on the weekends. Some would attribute it to the hops and barley coursing through my veins. I think it has more to do with being well-rested.

My creative neurons went on strike today. They pranced up and down my forehead with big poster board placards: "On Strike...Too Much Sleep."

The problem: I was just about ready to wake up this morning. I was perfectly tired and ready for a day of creative thinking. Then I heard the shower running. I knew my wife was in there and despite the fact we have two showers in the house, I knew I would only be showering in the one that was already in use. We're weird.

I could've made an intimate morning of it and joined her, but the Sleep Bug-a-Boo reached out and hit the snooze. Back intro dreamland.

Within mere seconds I was wrapped in a inticing little dream with a fantastic blues soundtrack. I was chin-deep in Behind the Looking Glass turtle-neck shirts and dream-world haziness. My back-up blues band followed behind me like Shaft's crew. My creative engine worked into a purring pound. Then it threw a rod as the alarm went off. I was on the way to work and my creative engine was leaking Think Oil all over the driveway.

I spent the day trying to fire up an out-of-gas engine and finally gave up about two hours ago. I buried my face in a plate full of leftovers and resigned myself to a night of mindless Big 12 basketball watching (...go tigers).

So, perhaps, tomorrow. I vow to get less sleep and only hit snooze six or seventeen times.

At least I know the engine is still there. It keeps reminding me of that blues song and polyester pounding.

Some day I'll learn to convert the fuel tank to fried chicken grease...then look out, folks. Nothing like a southern fried think-melon.