This has been bugging me for some weeks now, and since I’m currently experiencing writer’s block that will probably require a six hour subway ride, an extended shamble through Times Square and half a gallon of vodka to clear, I figured I’d bring it up. I hope you don’t mind.
As I look through the stats for my tatty little corner of the interwebs, I frequently take note of which posts garner the most attention, or “hits” as those of us with great technical expertise call them. Almost invariably, this post is at or near the top of the list.
Now, when I wrote it way back in November of last year, nobody read it. I mean no one. Yet somehow it manages to attract multiple views on a regular basis, and for the life of me I can’t understand why.
Lots of people, and by that I mean a handful which is a lot by my standards, also take a look at a post I wrote about the perils and pleasures pink wine. That I can fathom. It was actually kind of funny and since we’ve become a nation of oenophiles (or filthy drunks as my Grammie Sue used to say), I can understand the interest. This post appeared about the same time as the pantry one, so maybe there’s some kind of unholy alliance happening between them. Or maybe it’s just a random event.
So anyways, if you can shed any light on this pantry business, I’d be most grateful. Whatever I did with that post, I’d like to start repeating it, so as to turn my little essay mosh pit into, if not a moneymaking effort, at least a break even proposition.
So yesterday I’m sitting on the uptown F train wondering how the hell I’m going to get back in the swing, blogwise, after an extended hiatus from any serious writing. I mean I am racking my brain for inspiration and just coming up empty, teetering on the edge of some serious writer’s block and staring down the barrel of a full fledged panic attack.
And it is just then, in my moment of despair, that the gods of blogorreah smile down upon me and the proverbial clouds part — well actually the two fat guys standing directly in front of me took off for empty seats at either end of the car. So anyways I look up and I see this.
Yankees cologne. Yup, really. And just to be sure everyone can get in on the act, there’s also a fragrance for her. Look!
Now I’m not going to elaborate on the obvious, cheap references to the smell of Sabathia’s jock, a Bronx urinal or A-Rod’s preferred feminine wash; instead, I will just say, “Thank you, Mssrs Steinbrenner, Jeter and Rodriguez. You have reignited the flickering spark of snark in my twisted, Boston sports-obsessed mind and lit my way back to the land of the writing. Once again.”