Tarzan Where Are You?

I keep seeing golfers everywhere and hearing about soccer scores and listening to bad news about BP.  I sat down to my computer to begin writing, hoping something interesting would emerge but nothing has.  I've deleted everything.  I want to delete BP.

Writing words down today makes me feel like I'm sinking slowly into quicksand.  Where's Tarzan when I need him, swinging to the rescue, wearing that interesting leather loincloth?  (An aside:  If you recall, Dick Van Dyke on his self-named show was not allowed to look like he was in bed with his wife, played by Mary Tyler Moore - they had to wear full-lenth pajamas and sleep in twin beds and keep one foot on the floor.  On the other hand, Tarzan was swinging through treetops wearing a skimpy outfit that did not cover much of himself.  He was definitely a lusty individual, especially with Jane, who was not inhibited about revealing her lovely self either.)  Tarzan may not have been able to write, but if he were to come flying through my window on a vine right about now, I sure would have something to write about.

But, as it is, I have started paragraphs about a few dozen things, but they have all died, some more quickly than others.  I have tried automatic writing, putting down whatever came into my head, but my delete key went into action just as quickly.  I tried getting up to take a break, sipping something refreshing, cracking my knuckles.  I've tried chewing some spearmint gum that has sent a mind-clearing jolt into my sinuses, which sounds odd, but at this point I'll obviously try odd stuff.

I was even hoping something might come crashing down through the ceiling - Tarzan? - but so far nothing.  The truth is, I have to go to work now.  Time's up for the day.  Will keep an eye out for our man in the jungle.  Let me know if you see him, too.