I apologize for the interregnum of the past week or so. I’m suffering from a horrible case of writer’s block, perhaps the first case that I’ve been able to identify as such while actually in the midst of being blocked. It’s horrible. Not starving horrible, or leprosy horrible, or even swollen ankle horrible–well, maybe swollen ankle horrible, depending on how long it is before the swelling abates–but unpleasant. It’s like a mild headache and lethargy that goes on for days. Not excruciating, just soul-sapping.

I hope it’s a temporary thing, but I worry that I’ve crossed some rubicon, reached some tipping point, beyond which the detritus of pop culture simply doesn’t interest me anymore. For instance, I noticed the other day that actress Sienna Miller has become the new tabloid fave, and I didn’t think to myself, "What’s so interesting about Sienna Miller that she’s caught the public’s attention as she has? Does it have something to do with what made her so compelling as Jude Law’s moderately unstable girlfriend in Alfie, some Seventies ski bunny/Blow Up/Antonioni vibe that had been missing from the scene for a while?" Instead I just sighed and felt badly for her that she needs to make such a spectacle of herself.

I’ve also been hating on Perez Hilton, who I probably would have appreciated, just a few short months ago, for his spectacular performance of middle school level neediness and tackiness — for being the fat gay boy who’s finally been invited to the cool kids’ party and is now slamming the door in his old geek friends’ faces. I just don’t like him.

Anyway, I just wanted to apprise you all of my doubts.