By Philip Lear

I’ve been at my desk trying to write, but I can't seem to get started. I keep getting distracted. There's the Yankee/Angel game on television and I’m looking at stock charts on my other computer.

My desk is a pile of newspaper articles from The Year One which I've been meaning to read. I start going through them. Here's one from the Wall Street Journal on building a do-it-yourself portfolio. It’s dated March 6, 2003. It’s October of 2005. A lot of good it’s going to do me now. I toss it.

Below that one is another article that's really old. This one's about jazz bands from the 50s. What’s this? I don’t know anything about Jazz. I turn it over and there’s a name and phone number scribbled on the back. It says ‘Call Ray – 732-973-7182.’ Who’s Ray? I don’t know any Rays.

But while I'm sitting here other things pop into my head. There's the question of how to invest in the stock market. It’s October and I’m nervous. The market has dropped 400 points in 4 days. I don’t know what to do.

I'm also thinking about flying to California tomorrow. There’s a girl I used to date who lives out there. I know it’s short notice but I haven't seen Sue in ages. I realize it's an impossible situation. It’s been a long time. I start to dial. Then I think, she might not even remember me and I hang up.

I look down. There's another article. This one’s about fueling cars in China. They’re using casaba melon roots to produce gasoline. Casaba melons? My God! How many casaba melons does it take to make a gallon?

I look across to the other side of my desk and there’s a notice of the privacy policy from the American Automobile Association. It must be there from when I joined last year. I ball it up and toss it.

Next to it is a pink dry cleaning slip with my name on it. It says my two pair of pants and my one striped shirt will be ready on Tuesday March 3, 2002 at 4 p.m. I guess I forgot. I drive by that place often, but somehow I can’t stop.

On the TV the Anaheim Angels are beating the Yankees. It's the sixth inning and Randy Johnson’s pitching. It’s very exciting watching the Yankees lose. They’re big favorites I love to see them lose. The TV camera pans in on the Angel dugout and Mike's Scoiscia, the manager is sitting in the dugout rubbing his nose. But it almost looks like he’s picking his nose. There are 40 million people watching him. Who was that third base coach who scratched his balls on TV just as the camera zeroed in on him?

I’ve been neglecting my physical exercise and I’m feeling guilty. It’s been weeks since I took a long walk or went up on the treadmill. I put on my sneakers and get up on the treadmill. I press the start button and nothing happens and I realize it’s not plugged in. I plug it in and start it. There’s a horrible screeching noise. It’s the belt. It hasn’t been lubricated in years. I don't know whether to stop and place a service call to or continue. I start walking and speed it up and the noise disappears. I move the speed up to three and one half miles an hour. I’m starting to feel fine. I'm working out and watching the ballgame.

The Yankees are out in the sixth and there’s a commercial. It’s about two guys in a Chinese buffet eating hot food. One guy is at the buffet table holding the tongs longingly looking down at the spicy duck. Then he puts his hand on his chest and you can tell he’s dying from heartburn. His friend comes to the rescue and runs up and hands him a big blue bottle of Pepcid Complete.

In the next scene the two guys are seated at the table eating the spicy duck. They’re both smiling. It looks so good I can almost smell it. So much for the workout. I get off the treadmill and dial China Magic. They tell me I’m number seven and it’ll be ready in ‘ten minute’. I can practically taste it.

Like all the stuff on my desk and in my life the idea of writing is long forgotten. It’s in the background under a pile of other things and I’m not even thinking about it anymore.