Ever wake up, dress, grab a cup of coffee, and start your day, but rather than that fresh My-Life-Is-Filmed-In-TechniColor feeling that many a commercial or daytime radio program would have you feel, you have that nagging I’ve-Forgotten-Something-Important-Like-My-Wedding-Or-A-Dead-Friend’s-Funeral? That was me today. Waking up, going about my morning routine, all the while scratching my head and thinking, “I’m missing something here. But damn if this isn’t some tasty French vanilla.”

And so it hits me about an hour or two later that it’s Wednesday, and for the briefest of moments I see a fleeting vision of clarity, which disappears like a dream, and I’m left with the vague notion of something realized and then forgotten.

It’s only a little later that I realize why Wednesday should matter to me. Other than it being “hump-day,” which allows me enough immaturity to laugh boyishly at the word “hump.”

And suddenly I understand that I’ve…

…COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN TO WRITE THE NEW CYNAMATIC.

I freak out for a moment, because, frankly, there’s some part of me that is a professional, responsible journalist who cares about things like deadlines and, on the rare occasion, my readers. All two of you. But then I calm down, breathing normally now, because I’m struck with the brilliant idea of devoting an entire column to there being absolutely no column to speak of.

In brief:

I’ve got nothin’.

Actually, I’ve got less than nothing, considering the fact that every word I type here is really just digging a deeper hole.

Oops…

So just treat this as that rare day when your teacher shows up drunk to class. Just put your heads down on your desks and wait it out. Talk amongst yourselves. Whatever.

But believe me, next week’s column is gonna be awesome. It’s gonna be huge. Explosive. Bigger than Fahrenheit 9/11. After you read next week’s column, you’ll understand why I have the MPAA, the FBI, the CIA (Culinary Institute of America – not that other one), the White House, and the Department of Homeland Security all watching my apartment. No, really. I’m not kidding. They’re there. From my window I can see two telephone vans, a catering truck, three unmarked black Sedans and a guy with a jacket that says FBI.

Oh, yeah. And Jack Valenti. He’s there, too. Yelling at the guys selling bootlegs on the corner.

You can’t miss it. I’m serious. This is more important than your life. Bigger than Jesus. It’s gonna be great….

If I can just remember to write it…