As a full-time columnist, I could give up long nights on the downtown beat. No more scrambling with each new scanner call the way birds scramble at a loud noise.

Why, I could wear a tie to the office and work on my respectable journalist voice to use during phone interviews. I could develop a self-important attitude and say things like, “As I stated in my column last week, if they want to control the White House again ever, the Democrats really need to …” at cocktail parties.

There are several reasons why I would not want this job and several more reasons why I would not be wanted. The first reason being the fact that I have no idea how the above sentence could be completed. Not a stinking clue.

If I mustered a strong opinion about a political issue, it would be lonely and afraid inside my head. Strong opinions just don’t fit there. I’m too easily swayed. I might develop a conviction or two about abortion, gun control, prayer in schools, the death penalty or foreign affairs. But one well-delivered argument could change my mind completely, and suddenly I’d be on the other side of the issue.

I’d be an amusing presidential candidate. After announcing my platform, some hot-shot journalist (maybe that really, really old woman who has haunted presidential candidates since Lincoln) would point out the error in my arguments.

“Really?” I’d say, standing behind the podium with genuine surprise. “Then I want to change my answer. What that old woman said, that’s where I stand.”

And I’d be no better as a full-time columnist expected to tackle the hot-button issues. I do fine when I write about evil ice cream trucks, stupid criminals or the draining of the canal. Those topics barely require that I remain conscious.

If I had to write about the real-world stuff, I’d flounder and the weakness would be on display. I’m like a giant pine tree, swaying from side to side in stormy weather. I’m an empty vessel. I am where strong opinions go to die.

Ask me to deliver my usual drivel three times a week and I can probably accommodate you. Writing about the wonders of trash day or the horror of bees doesn’t require a lot of brain energy.

Ask me to pontificate on weapons of mass destruction or homeland security, you’ll soon find me in a bar trying to read two years’ worth of newspapers as fast as I can. It’s not that I don’t grasp the importance of these topics. It’s that I don’t grasp them in the right hand or the left.

Drivel. It’s what I was meant to write.

People call or write to me all the time just to tell me I suck. They say I suck because I write undisciplined diatribes about absolutely nothing at all. And I’m OK with that. I rather enjoy it sometimes. The various ways in which readers can tell a writer he sucks is pretty amazing.

But I wouldn’t want people telling me I suck because I failed to provide accurate statistics to back up my fiery tirade on Roe v. Wade. I would rather be called vile names from the street than branded a liberal or an ultraconservative. I am neither of those things. I might be liberal one day, conservative the next. I’m a chameleon of political views.

The challenge of editorializing every day would wear me down. Today, I spend hours running around downtown looking for news in dusty back alleys. I go home boiling over with adrenaline and I write into the morning.

No good could come of my leaving the spot news beat. Taking away the uncertainty and deadline stress would be similar to taking spinach from Popeye. Suddenly, he’s just an oddly built sailor who can barely muster the strength to mutter: “Argh, argh, argh.” He’s not getting the skinny girl that way.

You see how I ramble? Good God. What tangents would I go off on while trying to write about the Social Security system? To fend off the yawns, I’d be forced to entertain myself with an amusing anecdote involving a downtown guy whose pants were ripped off while he was trying to vault over barbed wire. I’d end up weaving Halloween stories into the narrative and readers would be confused and angry.

My bosses, who have long since learned to tune out the voices that come from my head, would be forced to ship me to the Sun Journal Siberian bureau to ward off the hailstorm of criticism.

They don’t need it. I don’t need it.

The chances of my becoming a full-time columnist are about as good as my chance of being invited to join one of those stuffy news shows on television. You know the type. A group of journalists from various organizations sit around discussing the issues. So eager are they to air their views, they will talk over each other and break sweats while trying to beat the commercial break.

“Bill, Bill, Bill. I just don’t think you’re seeing the bigger picture,” is a popular phrase, even when there is no one on the set named Bill. These guys just cannot hear their voices enough. I’m betting they record themselves speaking and fall asleep to the sound at night.

But I’m digressing again. You see now why I’d be terrible at this sort of thing. It would be a mess. It would be a disaster. That’s my opinion. For now. Ask me about it tomorrow.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. You can give him your opinion at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com

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