September 7, 2006.

This blasted cursor won’t stop blinking, antagonizing me with each flicker.

Later and later the clock turns to earlier and earlier. The traffic on Cherry Street thins considerably, but that cursor stays in perfect rythym.

Maybe the computer will break down. Maybe the power will go off. Maybe lightning will send a shockwave through these fingers, yet nothing comes.

OK, short break to watch a 22-year-old rookie pitcher from the Florida Marlins (no, not Taylor Tankersley) pitch a no-hitter. I became almost as impressed with the announcers’ not mentioning the no-hitter as I was the no-no. A camera zoomed in on Tankersley, the Warren Central-turned-major league pitcher, in the bullpen in the eighth inning, but he ended up being just part of the celebration.

So I flip. Red Sox losing. So fine. Law and Order, oh I’ve seen that one.

I stop on Hannity and Colmes for six seconds then back to this blinking cursor. There’s nothing to write about. There’s plenty to write about. Why aren’t you writing? Why is this blank white page staring at me so menacingly? I get taken back to Mr. Hayes’ 9th-grade writing class.

&#8220The scariest thing for a writer is the blank page,” I vividly remember him saying.

Where are you now, Frank?.

The second running of The O’Reilly Factor melds into the third running of SportsCenter and still nada. I try to suck down a yogurt smoothie of some sort for a jolt to my system. Makes me sick.

It’s 3 in the morning, this column is due in three hours and all I have is nonsense.

I could write about Mississippi State’s putrid offensive performance, but we all know about that. I would love to recall Southern Miss’ dramatic win over one of Florida State’s best teams, but that came 17 years ago. Ole Miss showed promise, but has a long way to go yet to be considered a major contender for a Southeastern Conference championship.

High schools? Our locals all have one win and one loss. It’s too early in the season to start making final judgments on that.

Maybe I could write about the no-hitter. Whoops. I’ve spent so much time staring at the cursor, I have forgotten that I already mentioned the no-hitter.

Now it’s ridiculous. Even paid programming on the WB is interesting.

No sports movies on. No sports on. Nothing.

One last browse through a library of DVDs and, whoa, divine inspiration in the form of George Costanza. The loveable loser of the Seinfeld series smiled at me from the cover of the first season’s box set. Seinfeld, the greatest comedy ever. On TV more than Bradjolina and Bennifer combined. And what did we learn the premise for Seinfeld was? Nothing.

They became millionaires for spending hours talking about nothing. I hope to keep my job doing the same.

So forgive me as I pull my eyelids open, hit the save key, splash a bit of water on my face and walk outside for a sunrise. It’s the dawn of a new day.

Thank God.