Apathy keeps me pretty busy

I have no opinions on anything. Each day I read an array of arch-liberal and staunch conservative editorials. Yet, at the end of each column, I inevitably conclude, “Wow, that’s a good point.”

For years, I assumed I was not opinionated simply because all the really good opinions were taken. But when I found myself unable to come down either pro or con on the subject of famine, I sought professional help. But the psychologist eventually stopped taking my calls.

I’m at wit’s end. This is no time to be an American without a stash of fully loaded opinions. The nation is more divided than ever, with some predicting it may soon be subdivided and turned into town houses. Living in Santa Monica only makes matters worse. The city is a known hotbed of activism, where having no opinions on the great issues of the day is considered idiotic. Hence, the effort to conceal my condition has become a full-time job, although I can often work from home.

For the moment, local citizens suspect something about me is slightly off but are quite tolerant. When they ask my opinion on a topical issue and my vital organs completely shut down, they usually give me the weekend to think about it. They still invite me to politically lively parties so they can use my driveway for parking. During these events, I desperately try to steer cocktail party conversation away from politics and back to cocktails. Failing this, I nod a lot. For this, I am admired in this fashionable seaside community as “a good listener” and “a pill.”

On the rare occasions I try to contribute to political debate, the results are disastrous. Last summer, when a neighbor opined that the war in Iraq costs too much money, considering that some people can barely put food on the table, I suggested that perhaps these people simply don’t have the proper utensils. Only through deft usage of the words “just kidding” did I avoid becoming a pariah. Months later, when a neighbor said we are destroying our planet, I said we’d have to make do without it. Another close call.

These close calls are occurring more regularly because between mayoral primaries, mayoral runoffs, gubernatorial propositions and recall elections, we Californians vote every Tuesday. That’s why I am pondering a move back to my native Queens, N.Y., where, throughout my childhood, I was ignored by people of all races and creeds. But frankly, I’d prefer the even more extreme measure of turning back the clock to a time when a good clump of the world lived under communist dictatorship. A land where one is not “entitled to his opinion” and, indeed, is even shot for mentioning it would suit me well.

For now, I lie low in Santa Monica. No placards on my porch, no bumper stickers on my car, no dogma in my head. But issues keep flying: Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger seems like he’s doing a good job, although it’s possible he’s ruining the world.

Healing our rivers and lakes sounds nice, but do we really want to shell out so much on cleaning supplies? There are pros and cons to activist judges. Choosing is the problem.

Hold on, someone’s at my door. OK, I’m back. That was someone from the Gallup Poll stopping by to ask if I have any opinions on anything. Caught off guard, I said, “No,” to which he said, “Thank you for your time,” and went away.

Holy cow. I blurted out my secret and ... nothing happened. Have I been looking at my situation all wrong?

I feel better now. Secure. Strong. I have indecisiveness of steel.