Me, uninspired? Nope, never. I compose six songs every day, seven on weekends, and complete an oil painting each Tuesday. I write a sonnet before each meal and a haiku every time I take a poopie. While surfing the internet, I am mentally blocking scenes for my next hit movie. I've stopped accepting awards because there's no more space in the garage for all the plaques and trophies. The muse was visiting me so often that I had to kick her out - she had emptied my liquor cabinet. When I walk down the street, buskers run after me, emptying their hats and instrument cases into my pockets. The Library of Congress has me on speed-dial. My dreams have been serialized and my passing fancies are in pre-production. I recently sold the foreign rights to my laundry lists. Last week I wrote, performed and recorded a rock-opera based on the imaginary inner dialogue of a mosquito. The last time I was bored, Reagan was president. My name is on the best-seller lists in 15 countries. I can curse in 28 different languages, sight read for 42 instruments, and I'm also a tightrope walker in my spare time. I build all my instruments from raw materials and design all my own stage costumes. Every time I fart, Chanel comes out with a new brand of perfume. Uninspired? Nope. Not me.