I'm writing this column out of habit. I write these things all the time, sometimes once a week, sometimes more. You only see the one a week. But still.

I've decided to be a self-indulgent bastard and write a column about my own private apathy. I hate it when writers write about writers block, but that is not what I have. I just simply don't care enough about anything to get really excited about it.

We're bombing Serbia. You know, I really don't care. I'm sorry about all the innocent people being killed (and 99.9 percent of the folks involved, basic Serbian troops included, are innocent), but it's not enough to trigger any sense of outrage. Slobodan Milosevic is a two-bit thug, if that, and there's really no need to get the whole world excited about him. And there's no need to send Russia into paryoxisms of militarism, whereby the send their poor, deflated Red fleet onto the high seas only to watch the rusted junkers sink. There's no need for any of it, but I really don't care.

Libya gave up the bombing "suspects". Hey, if these guys were your average miscreants, the U.N. wouldn't have slapped sanctions on ol' Moammar. But hey, they get a few months in Holland (hope they get at least one weekend pass to Amsterdam) before we officially give them the hot poker treatment.

New York City police officers fired 41 bullets into an unarmed man. While big stars are proving that it is still in style to go to jail if the cause is right, it doesn't make that much difference to me. I mean, I'm a white guy with hair. According to at least on pig in Oklahoma, that gives any cop "probable cause" (using "modern" profiling techniques) to search me and my car. The Supreme Court just expanded the rights of cops to search folks, particularly when the folks in question have hypodermic needles in the pockets of their shirts (do you know a druggie who wears shirts with pockets? me neither). Whatever. I'm with E here: Fuck the police. And that's about all there is to that.

Someone is going to be elected president next year. Now, I know I'm gonna get at least a little excited about this before it's all said and done, but Al Bore and Gee Dubbu-ya don't even begin to get me hard. I'm still up for Jello Biafra vs. Henry Rollins. Straight left-winger vs. gay right-winger. You decide which is which.

Baseball season opened. The Royals lost. As usual. The preseason bubble burst once again. They will likely go wire-to-wire in last place. 'nuff sed.

All this, and I really can't get worked up about a damned thing. It's probably a hangover from my Monica malaise days, but I can't blame the poor girl. Though I do find it funny that George Stephanopolous' book kicked hers right out of the bookstores. Oh well, she does have that advance. And plenty of boys out there who want to slide her the c...

See, I'm just not going there. I can't do it. Not this week. Maybe next week I'll have worked up a nice sense of moral outrage about the ways that most people treat the common cockroach. Or go off on a rant about how terrible it is that the Olsen twins' show has higher ratings than SportsNight.

Or, maybe not.

Jon Worley is sure of one thing: He needs another beer.