Hunting is not a sport

It's just killing. I saw on Facebook some lunatic posing with his "trophy", grinning from ear to ear. What type of weapon did the deer killer's adversary carry? Sickening. A deer killer once asked me if I was a vegetarian, noting that if I'm not, I'm a hypocrite. Not true. Sure, I'm a hypocrite on many levels, sure, but not this. If I want meat, I go to the store. And I've heard the argument that without "hunting season" the deer will starve in the winter. Bullshit. Shooting an animal, a deer, is just mean and simply wrong. To pose in a photo with the newly killed "trophy" is beyond sickening.

Living through a lens, mic or pen

I like to write. Rather, it's something I am compelled to do from time to time. But it seems the more time spent writing, the more of real life is missed. Perfect example is anything involving the children. You have the camera, video camera, you want to capture this moment. But in the capture, you lose the experience. I'm not sure one is worth the cost of the other. Does this experience - be it monumental or ordinary, either of which defines beauty - matter most on film or in our hearts and conscious mind. Rhetorical ? there, thus no question mark. As with most anything, balance is generally the answer. But what the hell do I know.

Waiting for the next big thing

The problem is the Next Big Thing just isn't coming. You can apply this to really anything - art, poetry, fiction, music, especially music. But it's movies I'm thinking of now. I'm an eighties kid. Grew up with eighties and I'm damn happy about that. I love the eighties. Loved pretty much the entire decade as a teenager. I love the nostalgic thoughts those times give me still. Problem is, I want more.

But there is no more. There can't be another Bull Durham. There will not be another John Hughes. Cusack is older and makes generally lame movies now. The cool kids that shaped my fragile upbringing for better and worse are now middle age dads and soccer moms. It's pathetic. And I'm not getting any younger either. But I do want and almost expect more greatness from film that I just cannot find. I am aware of good films, great ones even. But it's not enough. It's not the same. Even with the age of Say Anything and Ferris and Breakfast Club and Field of Dreams - eighties films all - they still ring true and show beauty and truth and passion and move me to tears. Am I a nancyboy for stating such? Sure, I guess I am. But those films meant something and they mean something still. I'm still waiting for my next soliloquy from Crash while ironing, Annie busting in the front door. I'm still waiting for Dobler to tell me what he's not looking for in a career. I'm dying for another tough girl drummer with bangs and black gloves.

But they've all gone away. They've aged and they've died. Those who could have given more and should have given more have moved on. I may sound bitter because I am. I'm an eighties kid and expect to be entertained. Thank God the cable networks play some of these classics on an annoyingly semi-regular basis.

Columbus Day

I'm going to work on Columbus Day. It's one of those off holidays anyway. But even if it was a paid holiday, I would choose to work that day. There are only a couple people deemed worthy of a national holiday and for some bizarre reason, the great Chris Columbus is one. He didn't discover anything. To "discover" pretty much means to you know, discover something. What he thought he discovered was India. Hence, calling those already there - Indians. But then he chose to disrespect those already there, at the very least. And I'll stop there, because that's really enough. The rest is sickening. A drunken, ignorant, cruel and sadistic sailor who couldn't tell North America from India. And there is a national holiday in his honor. Yea, I'll be working this and every columbus day.

LeBron Needs a Hug

Bless his ignorant soul. He just keeps making it worse. LeBron James is just a kid who can play a game very well. That's it, a game. Off the court, he's lost. He's empty and shallow. He's a millionaire child, spoiled, entitled and sad. So he took his talents to South Beach. He cannot seem to comprehend that he's become a cartoon. He and his kiddie nation of handlers believe they're better than anyone else and act accordingly. But he's just a kid. Poor guy has never had to clean up his messes or get his hands dirty or learn how to treat others. Big guy just needs a hug. Bless his heart, LBJ just needs a hug.

Anyway, the always entertaining sports writer J Whitlock says it better. As always.

the little things

Always the little things. The little things that push you over the edge and make you so angry you have to punch a hole in a door or smash a t.v. The little things that move you to tears and make you believe like a child. The little things that make you laugh out loud and pee in your pants. Always the little things. The easiest to feel, the hardest to appreciate or even recognize. It's the little things I adore.