As Ethan Hawke so eloquently stated in the hit romantic comedy Training Day, “Life is all about the smiles and cries.”
By the time you read this, the so-called “Oscar Season” will be long over. The awards will be given to films you won’t think about ever again.
2,000 years ago, some Irishman killed a bunch of snakes and created Valentine’s Day so that once a year I can be super-reminded of my ongoing saga on lonely lovelessness.
Remember taking pictures? You had a camera and it was special. Cut to this morning. You took 56 pictures of your own face on your phone for no other reason than that you are an under-stimulated mess with the ability to.
Man do I love kids. Kids and babies and kids. All day! And most of them love me back.
Here’s the crazy part, the part you never really consider: I’m writing this weeks before Halloween but you won’t read it until almost Thanksgiving Day.
I want to talk about depression. Try and remember, though, that much like great popular culture hero Tony Montana, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.
Just today I read that Paris Hilton made $3 million in three days with her version of DJing, Kim Kardashian is releasing a coffee table book of selfies, and Sarah Palin charges $100 annually for her online channel.
If you’ve been on the social media over the last few months you have seen or, God have mercy on you, participated in one of these idiotic time-waster quizzes.
Life, it seems, is simple. You’re born, you do a bunch of junk that only makes sense to you, and then you die. Perhaps then you turn into a ghost…the jury’s still out on that.
In a nutshell, it seems that the weight of Hollywood’s crap machine rests on my shoulders as a filmgoer. If I want them to stop making these vapid, empty spectacles then I should simply turn my back on the junk. And I would, except there is one problem: I like the junk. No, I love the junk.