So it occurs to me that I did myself a HUGE disservice by calling this series of posts “recycled content.” I mean, technically that’s true, but it’s new material to this blog as it has never been previously posted here. Chances are no one reading it — and it seems that literally NO ONE has been reading it — would be familiar with it. So why did I title it as such? Well, as I’ve said many, many times, I’m a massive fucking idiot. But there’s no turning back now! So read away! And if you haven’t checked out the previous posts in this series, you can do so by clicking here, here, here, and here. One more part to go after this and then I’ll start posting more of my typical shit on a semi-regular basis. Yay!
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This movie pisses me off so much.
All right, I’ve been silent about this for over 20 years, but that ends now. So the movie Ghost, you know it: Patrick Swayze (Sam) and Demi Moore (Molly) are this totes adorbs couple, in love in that sickeningly sweet way that kind of makes you hate them a little (Bitter? No, I’m not bitter. Why do you ask?), and who live in a New York City apartment that non-millionaire New Yorkers could never actually afford. Sam gets murdered by the sleazy friend, and reasons-stuff-reasons, he becomes a GHOST (fulfilling the premise of the title) and ends up hanging with the only person who can see him, Whoopi Goldberg (Oda Mae). Oda Mae manages to convince Molly that she can let Sam control her body. Then Oda Mae and Molly totally do it. Sure, WE see Sam and Molly doing the deed, but in the world of this film, it’s really Oda Mae and Molly getting their freak on. Chew on that for a bit.
Okay, more stuff happens and then we get to the part of the movie that fucking kills me every time. Sam completes his mission or whatever through a combination of reasons and stuff and the light of heaven appears to welcome him. Molly can actually see and hear him now. He’s going up to heaven, but first has this incredibly heartfelt exchange with her:
Sam: I love you, Molly. I’ve always loved you.
Molly: Ditto.
Holy fucking God. The love of your life is ascending into heaven and these could very well be the final words you ever utter to him and all you’ve got is fucking “Ditto”? I hear you: “Well, when she gets to heaven, they can talk then.” In the movie she’s like, what, 25? She’s got a good 60+ years left to fuck up and end up in hell. And who even knows if she’s good enough for heaven right now? Maybe she steals from the Salvation Army or blows cigar smoke into babies’ faces – we don’t know. This could be her only chance.
But as Sam moves towards the light, you can almost feel him thinking, “Ditto? She didn’t really just say ditto, right? Better give her another shot.” He does:
Sam: It’s amazing, Molly. The love inside, you take it with you.
Molly: (Stares at him stupidly. Looks like she’s trying to remember if she left the stove on after leaving the house.)
Sam: (clearly tired of this bullshit) See ya.’
Molly: (continues to awkwardly gawk, then finds her voice) See ya.’ Bye.
Sam walks towards the light and looks back over his shoulder as if he can’t quite believe what the fuck just happened. Molly sort of kind of maybe cries a little and watches him go.
What the everloving motherfuck???? You were given this amazing miracle: seeing the love of your life one final time, to hear his voice, to speak to him and you totally and utterly shit the bed. I’d like to think that in some alternate universe a sequel was made that is nothing but two hours of Molly sitting in a chair shaking her head and saying, “Ditto. DITTO?!? What the fuck is wrong with me?!? Stupid! You’re so stupid, Molly!!! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!” Suffice to say that scene ruined the entire movie for me.
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Tried my hand at some gardening over the weekend – what a mistake. Whereas some people have green thumbs, mine are bedecked in wee, black Grim Reaper cloaks. I swear I saw the plants tremble in fear when I walked by, no doubt hoping that I wouldn’t stop to touch them (the literal kiss of death). When I listen closely at night, I can hear the older plants telling horror stories about me to their seedlings. Apparently, I am legend…botanically speaking.
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One of the apps on my phone is grayed out with the word “Waiting…” underneath. I can only assume it’s gained sentience and is biding its time before it murders me in my sleep. The fact that it’s toying with me with such an insidious threat is terrifying. Can anyone recommend a robot exorcist?
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Last night I procrastinated by writing this poem about procrastination. I am so meta.
Procrastination
Time to write! Fresh cup of coffee in hand, I click, “New File.”
“I’m going to get so much work done,” I say.
I stare at the blank screen, eyes glaze over as my mind wanders a mile.
I wonder what everyone else is up to today?
Let’s check Facebook and Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest.
I like this. I’ll share that. Hmm, I’ll post a funny comment too.
So much work to do, but so much here to hold my interest.
Hey, I ought to check out the news, just for a moment or two.
On to Drudge and Huffpo, MSN, and even TMZ
Then Cracked, The Onion, and Deadspin – all my favorite media.
Paris Hilton is in trouble again I see.
I wonder what her entry looks like on Wikipedia?
Paris Hilton leads to Paris, France to the Treaty of Versaille to the Battle of Verdun.
Further and further down the internet rabbit hole I fall.
Holy shit! Five hours have elapsed. At this rate, my script will never get done.
And I haven’t yet checked my email at all!
And still the blank screen beckons; seems to call me by name.
I suppose I should return to it now.
But, hey, it’s been years since I watched the video for that Bangles song “Eternal Flame”
Okay, five minutes on YouTube, then back to work I vow…
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When I was getting gas today, an older gentleman approached me and said, “even if you’ve wasted every day of your life right up to this moment, you can make all the rest of them mean something starting now.” And I thought, “Wow, what a nice thought!” But then I thought, “Why the hell did he feel the need to share this with me? I must look like a man who has wasted his life. Good call, old man.” So I’ve gotta waste today out of spite, right?
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I’m posting this for two reasons:
- So you’ll finally know that this song which you’ve heard a million times is called, “Entry of the Gladiators.” I’m sure you suspected all along because you can’t help but picture burly men sword fighting in an arena when you hear it. And…
- Because look at that guy. Look at his moustache. Take it all in. He doesn’t mind. Perhaps take a moment to glory in his Eraserhead hair. How did he have time to compose music what with all the sexing that clearly dominated every waking moment of his life? How do you even walk down the street when you generate so much sexual magnetism that men and women alike tackle you and try to crush your pelvis with their happy parts? Obviously, he is my new hero.
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When I was leaving work tonight, one of the cleaning women stopped me and said, “You be careful driving home in the snow, Mark. And Happy New Year!” I thanked her, responded in kind, then added: “And when I see Mark, I’ll be sure to pass along your warning and well-wishes.” (See, my name is Mike, not Mark.) She shot me a dirty look and walked away. And I realized that always being Mr. Jokey-Joke means that 99% of people think I’m an asshole. Thank God for the 1% that get me; I do it for you.
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Xanadu is the BEST roller disco film ever made. Okay, it’s the only roller disco film ever made. Know why? Because it fucking crushed it. It was so awesome, another film never needed to be made on the subject. It both created and destroyed a film sub-genre. And the soundtrack? Those songs are so metal, they’ll literally climb inside your head and kick your brain in the balls. Okay, maybe not literally, but still.
Though Olivia Newton John’s intense look makes this look like a horror film about telekinesis…
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You don’t know the depths of my deepness. I can look at a star for hours – even the sun. I can make clichéd observations on life – “it’s short.” I can watch children at play & wax nostalgic for the good old days. I can cram a copy of Hustler into Plato’s Republic to make you think I read. Hell, I can even wear my sunglasses at night like Corey Hart. Yeah, that’s right. You forgot about Corey Hart – I didn’t. Jealous?
Rants & Anecdotes 