I made this:
In light of the Seahawks’ absolute dismantling of poor Peyton Manning (and what I can only surmise to be the entire collective Coloradean consciousness), I figured post-game we all needed to bring a bit of levity to the situation.
Because, and I think we can also all agree here, that a slightly more entertaining game, and not just a blow-out of every tire on the Denver semi-truck heading to Nowheresville, would have made for a much more enjoyable three hours of football.
(And to all the glorious, gloating – totally deserved, and encouraged gloating – Seattle-ites – yes, I too am including you in that sentiment.)
But seriously though, what is wrong with this man?
Why does he look like this?
(Also, WHO IS HE?)
And why doesn’t he know that, in the end, the light side always, ALWAYS wins?
“A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.” —Charles Peguy”
I have been thinking about this a lot of late..
I came across this text in the wake of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s tragic death this past week. Someone commented that, although he was not a writer, he was often reminded of Mr. Peguy’s word when confronted with Hoffman’s seamless, and yet soul-wracking transition from one character to the next.
And of this, I agree.
I cannot say that I have ever been disappointed by any of his myriad performances. Whether disgusting, or delightful, there was always an innate (and oh-so important) humanity to his characters; one that was never forgotten, nor manipulated, or abused.
But truly, for me, Hoffman will always and forever be The Big Lebowski’s Brandt, the most amazingly sycophantic suck-up to ever grace the silver screen. An absolute perfect foil to both the Dude’s lackadaisical, anti-hero, and Walter’s neo-conservative, Vietnam vet (and owner of Sobchak Securities.)
Just listen to this laugh:
I love this movie more than I can properly communicate, and although only a supporting role, Hoffman’s brilliant portrayal of the Big Lebowski’s assistant is the linchpin, of what I believe to be, the best movie I will most likely ever watch.
And I think that’s why I’m thinking about the quote – everything about the film feels as though it is the sum of months, and months of meticulous preparation, culminating in pitch-perfect performances by absolute masters of their crafts.
It is gut-wrenching in its simplicity, and perfection.
You truly can always tell when an individual, or individuals, put everything they have into their art. (I use the term “art” loosely, and define it as anything from dance, to sculpture, to ultramarathon running, to public company auditing.) It doesn’t matter the medium. Gut-wrenching transcends boundaries, or definitions.
It, as I believe as shown by the outpouring of grief over Mr. Hoffman’s death, transcends life.
For my part, I’ve been doing some light crying all evening long.
Not for any real purpose or another.
I watched this video a couple of hours ago, and all I’ve done in the interim is listen to incredibly sappy, emotionally destructive songs, and read about all the insane human rights abuses occurring at this precise moment, all around the world.
Sometimes I think the world is void of anything good.
There is no other way to describe the sensation of emptiness I feel when confronted by such ignorance and inequality.
I want to run away and hide and have Marc’s strong arms wrap around my weak little body and then we’ll just lie that way until our bones rust, and our smiles turn to stone.
This could, of course, never happen.
Because a.) I know how to turn off Youtube.
And b.) because I am, as some of you know, a proper LOVE WARRIOR and if nobody else is going to champion the betterment of this heaving cesspool of a planet, then I bloody well GET ON IT.
Plus my body is jacked.
I am writing a book.
This is exciting.
For my birthday I did this to my hair:
I have been wanting to do something blondy-blond for a while now, but haven’t been able to muster up the appropriate level of courage to commit to the follicle colourization process with gusto.
(AKA I am a giant wimp.)
But I figured I am only twenty-nine once – I might as well do it now before the aliens arrive and I spent the next sixty-odd years of my life making origami toilet paper swans for our six-legged, intergalactic overlords.
They’ll probably want me bald as a baldy thing.
(Egg? Cue Ball? Bruce Willis?)
Yippee Kai Yay.