I don’t care if they are fake.
No, not those, get your mind out of the gutter.
I am talking about the feel-good stories people post on Facebook. You know the ones I’m talking about: the little injured bird that gets befriended by an iguana, for example. The iguana heals his little feathered newfound friend and they while away the days playing in the sun.
They make me smile, so make all those you want.
Unless they are so blatantly obvious with ham acting and cheesy production value that I can’t watch them in their entirety.
There has been horseshit coming out of the film industry for some time now, and I thought the blame for a dearth of good productions was because of the writer’s strike.
No.
Still crap coming out as new releases.
And those bullshit streaming services charging top dollar to rent an old movie. Or to watch a TV rerun.
Not gonna happen.
I am as curious as the next person, I guess, about wondering whatever happened to past friends and acquaintances.
Not obsessed, but somewhat curious.
I had such a peripatetic existence, having attended multiple high schools in multiple countries and I was never one to get super close to anyone in particular (unless they were a girl), but I did have a good friend named Ren Goff who was my best bud in my junior year.
Another name from my junior year, this time all the way across the country in East Los Angeles was Danny Donley.
Those names bring a smile to my face.
I don’t really think about any of my past girlfriends in the active sense; it just seems more like unnecessary narrative on a past life.
As the Domestic Despot will tell you: there was no life Before Karen.
Now, in my waning years, I see everybody as a “kid.” These are forty year-old people with families, and I’m calling them “kid.”
My problem is my mind has not caught up with my body’s aging process.
When I look at a young woman, for example, a normal man of my age would think, what a nice young lady.
Me?
I’m trying to figure out the exact amount of force needed to bust open her little lace top and expose those hidden gems.
I know.
I need to grow up.
To that I merely say nanny-nanny-boo-boo.
I will survive.
Can you imagine?
Me, circa 1981 Las Vegas, holding a sweet young dancer aloft and twirling her on a flashing, multi-colored disco dance floor? (Praying to God that nobody who knew me would show up).
True dat.
That shows you the impossible lengths I would traverse to get close to a girl.
Everyone needs to get over the Los Angeles Lakers signing Lebron James’ son.
Hell yes.
It is nepotism.
I don’t have a problem with it.
Lebron won the last NBA title for the Lakers in 2020, and they haven’t done anything with all the wizardry of Jeannie Buss and her staff since, so give the kid a shot, make Lebron happy.
He will still retire as the second-greatest basketball player of all time.
Stay well.
