The Sorryless Interview: Marjorie Taylor Greene

On the Campaign Trail With Marjorie Taylor Greene | Time

Marjorie Taylor Greene’s first two years as the representative out of Georgia’s 14th Congressional District have introduced a fresh new hell to American politics. Greene didn’t take long to unleash conspiracy theories that resulted in a boom for the tin foil hat industry and a crash of our collective common sense. Her political positions scored a zero on Rotten Tomatoes and yet, she is a rock star in some circles- surprisingly none of which were written by Dante Alighieri.

Before my interview with MTG, I spend forty-five minutes talking to her publicist about topics that will be off limits. I’m warned countless times not to utter a single word about masks, vaccines, her rhetoric that involved killing political opponents, the border wall, sanctuary cities, Area 51, Motel 6, Hilary Clinton, Barack Obama, Ayn Rand, Hitler, the Gestapo and Gazpacho, Taco Bell, QAnon . . or anything that begins with the letter Q, gun control, Jews, the harmonica or Chef Boyardee.

Once I’ve been cleared, I agree to meet Greene outside BLT Steak- a popular D.C. eatery for what she is referring to as a ‘road trip’. I notify my next of kin in the event I go missing just as a jet black stretch Hummer pulls to the curb. The tinted window rolls down and a driver dressed in Ray Bans and a bad tan asks me for the password.

“Let’s Go Brandon?”

“Good enough, get in,”

I climb into the passenger side seat and turn to find Greene in an orange dress, sipping a “Pimped up Pineapple Passionfruit Babay!”. I pray to God she keeps her legs crossed for the entirety of the trip as the driver pulls away from the curb.

Sorryless: I would like to start by thanking you for taking time out of your busy schedule to sit with us this morning. I was told you had some important meetings you had to push back in order to accommodate us . . .

Greene: No problem at all. Let’s face it, I’m getting paid whether I’m sitting in on those meetings or not, yanno?

Sorryless: You’re a true patriot, doing the people’s work.

Greene: I’m glad you think so. And umm, what do you mean by the people’s work? What does that mean?

Sorryless: Your constituency?

Greene: Is that one of those French words? Not a fan. The only French I like are fries, kissing and toast! Heck . . . I wouldn’t even watch the show Friends because it sounded too much like French!

Greene lets loose with a cackle out of Stephen King’s worst nightmare while eyeing me suspiciously. I have to change the subject quickly or risk her ditching the interview. I’m ashamed of myself for not choosing the latter but hey . . journalism! 

Sorryless: What are your thoughts on the Titanic?

Greene: Well, I’m not saying it didn’t happen but, where’s the video footage? All those survivors and they even made a freaking movie about the boat but not a single piece of footage? Something’s not adding up.

Mission accomplished. 

Sorryless:  A lot of things ain’t adding up, Ms. Greene. But let’s assume for a moment that the hundreds of thousands of verified reports are in fact true and the ship really did sink. Do you have any theories?

Greene: Well I have to be very careful about what I say because I know my detractors on the left are gonna be like There she goes again! and then the socialist late night talk show hosts are gonna use me in a bunch of skits and make me look really stupid . . .

Sorryless: You say that like it’s a bad thing.

Greene: I’m sorry, what was your question again?

Sorryless: The Hindenburg. Who killed the Hindenburg?

Greene: The French, probably.

Sorryless: Let’s change things up. Did Donald Trump win the election?

Greene: Fucking A right he won the election!

Sorryless: According to  . . . .?

Greene: Anyone who watched the early results where he was ahead by like a bazillion points and they kept on counting even though it was over, clearly.

Sorryless: You do understand this wasn’t a boxing match, right?

Greene: I would bet taxpayer money with you right now that Donald Trump is still President.

Sorryless: So who’s to blame for the economy? And gas prices?

Greene: The president.

Sorryless: In your words, then, Donald Trump is to blame.

Greene: No of course not.

Sorryless: But you just said Trump is president, and then you said the president is to blame.

Greene: I meant neither. And both. And the first one.

Sorryless: Alright, let’s try it this way. Will Trump run in 2024?

Greene: Yes, and this time he’ll win by more than he did in 2020.

Sorryless: So he’ll regain the office that you claim he already possesses?

Greene: Correct. And absolutely not.

I want the interview to be over because I’m running out of patience. And Xanax. Both. Greene chugs the rest of her vodka marinated passionfruit drink and then retrieves a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from a cooler. 

Sorryless: What compelled you to enter the political arena?

Greene: Jesus came to me one night and we had a long conversation about it. I was depressed because I had always wanted to be an astronaut but an astronaut’s license is really expensive so I wasn’t sure what my future had in store for me. And then Jesus decided that he wanted me to be a messenger for all of the disenfranchised people who do not have a voice and I guess you could say, I answered the call.

Sorryless: Boy, that really resonates with me because I know that as a white man living in this country, it has been one hell of a struggle!

Greene: I hear you brother.

Sorryless: Wait . . a minute. Were you trying to impersonate Mary J. Blige just now?

Greene: Who’s she?

Sorryless: Sorry, she’s the other Mary. Anyway I gotta ask. Is there a special prayer you have to say to get an audience with Jesus? Some kind of religious equivalent to a cheat code that allows you to bypass all the regrettable shit you did before that life altering moment?

Greene: Well, you don’t actually see his face when you’re talking to him.

Sorryless: Oh, like Mickey Rourke . . .

Greene: It’s more like, you feel his spirit inside you and you’re consuming him but he’s also consuming you. As time passes, you are overcome with this feeling of euphoria and then you are powerless to light and music. It goes on for hours like that.

Sorryless: You just described the time I got wasted on Jack Daniels before going to see that Pink Floyd movie . . . to a tee.

Greene: Are you with CNN?

Sorryless: If I say yes, will that end the interview?

Greene: Get out!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Kings and Queens and Kitchen Sinks

History of cats in Egypt

I like the idea of a spirit world.

Ancient Egyptians took the shit very seriously because to their way of thinking, a person’s life wasn’t finished when their expiration date came calling. They believed that the newly departed had an appointment with Osiris- the god of the deceased- and his 42 judges in a place called The Hall of Truth. If it was judged that the person on trial had lived a good life, they were permitted to enter Club Afterlife. Conversely, if the person was judged to have been a dick, they were tossed into the abyss and devoured by a monster. Not for nothing, but the Hall of Truth sounds way more fair minded than our Supreme Court. But that’s another thought for another post.

Anyways, the Egyptians believed that if you were greenlighted for the penthouse, it was all Gucci from there. Residents whose slippers were woven from clouds didn’t have to sweat any return trips to earth. They were gifted their favorite places and things for the rest of eternity without ever having to load up the car and fill the tank. There was however . . a however. Because let’s face it, there’s always a however. If an individual was called into the existential equivalent of jury duty, it meant their business on earth wasn’t quite finished or their peeps had dissed them in some way.

My daughter is convinced that we have a ghost and his name is Mr. Speaker. It makes sense, seeing as how the former furry ruler of House Lancaster loved the view from his perch and made sure that any visitors knew they had best leave their swords at the gate upon entering. It was his kingdom, they were just visiting. It would be sooooo Mr. Speaker to hold it against us for having replaced his precious crown with not one, but two members of royalty. And in the same calendar year to boot.

I elected Jack the 2nd and Wednesday the Only to the throne in the summer of 2020, whilst we were still writing songs about our dearly departed King Speaker. Truth is, I was in a very dark place after having lost Speaker months earlier and so when my sister sent me a video of a couple kittens she was fostering, I replied with “Sold!” And the rest has become a splendid history of two incredibly majestic rulers whose reign is akin to Carly Simon and James Taylor spilling musical gold onto a piece of vinyl.

Evidently, Mr. Speaker disagrees with this assessment.

“I think Speaker is inhabiting the kitchen,” My daughter informed me.

“What makes you say that?”

“You ever notice how Jack and Wednesday accompany each other into the kitchen? Or if it’s just one of them going in, they’ll usually wait for us?”

“You think Speaker’s haunting their asses?” I laughed.

“It’s something he would do,” She replied.

I conducted a thorough investigation of the area, making sure to cancel out insects, rodents and phroggers before reaching my conclusion that Mr. Speaker is in fact, haunting our kitchen.

Now here’s the thing. I could hold a séance in which I confess to the guy that he was such a hard act to follow, I had to double down! And not for nothing, but I honored his memory by naming one of them Jack (Since his full name was Mr. Jack Speaker)  He was a trusted confidante and loyal friend to my daughter. He was an expert wingman for yours truly. And as far as gangster chronicles go, the dude was legendary.

Eh . . . what’s the use? I know he would turn his nose up at such a gesture even if it happens to be completely true. He wouldn’t cease and desist even if I asked him nicely. What Mr. Speaker wants, he always gets. Even now. And it’s not as if the current regime is cutting back on food and water as a result. They’re just a tad bit more discretionary as to how they budget their time in the kitchen. And I think I need to follow their example if I’m being completely honest.

Besides . . .as far as I’m concerned, the spirit world just got a whole lot cooler.

The Rundown

Fans line a mountain road, cheering as cyclists ride past.

It’s summertime, and the living has been anything but easy. We’re getting mugged at gas pumps and grocery stores, lied to on most cable news outlets and all we have to show for it is a lousy t-shirt we scored on Amazon during their Prime Days Sale! (?). Thanks to Jeff Bezo’s General Store, I was able to procure a t-shirt which reads “Don’t Blame Me, I Voted For Lincoln!”.

The above image is from the 109th edition of the Tour De France, which I honestly thought had been canceled for good since they still insist on doping tests. These guys are schlepping 2,068 miles over 23 days and hell if I wouldn’t be doping just to get through that! I’d also be slathering myself in Preparation H. But no, I wouldn’t be hanging out with Lance Armstrong, who is a Hall of Fame cyclist but also an asshat.

Anyways, let’s get to the show . . . .

 

Frank “Beach Walks” Angle hits one out of the yard with this Steve Hartman feel good story about an extended family of a different kind.

In January of 2021, Gean LeVar of Glendale, Arizona lost her husband of fifty-eight years. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when police entered her home they found the conditions so bad, they were forced to condemn it. So in the space of twenty-four hours, Gean lost everything.

Her neighbor, Carmen Silva, made sure she got it back. Even though she barely knew LeVar, the mother of eight opened her home up to her. It didn’t matter that the family’s own living arrangements were cramped, what with eight kids and three bedrooms because as she says, “I’ve always taught my kids to take care of their elders,”.

When the non-profit group Operation Enduring Gratitude heard about LeVar’s story, they decided to renovate her old house. And so now, she has two homes where once she had none. And she plans to share it with the Silvas.

Gratitude is a currency all its own.

NFL launches 2020 season with It Takes All of Us

I want every member of the NFLPA who is defending Deshaun Watson to come forward so that we can ask them why. We have to ask them why they insist on standing behind a guy who went through scores of massage therapists. We have to ask them why they take his word over every single one of those sixty-six women (that we know of). We have to ask them why they agree to wear helmets that preach to us about righteous behavior while they are plenty fine with their members doing the opposite.

Personally, I want the league to stop pretending they give a shit about women’s rights. Because when you’re okay with giving abusers chance after chance after chance, it’s your actions that matter more than anything you say. The league and its members have to be put on notice.

If not now, when?

The lovely Dale has some goodness cooking up her fine self with this video story.

Khao Yai National Park in Thailand was the scene of a beautiful human effort that you probably didn’t see on the cable news outlets because there probably wasn’t room for it. Even though there should have been room for it, because these kinds of stories shouldn’t have to be scrolled down to or tucked into the last sixty second of a broadcast.

When a baby elephant fell into a drainage ditch, her panic stricken mother blacked out as a result. A team of veterinarians, park officials and volunteers were able to pull baby to safety and also administer CPR to mom. Both elephants were able to walk away from the ordeal thanks to a special group of people whose story is front page news.

To me.

BBC Three - Sexy Beasts

If my streaming diet was actual food? My ass would be in the hospital right about now. I’d blame my dealer- I’ll call him Phil because that’s his name- for turning me on to one mindless reality show after the other, but I didn’t have to buy his shit.

The nadir- for this week- is a Netflix show called Sexy Beasts. The premise of this dating show is to dress singles up in prosthetic masks before meeting in order to “find love purely based on personality“. Phil referred to the show as a “palette cleanser” I could use after having binge watched The Circle and Love is Blind.

Do they have support groups for this kind of habit?

1920s metal and glass Gas Price Sign with changeable prices.

A hundred years ago, you think peeps bitched and moaned about gas prices? I mean, I’m sure they did, because twenty-five cents a gallon to them, well . . . that was no joke. Still, it just feels so cute to me from our current vantage point.  And to those of you who might be wondering, my (imaginary) wild mustang is doing splendidly!

 

 

 

The Midsummer Classic Hits LA! Or, A Rob Lowe Drinking Game Is Born!

These Vintage Photos of Baseball Teams Will Make You Want to Play Ball | Reader's Digest

In honor of the MLB All-Star Game in Los Angeles, Imma hold an awards ceremony with some serious -ish. Personally, I think hosting a bunch of stars in LA is incredibly redundant, but whatevs. All that really matters is that the Rob Lowe Drinking Game is gonna be a thing. Every time FOX cameras fix themselves on his lovely mug . . . Shot! The over/under in Vegas is currently sitting at 42, so yanno, plan accordingly.

Let’s Coo Coo Ca Choo, shall we?

Shohei Ohtani Is on the 2021 TIME100 List | TIME

The player I would name my stadium after . . .

Admittedly, I’m utilizing a Ruthian interpretation in an age of sponsored sports venues, but love is love, yanno? There are so many great young players in the MLB and I could have devoted this entire post just to them. But Rob Manfred ain’t gonna pay me for it so there’s that.

So I thought about how Mike Trout is the valedictorian just about every season, with his A plus game and looks straight out of central casting. Juan Soto’s sweet swing and inimitable skill set is most likely going to fetch him half a billion dollars in some town. Fernando Tatis would be on every other electronic billboard if he played in a big market. And Aaron Judge is a larger than life presence who has delivered more objects into orbit than NASA.

All these dudes are the right answer. To someone. But the fella I’m giving the keys to the joint to is Shohei Ohtani. Because he is a double threat the likes of which a sport that is nearly one-hundred and fifty years old has never seen before. He hits homers at an MVP clip whilst shutting down the opposition with an arm that turns out more lights than a bartender. He’s not simply sharing the rarified air of a guy named Ruth, he’s . . . . baseball gods forgive me . . .  exceeding it.

The St. Louis Cardinals Unveil Fauxback Jerseys, Drop Navy Road Cap - Viva El Birdos

Every fan’s crazy for a sharp dressed team . . .

When considering which MLB team sports the coolest duds, there’s a long list to choose from. The standard bearers keep it simple and clean. Clubs like the Royals, Dodgers and Giants sport the fresh, classic look in their home jams. Teams like the  A’s and Orioles remain modern day throwbacks. And really, more than half the league keeps it cooler than cool with their (non-alternate) uniforms.

Above all others, it’s the St. Louis Cardinals home whites that do it for me. It’s joined at the hip with the town it calls home.

Wander Franco stats: 20-year-old is making history with Rays

Winners and losers come and go, but baseball names are forever . . .

The MLB has always had a funky thing going when it comes to its tenants. From Buttercup Dickerson, Phenomenal Smith and Dizzy Dean to Sugar Cain, Razor Shines and Coco Crisp. Yeah, I could do a couple of posts on baseball names and not even come close to the finish line.

Today’s MLB is no different when it comes to cool names. You got Buck Farmer and Scooter Gennett. Then there’s Mookie Betts and Jurickson Profar. And I can’t forget about Chance Sisco and Ozzie Albies. But for my money, the winning name in today’s game goes to Tampa Bay’s Wander Franco. It’s science fiction meeting Kinsella in a novella.

PNC Park Top 5 Traits - Bucs Dugout

Baseball stadiums separate the sport from all other professional leagues. And on this count at least, it’s not even close.

Unlike the other sports, baseball possesses no uniformity from one home to the next. Each team’s stadium is uniquely its own in some kind of way. From the Green Monster of Fenway to McCovey Cove in San Francisco to the fountains of Kansas City. And that’s not even to mention how cool so many of the game’s cribs truly are.

But for my money, PNC Park in Pittsburgh is the end all. Some day, the Pirates are going to field a team deserving of the stadium they play in. Hopefully that day comes before they raze the thing and replace it with a multi-use arena that houses six Starbucks stores and an IKEA. Until such time, Imma appreciate this gem on the Allegheny.

Aaron Judge ties Roger Maris' franchise record ahead of All-Star break as Yankees thump Red Sox | Fox News

Of course I couldn’t go through an entire baseball awards-ish post without mentioning the team with the best record in baseball: My beloved New York Yankees.

There is no boast to my toast. Just a hopeful nod to the fall, where the wins are much harder to come by. See, Rob Manfred and his conniving cronies can’t steal the essence of the game from those of us who are old enough to know what stirrups and pepper games are.

October plays for keeps. Maybe the Yankees finish what they started, but it’s no fate accomplished. Not with the Astros standing in the way. Or maybe it’ll be the Sawx again, or the Jays for the first time in a while. And there’s a better than even chance it could be the Mets or Dodgers, Padres or Cards. And hell if I’m not leaving out the current hottest team in baseball: The Seattle Mariners. They haven’t been to October since 2001. Back then, the Yankees played spoiler by knocking off a Seattle squad that had toted the best regular season record into that series. And maybe there’s a Mariners fan or two who remembers all that and would love nothing more than for their team to return the favor. The only sure thing is that there ain’t one.

Only Longfellow knows for certain.

The In Between

John F. Kennedy Jr.: New documentary focuses on John F. Kennedy Jr. and  Carolyn Bessette's turbulent relationship - The Economic Times

He went missing on a Friday night, and then came the waiting.

I remember the waiting because it was mind numbing. It was like knowing too much without knowing anything at all. In the morning, the glimmer of hope we all held to felt like the kind of lie you tell yourself when faced with the ugly truth. By the afternoon, there was no glimmer or lies left to hold to. All that was left was to stop pretending there was a miracle to be had.

We spent those desperate hours holding hands with the voices on the other end of the line. Because there were a lot of phone calls being made the day after. It was as if John was a part of our own families. We cursed and we drank and we cried just that very way. We wanted it back, we wanted all of it back.

Camelot was long gone by the time I was a boy, but I read and learned and knew enough about that magical idea to know the theft that had been perpetrated. Two brothers lost to assassins’ bullets, two men’s lives cut short with decades worth of legacy yet to be written. It was Shakespearean in its lonesome destiny, the idea that brilliant men could be silenced so damned easily.

The kid was going to introduce a final chapter to this hard wrought tale, and while it was no certainty he would assume the family mantel, there was always that whisper of anticipation. He was never inevitable, but neither was he blind to the responsibilities he had been born into. He wasn’t John or Bobby, and in a lot of ways, that was a very good thing. His soft spoken tone and his ability to get along with everyone seemed the kind of difference that was going to serve him well in the next chapters of his life.

And we dreamed what those next chapters would look like. Man, did we ever. We imagined a marriage of history and nostalgia because his was the family seal that came closest to American royalty. It was okay that he kept such talk at arm’s length while we embraced such a thing fully. He had time. He had all the time in the world. And dammit if I really did believe it would be different with him. All of it.

And then, just like that, it was late Saturday afternoon and all the time in the world had run out. The final act was playing out in the same way as the two which had preceded it. Only this time, it was all happening in slow motion. It was the cruelest of flourishes sent down from that cursed star that had taken a father, an uncle, and now a son.

It was the day after John went missing and the day before the news became official that I still remember most distinctly. That long Saturday, the in between, from one forever to the next. It’s where we mourned the prince of a city who had so much left to write. It’s where we said goodbye to an idea like Camelot one final time.

I’m always going to want it back.

 

The Rundown

Images From the James Webb Space Telescope - The New York Times

As Hunter S. Thompson once opined (Probably), time flies when you’re having rum.

Another week of high temps, higher tempers and low-down dirty rumors of our wobbly republic. Our status quo has gone woe, our economy is doing the mess around with the dollar store, our public discourse has devolved into hazardous waste and many Americans feel as if democracy is going the way of competitive baseball in Kansas City.

And then James Webb’s telescope comes along and trips the light so fantastically that we lose ourselves in the magic of its work; the foreign realms make us dizzy with possibilities. There’s music to the task of all the many faraway places this telescope was able to capture; as if the universe hushed us into a collectively blended coo with the gallery it wrought. Our feet gain access to the span of countless miles and dream on every single blessed one of them. Inside the fleeting pleasure of it all, we’re able to see the magic of the science experiment that is us. We’re the mighty specks in a brilliant spectrum of colors and places and songs, and we are no larger or smaller than the darkness we light up on the regular.

In the dusty swirl of forever is where we find our song.

Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest Heads Indoors, Limits Number of Contestants for 2020 | Food & Wine

Joey Chestnut won his 15th Nathan’s Hot Dog eating title belt last week, making him the biggest professional slob since that asshole who used to occupy the White House. No, that other asshole. Okay, since Trump used to occupy the White House. Not only that, Joey also managed to headlock an animal rights protester who busted a move on the stage while he was in the middle of flatlining his colon. After which Chestnut apologized for doing so because he felt bad for having tackled a kid. Not a bad day’s work.

Oh and if you were expecting me to plaster a pic of Joey mess-face with arms and stomach all akimbo? That’s a hell to the no way of Jose. Competitive eating is a ‘sport’ made for radio.

The Real Reasons for High Oil and Gas Prices | NRDC

I know you ain’t gonna believe it, but I recently bought a Mustang for $25! A muscular portrait all revved in white and velvety caramel. And so what if she doesn’t have any extras . . . for that money, what the hell do you expect? I brokered a deal with the Bureau of Land Management and the only drawback is that this beauty has to be trained. But umm . . . how hard can it be?

I’m currently re-watching Yellowstone for educational purposes.

Japan's former prime minister Shinzo Abe shot and killed | Financial Times

The assassination of former Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe is a reminder that gun violence is the new way of handling grievances for far too many people. Tetsuya Yamagami held a grudge against the Rev. Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church because he claims it bankrupted his mother, who had joined the Church in 1998. Abe was a paid sponsor of the church and so when Yamagami went looking for a target, he simply merged church with state with madness.

The Murder of Rising MLB Star Lyman Bostock Forced Changes to Indiana's Insanity Laws

The sports world is a bad moon rising when it comes to the stories that grab headlines: There’s Deshaun Watson’s defrocked status as a franchise savior for the Cleveland Browns as he stumbles under the weight of all those sexual misconduct and assault allegations. Then you have star athletes like Kevin Durant who play the millionaire baller version of kick the can in their quest for a locale they’re never gonna love.

So Imma reach for someone who should still be here, lending us his mind on sports and society. Lyman Bostock was taken from the world in the summer of ’78 when a bullet meant for someone else found him instead. In his twenty-seven years worth of baseball and life, Lyman made the kind of positive impression that spans lifetimes. After he inked a free agent contract with the California Angels, Bostock donated $10,000 to a church in his native Birmingham, Alabama so they could rebuild their Sunday school. When he got off to a poor start in his first year with the Angels, he attempted to return his April salary, claiming he hadn’t earned it. When management refused the offer, he donated that money to charity.

Today doesn’t mark the tragic anniversary of his passing. Nope, it was simply a loose mention of the man that clinched it for me. Because it’s been forty-four years of the void, and I don’t think we can afford to forget people like Lyman Bostock. People who make us understand the better that resides inside us. People who make us feel as if those faraway galaxies are within reach. People who possess the kind of aura that spans those countless miles worth of stardust. It would be so easy to curse the fates for his untimely death.

Instead, I’ll give thanks to the life he led.

Joe Pesci Movie Review: Final Score

Best Buy: Final Score [DVD] [2018]

It’s been a long time since I did one of these movie reviews for Marco, seeing as how I was holding out for more money. Lemme clarify that statement for ya . . . I was holding out for any fucking money whatsoever! The cheap fuck doesn’t pay me for these gems, and if not for the fact he has so much dirt on me, I’d already have moved him into some cheap digs out in the desert.

So this week I’m reviewing Final Score. It’s an action movie even though it involves a soccer game, go figga! Dave Bautista and Pierce Brosnan are the only actors I recognized because the cast of this thing is more British than General William Howe’s army. And no, I ain’t a history buff, but I banged a chick who was a Revolutionary War reenactor back when I was chasing acting jobs. Or at least I think she was a reenactor. . . .

Anyway, Bautista plays this schmuck named Michael Knox. The reason I call him a schmuck is because he adopts his Army pal’s family after da guy croaks. Knox blames himself and I understand what it’s like when one of your soldiers hits the snooze, permanently speaking. But if I played Uncle to the families of every soldato I lost to a business meeting, I woulda gone broke, yanno? Knox clearly didn’t get the memo because the stronzo visits them all the time. And get this . . . they live in the UK! So he hops a plane, from the states, just to drop in on ’em whenever the fuck he has a free minute.

Knox convinces his Army pal’s wife to let him take his make believe niece to a soccer game. Mom runs a bar and deals with a lot of pains in the asses, but they’re a piece of cake compared to her daughter so she agrees to let Uncle Mike take her. That’s where the soccer game comes in, and not for nothing but the guy who wrote this is fucking brilliant because he figured out a way to make the sport inneresting: Terrorists!

Stop me if you’ve heard this one. The terrorists are Russians and their entire plot hinges on a couple nut-bags reuniting so’s they can start a revolution. It reminded me of the time I almost married a Russian girl but the fuckhead handling the online transaction maxed out my credit card and ran off with her. So . . yanno, Russians ain’t my favorite people. But these guys are even worse than that! They lock down the stadium during a game and the fans have no idea that they’re hostages, because the only thing dumber than an American sports fan is . . . well okay, there ain’t anything dumber than an American sports fan.

After the terrorists lock down the joint, we find out they have it wired with explosives and nobody’s leaving. I remember the time my late business associate Sal pulled a stunt like that with one of the bosses. Let’s just say there’s a reason Sal is my late business associate.

As much of a schmuck as Knox is, he also happens to be a real badass. So he takes care of most of the terrorists and then he finds Dimitri Belav, played by Pierce Brosnan. Dimitri doesn’t wanna be reunited with his nut-bag brother because he’s traded revolutions for soccer tickets. Whatever. And of fucking course, Knox’s pain in the ass niece is running around inside the stadium with a little douchebag for half the movie and then he has to save her on top of killing the terrorists and making sure thirty five thousand fans don’t get turned into bread pudding. He accomplishes all this with the help of a Middle Eastern kid working security at the game. I shit you not. Everything works out, in the event there’s a sequel.

Oh yeah, Marco wanted me to let ya know there may be spoilers in this review.

The Slate Is Ours To Write

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” Albert Camus

There’s this person I know, I’ll call them Sandy since that’s not their name but I wish to be respectful of their privacy. Their journey wasn’t an easy one. Not when you consider how many people still believe the world is supposed to subscribe to the notion that humankind must abide to a uniform script. There are still too many people who are willing to get ugly and mean in order to convey their narrow minded approach to everything and everyone else.

Sandy had a tough road to get here. Born a boy in a conservative Latin family and learning a different truth by adolescence, they hid the truth until it could no longer be hidden. For some, the truth is a liberator but for others such as Sandy, it is the beginning of an arduous journey fraught with complications, betrayal and abject hate.

I took all this into account when I was getting to know them because it’s how I would like to be understood. The golden rule isn’t some bullshit antiquity, it’s a real world solution that works wonders when applied with compassion and understanding. It’s how I learned that Sandy has the kind of personality that makes everybody’s day just a little brighter just by being in the room; smart as all get out, hard working and as genuine a human being as you’re ever going to meet. Sandy isn’t just a good person. Sandy is one of the best people I know, one of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. If you want my slam dunk, that’s a fack jack seal of approval last word on this? I would have enlisted Sandy as a babysitter for my kids back in the day. And that list was reserved for immediate family and a Godmother, so there’s that.

We tend to forget how easy it can be. We’re so wrapped up in the daily mayhem that we lose sight of Camus’ best idea. The one that summons us to get moving to where the getting is good. It’s a place we all have access to if we just let it do its thing. The denomination that threads us together is what should count most of all. If we stopped separating each other as if we were aisles in a grocery store, we would understand ourselves as people. Different and very much the same. Both.

Maybe we don’t ever figure this out. Maybe we drown in our insolence, captive prisoners to the hostilities that are setting perpetual fires to an unkempt world. Maybe we are just too far gone to ever really get to the place where peace matters. Where the quiet of common sense matters. Where life reads like that favorite passage in a classic piece of literature that your brain can feed on in perpetuity. And maybe none of it matters in the end if we give a damn enough to spoil the wreckage with kindness.

If I never knew Sandy, I never write this post and I never feel as hopeful as I do in the moments that come at me from every direction with words that spill over with love and peace and a genuine belief in us. All of us. And it’s a tiny little stretch of real estate with quiet understandings. But its resonance moves the holy spirits that tend to our small mercies, even in the most desperate of times.

Admittedly, I can still be clumsy with pronouns. But I’m earnest and I’m open and I’m honest to this fact. After all, it ain’t hard work. It’s how a person chooses to live because it’s their life . . it’s their choice. My part is the least meeting most in a hug, and I do understand that it’s not everything, but it’s a lot more than nothing at all. And it still counts.

A lot more than we know.