Tuesday, August 12, 2014

The name's Nuwanda

There was a time I could recite every single line of Dead Poets Society. Robin Williams was robbed of an Oscar for that one because the Academy is a bunch of douchey fuckfaces who undervalue comedian-turned-actor types that demonstrate that serious acting isn't as hard as Stanislavsky would have us all believe.


Then Good Will Hunting happened and I forgot all about Poets. And the Academy pulled its head out of its ass and got one right. (Seriously though, how the fuck did they not give him one for Garp?)

Social media sucks the life out of death, though. The incessant whining about the passing of such a great artist (the generic line used for any celebrity of any stature) who had such a profound effect on my life.

Look fuckfaces, his last stand-up special was middling at best. But here's the reality - all of that art he created, the stand-up specials, the movies, the nanu-nanus, those still exist. Those are still ours to enjoy.

And the depression - that sucks. Tell me something, are you going to do something about the state of mental health in this country? Are you going to write your legislature and demand any kind of action about gutting of mental health funding in this country? Are you going to donate time and money to suicide hotlines? Are you going to do anything other than lament?

No? I didn't think so. And that's why you're nothing more than annoying to me.

And if you say you're going to pray - fuck you!

I don't know what was going on in his life anymore than you do. I do know he lead an extraordinary life that he chose to end on his terms. The art remains. That's the connection I have. That's the thing that death itself cannot take.

So stop fucking whining and go rent Dead Poets Society. 


Shazbot!