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I think I've figured something out... and it's kind of sad.

I... I... I think I'm growing up.

That's not necessarily a good thing, either. I mean, yes, I'm mumble mumble years old and I'm a good provider and fantastic breeding stock and many, many, if not all women find me incredibly attractive to the point of distraction and even, in some cases, tragic results. But those are just facts, and growing up, well... When you grow up you live in facts.

What I mean is that I used to be able to take flights of fancy, to daydream, to imagine. Now I can't. Well, maybe I could, but I don't. I don't play. I don't dream, I don't lie. I just don't. And it's no fun.

I can't even get into someone else's daydream. And that sucks too. Take for instance this movie called "Patterson". It looked cool. It looked like the kind of thing that I would have love, love, loved when I was younger. But I couldn't even sit through the whole goddam trailer. I couldn't because I figured out the punchline as soon as I saw who directed it (Jim Jarmusch). Like I said, I would have flipped out over this movie just a short time ago.

My problem is that when I watch movies like this I can read the daydreams of the director. This is the romantic version of ME screams Jarmusch's id. My brain says, "yeah, yeah, I saw a movie where this kid moved rocks with his brain." And that's sad.

Because in the technicolor bullshit cartoon movies that I can stomach now nothing realistic happens. I can't daydream that I'm some writer of sordid novellas who nonetheless can afford to live un-subsidized in a loft in Tribeca and drink top-shelf liquor and do hyper expensive drugs with my incredibly hot and smart and successful and doomed friends at super cool dive bars who witnesses the murder of an under aged prostitute by the Mayor's girlfriend and his bodyguard during a drug-fueled blood orgy and ends up blackmailing said mayor via anonymous letter into hiring myself to be his PR guy who accidentally falls inexplicably in love with the poisonously decadent and self destructive mistress who committed the murder and together we spend three and a half movie hours plotting to pin it on the Mayor who manages to turn the snake back on the two of us, but really just me and so I have to be the one to drown the mistress murderer in the tub during a wild election night party because we need a fall guy and the bodyguard can't be implicated because he has a special needs kid, so I do it for the promise of a McArthur-type grant because as much as I love the junky bimbo I love my dream of being a writer more. I just can't. But I can be entertained watching a giant lizard beating the shit out of the NYPD, even if no one but one old man and a cabbie die in the whole damn movie.

Why? Because that would never happen. The director of the giant lizard movie isn't putting himself in place of the heroic little girl who kung-fu's the immense geko back to the hell he spawned from.

But Jim Jarmusch wants to believe that he could have been a fucking bus driving poet. He even wants to believe people still care about poets. It stinks up the movie. It's LESS believable than a giant lizard dry-humping the Empire State building. And that's just a fact.

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