Drake has been getting a whole lot if praise for his job hosting the ESPN Espy awards last Wednesday. He was called charming, personable, and a legit triple threat of talent by the popular media. And I won't deny the man did much better than I thought he would. He was nearly Timberlakeian...
It will never cease to amaze me... The shit that people will care about...
Seriously. I've been tinkering on this website (in relative obscurity, I might add) for several years, and the randomness of things that have generated Hate Mail towards me has always left me scratching my head; the oddities of what manages to churn the ire of the readers that I attract never really jiving with what I feel might draw scorn.
We discuss a lot about the overly sensitive nature of this country, and how this will eventually lead to a dulling of this culture. For years now, we have been documenting this slow slide into benignity as our culture has decided that the most pressing issues our society has to wrestle with isn't the ever expanding scope of Federal control, rampant corruption in the halls of power, or the stupefying of the American citizenry for political expediency but rather the discomfort of certain segments of our population are with comments made by others.
And this week, we have a great example of it.
Political correctness is running roughshod through this nation like the dark armies of Sauron, blanketing a once free and united peoples under a shroud of distrust, fear, and constant observation. We all know it... Hear it creeping into the language we use around our friends, see it in the shows and movies we like to watch, feel it smothering us as it invades every single facet of life in 2014 America.
There were always places where I could find peaceful refuge from such complicated turmoil; cover in the dark corners and smokey halls of the haunts and parlors still untouched by the cold hands of a soft, sanitized existence.
Those are the cryptic words I texted to my friend and business partner, Skippy Handleman, in the wee hours of Sunday morning. They came to me in a fever dream, the nightmarish image of Woody Harrelson dressed as Bray Wyatt, holding a lantern while flanked by his family of psychotic rejects. He blows out the lantern, his wild man chuckle waking me from a fitful slumber; promoting my cryptic message.