You may have noticed from the staid frequency of my posts, but I've recently come to the sad realisation that even though Andrew McCarthy is way rad, there's not much to say about a dude who reached his career peak approximately 20 years ago. Sure, watching Weekend At Bernie's is like staring at gold reflected off diamonds, but writing about it is a little boring. The old dude's dead, the young dudes are pretending he's not - it's a f**king masterpiece, get over it.
Yesterday I took a stroll through my leafy neighbourhood park. It was cold, the weather was windy, I wore a green coat with a mad collar that flips up to warm my supple neck. A couple of dogs chased each other up a hill. I thought about life. I thought about death. I thought about throwing a tennis ball 100 metres in front of me, running after it, and picking it up with my teeth. I thought that'd be pretty fun. I thought about babies and why they're so goddamn stupid, how they can hold a strawberry in their hand for 20 minutes and still not know what the f**k it is. I thought about Enrico Calantoni, and how he seems like a pretty nice dude, can probably make spaghetti bolognaise like a superstar. I thought about thinking and how it can fill up time when you stupidly leave your iPod on your bedroom dresser when you go out on some stupid walk in the stupid cold.
But I didn't think about Andrew McCarthy. I didn't f**king think about him. And I don't know if I ever will again. F**k you, Andrew McCarthy. F**k you and your yankee blue jeans. If I ever see you again, I swear to God, I'll kick you to death, I'll do it.
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