It's the purest mentality of art: it just wants to be pretty, without the lofty egotistical pretense of meaning anything other than itself. I'd go so far as to say the best art never comes from the avant-garde β the avant-garde just clears the path for it.
This is kind of intriguing, actually. Here's how all this started. Taylor Sheridan named the prison guy who set up the hits on the Duttons as 'T. Riggins.' Now, we know that back in the Friday Night Lights series, actor Taylor Kitsch's character was named Tim Riggins. We also know that Taylor Sheridan was Taylor Kitsch's acting coach back in the day. Kitsch was born in Canada, but has lived in Austin, Texas for almost 2 decades. (Texas Forever!)
So, in naming the prison guy 'T. Riggins,' was Sheridan giving us a clue that we'd be seeing 'Tim Riggins,' alias Taylor Kitsch in one of his upcoming shows? Its notable that Sheridan also cast another Friday Night Lights alumnus, Kyle Chandler (coach Taylor on FNL) in his Mayor of Kingstown show, though I understand Chandler's character was killed off in the first episode.
Your thoughts?
A few people have commented that this is their favorite thing I've ever written. It was for Theme Thursday when the theme was kitsch. It's a pretty painful RF piece, and I was pleased with how it turned out. Though it was definitely one of those lovely pieces that resonates more with people than I hoped.
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The problem with grief in movies is they make it seem so linear. A bad thing happens, you cry a lot, slowly work through it, and eventually you get out the other side and you move on. The whole thingβs a slow progress to resolution.
What they donβt explain is how I can be hurt; cry a lot; move on; get a new house; be happy alone again; even go on a few dates with some new girl I met on Tinder; and then a year later pop into a random thrift store and be suddenly holding back tears, because Iβve seen something that I canβt buy for you.
I'm staring at this particularly God-awful ceramic giraffe. And I know that if I found this eighteen months ago, wrapped it up, and delivered it to you, youβd have been jumping around the room with joy. Your whole body making some elated high-pitched hum.
Youβd place it on your bookshelf alongside that wooden giraffe we picked up on that trip to the zoo. It could live alongside your three-foot tall giraffe plushie, your giraffe vase, and that giraffe shower curtain I hated. It would be the next item in your odd, not-even-remotely understandable obsession, and you would be ecstatic.
I reach out my hand to pick him up, before I feel that wave of realization cut across my chest. Instead, my arm falls limply by my side, and I sniff, swallowing the emotion.
You said it was over. You told me to move out. You met someone else. We went our separate ways. But I still really want to buy you this giraffe.
Itβs legs are little more than stunted triangles. The paint is so glossy that it reflects almost all light and makes the savannah giant seem pale. Itβs neck is obscenely long, even by giraffe standards. And it has this smug little smirk on his face, as if heβs completely oblivious to his useless legs and the fact that his neck is destined to break through the laws of gravity.
Heβs ugly. Heβs clumsy. Heβs glorious, and you would love him.
And thatβs what I miss the most. Itβs not your kiss, or your voice, or your wit. Itβs that moment. Finding something silly, and going βhere, I found thi
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Reposting as it was mistakenly identified as sp*m by reddit. I promise I'm a genuine person (and lover of cookbooks!)
I collect these cookbooks and I'm always on the hunt for suggestions. Think along the lines of 'Biker Billy's Hogwild On a Harley' cookbook, 'Liberace Cooks!', celeb cookbooks like Sophia Loren's (even though I know she didn't intend it to be either of these things) and 'The Southern Sympathy Cookbook'.
