Saturday, April 27, 2013

A Married Conversation (with Spoilers) After Watching Tom Cruise in Oblivion

"If you were a clone and couldn't remember everything, I would forgive you."

"That's what your last clone said."

Friday, April 26, 2013

Patton Oswalt's Epic Star Wars Filibuster Pitch for Episode VII

Total. Geek. Heaven.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

A Poem for Amanda Palmer

You don’t know how to make sense of this massive parade.

You don’t know why people thought “A Poem for Dzhokhar” was a poem for a terrorist named Dzhokhar.

You don’t know why people don’t believe you were surprised that so many reacted so badly to someone empathizing with a terrorist while the bomb site was still being cleaned.

You don’t know why other people don’t look up the definitions of “sadness” versus “empathy” in the dictionary so they can understand the poem you wrote in nine minutes, so you’ll look them up for us, because we probably wouldn’t understand what we read anyway, like how we didn’t understand your poem.

You don’t know how to explain yourself.

You don’t know how I’ll never be able to listen to “Coin Operated Boy” again without seeing the face of a killer who ran over his own brother.

You don’t know how the people who lost one or more limbs wish they could right now be trying to decide how many vietnamese soft rolls to order.

You don’t know how many people wish you had brought each victim a vietnamese soft roll, and then performed “Coin Operated Boy” at their besides, instead of being so interested in how people misinterpret art and then get angry about it.

You don’t know how glad I am that Dzhokhar didn’t know the way to new york, because I don’t know how many more people he would have killed there.

You don’t know how you walked into this trap so obliviously.

You don’t know why he let that guy go without shooting him dead and stuffing him in some bushes between cambridge and watertown, because you either don’t know that guy was actually told the answer or you don’t know how to believe anyone anymore.

You don’t know how much I suspect most of the fans for your poem will empathize with Dzhokhar’s essential, common thread of humanity right up until the moment he comes out against gay marriage or women’s reproductive rights.

You don’t know why so many wish you had written about that eight-year-old Dzhokhar set his bomb down beside instead of pondering the preciousness of iphone battery life.

You don’t know how much I wish Neil Gaiman had thanked you for that soft roll and then lovingly suggested you leave “A Poem for Dzhokhar” in your Drafts folder, just for a few days, and look at it again before deciding what to do with it.

You don’t know.

You don’t know.

You don’t know.