A new site built entirely upon vanity could only, if we may borrow some biblical language here, beget a vain, self-promoting post, and we shall not disappoint in this respect. I wish I could tell you FlickFool was founded in an inspired moment one languid afternoon following lunch, sun dipped low, heat beginning to dissipate even as my uncompromising filmic vision flashed afire. I wish I could tell you I excitedly flipped over an empty pizza box and then began outlining, in broad and prescient strokes, the contours of the site using nothing but loose toppings and grease.
In truth it was a joint effort among friends, my primary contribution being ample slouching on a fine leather couch. I heard some typing, then phone calls to not one but two superpowers, and suddenly it arrived: FlickFool, your only online destination for movie reviews regaled in exactly 50 words. The market cried out for it, and we responded. Or, more accurately, the market didn’t ask for it at all, but we furnished it anyway.
Originally we had plotted a business trajectory for the site that concluded–slightly to the right of the leprechaun, but well left of the unicorn–with tens of dollars in profit. Reality quickly struck, though, and it was agreed the project would need to run solely on a love of movies and a willingness to express this regularly in 50-word increments. What you read here, hopefully twice a week, is a kind of unfiltered mental download, so for me this new property offers a chance to write and think leanly. Half the adverbs with twice the punch, you know? It’s a site in its infancy, but there you have it–your how and your why and your once-upon-a-time. Your open invitation. We hope you enjoy.
Last Sunday, under a pleasant noontime sun, a grim sacrifice was offered, very much against my will, at the Church of Golf. My 5-wood finally succumbed to my poor form and, in a ritual to honor the Old Ones who first encased themselves in garish linen pants and founded the sport, lost its head. It was a hushed affair, quick and tasteful, and the severed appendage dropped to the ground with all the dignity befitting a range speckled with cigarette butts.
I thought I would feel more remorse, since this is the first time I’ve broken sporting equipment, but in truth I hate all my clubs and woods equally. If you’re a golf aficionado, imagine losing a beloved pet. Now, if you’re closer to my location on the golf spectrum, imagine “losing” a foul dog with five legs and an extra asshole down a laundry chute somewhere, and you will begin to approach the sadness that gripped me.
What was really disappointing was the complete regression in skill, to the point where I wondered if divine punishment was being meted out for skipping real church. Whereas at one point 80% of my shots were getting some air, roughly the same percentage was now falling off the tee, or rolling a few dismal feet in front of me, or rocketing flush across the ground. There’s a term for that last one: wormburners, as it was explained to me.
We’re at the part of the narrative where the protagonist has lost mostly everything, confidence included, and must rebuild from scratch. All I’m left with is my stubborn resistance to paying for lessons, but more importantly the knowledge of what a good shot feels like. It’s that focused swing, followed by a quiet crack, then liftoff–and the small, white ball traveling far away in an effortless arc. A few hundred of those and I’ll be set.
Public bathrooms, to the untrained eye, may appear to be small rooms–and here we fulfill your daily pun allowance–flush with plumbing and devices made to regulate sanitation for society at large. Dig deeper, though, and they are unique commentaries on the human struggle, especially vis-à-vis a little something I call basic aim. I swear, looking at some of the spectacular misses plastered on the filthy floor, you’d suspect urinals and toilets weren’t modern conveniences, generous with diameter, but rather unforgiving bull’s-eyes designed for the Marksman’s Club or some kind of magic archery contest in the Shire.
I just finished vacuuming. Specifically the downstairs of my townhouse and not a public restroom, as the natural flow of paragraphs would suggest, and I have a confession to make. It’s shameful, really, but the number of insects moving in is nature’s indicator of how lazy my housekeeping’s been. It just feels like my domestic life operates in a completely different time-space continuum than, say, my office existence, and instead of procrastination you have slowcrastination.
Let’s say I trap a spider under a foam cup. A shiny object or loud noise distracts me, the cup sits there for days, and the bug dies a slow, wretched death. If the same scenario played out in the office, I would’ve quickly crushed the insect, then probably cut and pasted it into Excel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some dishes to not wash.