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Dear Mr. Lynch,
Beyond the joy of creation, recognition, and the obvious benefits of fame like money and girls, I think the biggest ambition of any artist is to gain the respect of the guys who influenced them. To be considered an equal by them for just five minutes. To talk as peers.
Mr. Lynch, you’re on my short list. However, the road to fame is long, hard, and wrought with happenstance, obstacles, luck, and a zillion other x factors out of my control. I just might not ever make it. And even if I do, I might not ever do anything up your alley. And, not to be crass, but you’re getting up there in years. So, in the unfortunate and likely event that our paths never cross, I figured I’d at least send this little message out into the ether. Maybe you’ll pluck it out of the universe one day while you’re meditating. Or maybe you have a friend who’s a huge Smug Film fan. (Hey, I can dream, can’t I?!)
June 29th, 2013 12:06 AM. My girlfriend and I nestled in for a night on Netflix. This is what happened.
It started with a really ‘clever’ and ‘quirky’ movie called Spork. That didn’t last long. Then we tried Kink, a Canadian TV show about an assortment of really arrogant and obnoxious S&M purveyors. The bumpers took up more time than the fucking interviews. Next. Then we tried that Sushi documentary that every keeps talking about but it was boring as fuck. Then we entered what I call ‘the blur’. This is where you turn off so many movies that are all so similar that they run together. I can’t remember what any of them are called.
After a while, Netflix kind of beats you down and you end up sticking with the least shitty thing. Generally, you want to pick something that’s just bad enough to be fun to make fun of, making it bearable. Most movies are far below that, but finally, I found one. Here’s what I wrote right after it ended: