June 30th, 2025 - Happy Days

Dear TNY,

“Happy Days” is unacceptable.

What is there to engage with?  What characters am I supposed to be curious about?  Adhere myself to?  What of this is transcendent?  What is the eternal connection here? Where’s the fucking humanity?

There isn’t any of that.  It’s elitist cuntery (I say that in the truest, British version of the word, which is unisex; so untwist thy knickers, fam).  It’s so chocked full of name dropping in “the arts” that isn’t not even a story. It’s just dumb shit.  I made it one quarter of the way through before I quit.  Why keep going?  Nothing here is engaging.

I talked to some people about work today.

I played a little Mario Party Jamboree.

I made delicious breakfast burritos out of pinto beans I made last night.

And yesterday I made my youngest son laugh by stating that I could not, under any circumstances, have started on time in our Mario Kart race because I was too busy tugging at my flagpole to mid-eighties Cyndi Lauper (I wasn’t, obvi, but it was funny and unexpected) and then proceeded to catch up to him in said race whilst singing, “The Goonies ‘R’ Good Enough,” at the top of my lungs, distracting enough, it seems, to expose that chink in his armor which I took advantage of and beat his fucking ass.  On one course.  He definitely won overall.  But what I’m saying is I made him laugh.  A lot.  And then I remembered that time when coming back from the south of Washington and we decided to keep going to camp, even though night would fall before our arrival, and I was singing, “Shallow,” with my whole, gruff heart and he was crying in the front seat then, all laugh, all of this happening just before I got pulled over by a Jefferson County copper for passing on the left on a double yellow because I was following Old Man Winter and he didn’t indicate his turn, nor did he achieve the posted speed limit, so I had had my fill of him and just abandoned the venture for greener, more lefterly pastures until such time the blue and reds let me know that I was fucked.  I was not issued a ticket for the transgression.

I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with these people. I don’t belong on this planet. I guess that’s neither here nor there. What I know is that you aren’t for me and I’m not for you.  I come here every week hoping that you will change because I believe in a different type of love than you do.  One I deem to be more important than yours.  But the truth is you don’t believe in it.  You never did.  You nepotized and monetized and capitalized and compromised all of your beauty and love. You, more colloquially put, shit the bed.  And you dropped fiction, like fucking Sloth from The Goonies got dropped.  You are disgusting curators of Art. And you should be embarrassed. But you aren’t. And that’s…disheartening.

But, you make a lot of money.  I guess that’s amazing.  I hope the fucking brass on that Titanic is polished as fuck.  I hope the quartet plays you sweetly and softly out. 

I’m so tired.

Nick