J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

Someone once said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Someone was wrong.   (Uh oh. This is going to be one of those posts , isn't it?)   Pretty much, yeah.   (Crap. Let me get my coffee….)   I love movies. I am a movie buff, movie junkie, movie aficionado…. But holy carp, Hollywood. Can you maybe perhaps possibly create some original works and stop regurgitating old movies? No more re-branding. No more reboots. No more straight-up copies of originals from years past. Remember the Cult of Personality ? We need a new cult. The Cult of Originality.   Ghostbusters; Fantastic Four; Point Break; Magnificent Seven; Road House , to name a few. For f*ck's sake, can you people not come up with a new idea?   (Why you be hatin'?)   Why you be talkin' Walmart? Look, my point is this, and I paraphrase from Dr. Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park : you shouldn't do something just because you can do something. Look

Hmmm. Maybe Keanu Reeves isn't so bad after all. (Okay, who are you and what have you done with JJ???????) I thought that might get your attention. We'll get back to that topic later. Let's just say this post is going to be a positive one, about self-esteem, personal growth, and emotional journeys. (Again, we ask… who are you and what –) Oh my gawd, stop. Okay fine; admittedly I don't throw out the touchy-feely-feel-good posts all that often but this is one of them. As regular readers know, I wear my heart on my sleeve and generally don't give a flying fu – (Language!) *ahem* Alright, Captain America… I generally don't care what people think about me or the words I write. I write to share myself, because I can't expect anyone else to accept me for whom I am if I don't show them that person. So, to that end, I'm sharing this personal story in the hopes that you readers will perhaps think about it, reflect on your own

Okay, so... maybe I am a little bit into Game of Thrones . Give this GoT inspired piece a read and let me know what you think..... **** Despair had fallen over him as the night's shade had blanketed all of Gaia; as a Lord's Guard, Alain Denarth expected a soldier's death, an honorable death. He never expected to perish with his arms bound above his head, any feeling in his fingers having long since drained away. The air he breathed was as dank as his captor's soul; rife with excrement and decay. At first Denarth had tried to count the days of his imprisonment by measuring time with the rising sun. He'd lost count at twenty when Autumn's Night finally arrived to cast the countryside in perpetual dusk. There was no sense in counting anymore. Why they fed him and kept him alive was a folly of a guess he'd abandoned, though he began to suspect that his ascension to the Gods was nearing when the food waned, and then ceased completely. Denarth was barely