Dear Sony,

As a former purchaser of Sony products, I must express my sincere displeasure that you continue to make streaming media apps available on your Playstation 5. Given the large number of DVD's I own, including many rare editions and steelbook series editions, I must urge you to reconsider allowing consumers to stream media when DVD is a superior medium. Your continued support of streaming apps directly undercuts dedicated collectors as myself who once relied on Sony technology, like DVD players, to view this media. Additionally, I would like to draw your attention to the fact that online streaming apps do not allow the richness of experience that DVD's allow through hidden tracks and extra commentary. Timeless audio features like Ben Affleck's commentary on Armageddon deserve to be included in the conversation with media itself. I represent a small but growing minority of frustrated consumers ready to boycott Sony if you continue to allow these travesties to continue.

I urge you to do what is right, not what is convenient. History will remember whether Sony stood with the streamers or with the true guardians of cinema.

I watched a lot of bad stand-up comedy and I wanted to offer these Jeff Parker-approved lines for people that want to steal them:

• I had this girlfriend once (this is the whole joke)
• I cannot bear the weight of this guilt because I skipped leg day
• Yesterday I went to this store. Today I went to this other store. OMG SO MANY STORES RIGHT?!
• What about hats, amirite?!
• As a kid I wanted to be an astronaut. My dad said “Jeff, you’re too dumb to be an astronaut”. I said “Okay” and decided to be something else.
• I thought about auditioning for America’s Got Talent but the routine I developed where I demonstrate I’m double-jointed in both thumbs only lasted 3 seconds.
• As a kid I had a really good friend down the street named Joey. His family moved really far away but they came back years later for a visit. Joey and I sat there silently, not knowing what to say anymore. Applause, please.
• Last week I started stacking a bunch of cardboard boxes in my backyard. My neighbor asked what I was doing and I looked at him and nodded while tapping my temples, implying I had a genius plan. There's no genius plan. I'm just stacking boxes here.
• I've been practicing my Jack Nicholson impression. I went to the bank and said I'm Jack Nicholson and I'd like to withdraw a million dollars. They asked me to fill out a withdrawal slip and present some ID. Cool, my impression must have totally worked.
• I had a teacher in high school say I wouldn't amount to anything. I have this blog, I showed them.

I finished re-reading (again) Calvino’s Invisible Cities. There’s already ubiquitous praise for it so I have nothing new to add. This is my desert island book.

What’s on my mind is pondering what my experience would have been if I had tried to read it a long time ago. I’m not sure I would have made space for it in my life.

i saw a squirrel
his name was kevin stevens
that’s what he told me

spring light, waking earth
the sky whispers all around
“it’s kevin stevens”

paying my taxes
a porsche almost hit my car
it’s kevin stevens

kevin stevens, man
he came up into the club
left with all the girls

we need a hero
oh look there’s kevin stevens
he said he’s busy

in our final days
we curse the name of the one -
it’s kevin stevens

a ballad is heard
fire-lit inns across the land
“it’s kevin stevens”

The thing about poetry
is that it must be jeweled, baroque,
a palace where every verb is encrusted with sapphires,
every adjective perfumes the air with musk,
and even the comma arrives draped
in embroidered velvet.
No line can leave the house
without a powdered wig,
a monocle,
and a tiny gilded parasol.

The
    thing
about
       poetry
 is
    that
      it
     scatters
    itself
          like
 Legos
       on
    the
     floor,
  and
     then
           insists
  you
walk
           barefoot
across
 it.

The thing about poetry
is that it turns everything into a metaphor,
until the sky is an open wound,
the bread is regret,
your socks are the ruins of empires,
and your dog
is now a trembling allegory for
God’s silence.

The thing about poetry
is that it never laughs at weddings
but sobs in the frozen food aisle.
It clutches your hand and whispers,
my father is dead, my mother is dead,
my grandfather’s shadow is also dead,
until the milk spoils
and the cashier has to close her lane
out of respect.

The thing about poetry
is that I have become the mountain,
the wind, the cricket, and the entire cosmos.
O weary pilgrim, thou must
eat quinoa rinsed thrice beneath the moon
to grasp my sorrow.

All of my brilliant musings will go here.