I was going somewhere with this...

You ever find yourself watching an independent movie and saying to yourself, "I totally see why no studio wanted to put money into this." Its obvious that someone went to film school, maybe studied screen writing, and they definitely had a lot of fun working out their inner demons, or whatever, but come on!

And by the time you realize this, it's too late, you have to finish this train wreck of metaphor, pop culture references, deep symbolism, self-referential irony, stop frame animation, father issues, mother issues, and sex fantasies (hopefully not too much of a mixture of the last 3).

I'm not going to identify the particular Netflix delivery that started me on this--just in case I'm being totally oblivious to some sort of cinematic genius. I'll keep my Philistine instincts to myself. :)

Don't get me wrong, I love indie movies. I more than realize that the best quality stuff in film doesn't come from the major studios. But just 'cuz something's not backed by a studio, paid for by maxed-out credit cards by some kid stuck in a dead-end job, doesn't mean it's quality. Not everyone is John Waters (PTL), Kevin Smith or Edward Burns or whoever. Too often, an indie film is just what I described above, self-indulgent tripe. Like the self-published fiction that gives self-publishing it's rep--people so impressed with themselves, so impatient to make it big, so convinced of their own abilities that they shortcut the learning process. Rather than paying their dues, learning the hard way as you, being rejected and rejected and reject, and learning from that--they teleport their way through the obstacle course, just like Kurt Wagner, leaving a sulfuric smelling cloud in their wake.

Now, I know I'm the same way--or at least could be the same way. It's knowing that I've got years of hard work ahead of me (since I'm too broke to pay for one of the shortcuts)--and even with that, there's no guarantee of success, that makes me want to click and drag my very not finished manuscript file over to the Recycle Bin, sparing the world my watered-down Jonathan Tropper-esque (with touches of Mike Gayle and Nick Hornby) male confessional. (not going to delete it...1. I keep drafts of everything, everything and 2. I literally have nothing else to occupy myself over the long haul).

I was going somewhere when I started this. Don't remember where. But it's been so long since I've posted anything beyond a picture or a link, I'm going to hit "Publish" anyway.

See? This is what happens when a perfectly rational mind is exposed to self-indulgent, self-important, non-self-aware, pretentious tripe!

Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be indie artists.