Dear Mission Impossible III:

I was going to ask why it was in that scene in the Vatican the one guy shoots a tracking device out of his camera. I was going to ask why he didn’t just toss it into the central square, or drop it off, and then something occurred to me:

The Correctness on Sports:

Contrary to popular belief, we here at The Correctness are huge sports fans. Because of our unerring expertise, we are frequently bombarded with sports related questions. How does one pole vault one’s shotput? Is Hachidan Kiritsu illegal in Anbo Jitsu, just as Will Riker claims it is? What are the consequences of a ground rule double in quidditch?

The above photo is of myself and my new son, Daniel Harrison Binns. On the whole, fatherhood suits me. He shares many of my facial features, yet somehow he manages to make them work for him on a level that I have yet to master. What I have found in my limited time in Daddy’s chair is that the miracle of birth is not actually in birth itself. Rather it lies in the fact that this small creature does everything in its power to make you hate it, screaming, defecating, depriving you of sleep and yet it has the complete opposite effect.

By the time Scroaty had reached his forties, he had settled into a grim routine. Having finally abandoned a tedious and wholly unsuccessful search for self-redefinition, the kind of search that a person can only attempt in his thirties if he has no family or greater sense of purpose, he had become a woodcutter.

Dear Musicians:

Please stop pretending to understand economics, real jobs, or what a cubicle is like.

Allow me to explain: I’m a musician too. I completely understand where you are coming from. Your socialist views, your bohemian Taoist life choices, your vegan diets. Being an artist full time requires a weird dedication to your craft that sets you apart from other musical hobbyists. Sometimes you have an idea at 3:00 in the morning, and you simply must wake up and record it. Sometimes you practice a new chord you “invented” until your fingers bleed, just because you don’t have callouses in those exact fingering positions. Sometimes you are forced to turn down a teenaged groupie because your only groupies are teenaged, and you realize they are only into you because you rent a bachelor apartment and own a leather jacket that you claim to wear ironically due to your veganism. Then you write a song for the teenaged groupie anyway, which you perform to her on your would-be-ironic second hand chesterfield which you retrieved in your buddy’s truck from Value Village, or possibly the Salvation Army Goodwill store. You work at night, and you can’t get up early because of it. Can’t even make it out to busk at lunch, can you?