207

This blog is less for our cadre of loyal and awesome fans (the heroes) and more for the new people stopping by the site whom we hope will soon themselves become heroes.

Just so you all know.

So, as of this Tuesday, the 22^nd, our flagship film, that brutal little comedy that we call “For Catherine” is available pretty much everywhere. The biggest part of this new deal is that our kickass little movie is now extremely easy to get, especially for Netflix users. All you cats have to do is throw the thing in your queue, and then wait a few days for the finest 105 minutes of your life to come in the mail.

If you want to see the flick, and I certainly hope you do, but don’t have Netflix, you can always try their service out free for two weeks, which is plenty of time to see our movie and return it with no fee. Essentially, anyone in the US can see our movie entirely free if they so desire.

Free comedy, dammit! People have said to me many times, “Ethan, For Catherine is friggin’ awesome, is it possible that anything could ever be more awesome?” And until now I’ve said “No, sorry, your life is downhill from here.” But the fact is, something is now even more awesome than our movie: Our movie for free.

And, by the way, if anyone is curious, I don’t get any more money from Netflix depending on how well it rents. They already bought a shit-ton of copies of the flick and that’s all the money I’ll see from them for this picture, so when I whore for them, know that it’s just because I want as many people as possible to see our flick. I don’t make another dime on Netflix, but it’s the easiest way to see our moving picture.

And if you just want to buy the movie, well, there are so many options. There’s Amazon, there’s Suncoast, there’s Deep Discount, there’s DVD Empire, there’s Best Buy, Target, Sam Goody, Barnes and Noble, the list goes on and on. But, just so you know, we still massively prefer for you to get the thing right here on our webby site. It’s cheaper for you and we actually make more money off the direct sale. But no matter how you pick it up, we’ll greatly appreciate it. And it’ll probably work out pretty well for you guys, too.

The movie has its problems, it was made for no money and it has some course audio and some questionable lighting in places. Having said that, we’re all really proud of this thing, most people who have seen it really, really, really like it and I think if you give it a chance you won’t be disappointed.

Thanks for your time, thanks for stopping by i hope you check out our picture and i hope you love the hell right out of it.

Get a beverage of your choice and take a chance.

E

An open letter to my friend:

~Ethan Hunter,

Here’s a novel thought: Fuck Adam Duritz. Fuck him with ten crows, and count each one. One for sorrow, one for joy, two for Hard Candy, and six for no new albums in god knows how long. Let’s face it: He’s right; we shouldn’t believe in him.

Fuck turning our backs on the people that draw the line.
We shouldn’t turn our backs on anybody.
Fuck putting our faith in the answers we can find.
These days, we shouldn’t put faith in anything.
Fuck hitting the ground running.
Stand tall and stand still.
Fuck saying a prayer for those we leave behind.
Leave no one behind.

There comes a time in every man’s life when he’s got to cast off the shadows of his heroes that lay about him like so many cigarette butts. A time to cast off faith and cast off doubt. To live on certainty. To stand on his own two feet and say, “The best years will never be a waste of time because they’ll never pass me by. My best years will always be ahead of me. The future is an inherently good idea, and I am the hero of my own story.”

Fuck Adam Duritz. Fuck Aaron Sorkin. Fuck Kevin Smith. Fuck Scarlet Johansson. Sorkin and Smith you should fuck gently because Sorkin’s getting old and Smith had that anal fissure thing. Johansson you can fuck however you see fit. But seriously, fuck’em. I mean, give Duritz the reach around if you’re feeling generous. But fuck’em all.

Your time is now, and my how you have taken it.
This year, 2007, is the year of 207, the year in which you take the world by storm—take it by maelstrom—the year that puts your fine flagship For Catherine in front of more dazzled faces, the year that spreads your vision of America like a plague—a pox on everyone’s houses. This is the year in which more people than ever before use their email, text messages, phone calls, semaphores, smoke signals and sign languages to say to you “Holy shit! I laughed so hard I deafened the NSA guy that bugged my house.” This is the year of Outhouse Awards and Netflix. The year of Amazon.com. This is the year of unprecedented distribution. And this year is not even halfway over. You’ve already delivered enough to put McPheely to shame, and yet you march on. If ever I expected anything of you, you’ve exceeded my great expectations.
This year, 2007, is the year of 207, and it is the year that you, my dear Ethan Hunter, turn 27. A holy age. Three to the third power. The age that Jim, Jimmy, Janice, and Kurt decided to check out. They left because their best years had passed them by, and you’re not going anywhere because the best years and the real work are still in front of you. Keep sending the divine sparks to heaven, brother.

And have a very happy birthday.
-Christopher

P.S. You still owe me some money, don’t you?

I wrote a really long rambling blog. It was vicious and sweet and over the top and below the belt. It recalled the past and foretold the future. It was sad and hopeful. It was everything my prose tends to be and it included the following paragraph:

Love the way you mean it. A love made of angles and anger. Stiletto love. Love as a vicious, brutal and beautiful institution. Love that can kill you as instantly as the Pillar of Light and cast Phoenix Down in the same moment. And if you understand that reference then you are my brother. And if you understand it without even knowing what the hell I’m talking about then you are my brother.

But it isn’t right for mass consumption.

So let me just say that Catherine Campbell, yes THAT Catherine, the young lady who has inspired just about every word I’ve ever written that’s turned out to be worth a damn gave birth to a son one week and one day ago. Many congratulations to you and may your new life as a mother bring to you the things you always seemed to be missing. May it bring you happiness and tenderness and truth. May it wrap you in its wings and deliver you to awesome.

I love you very much, Katie. I always have. I always will.

Get a beverage of your choice and I’ll see you in 18 years or so.

E

i’ll follow you down

I have started and stopped and started and stopped and started and stopped this blog a hundred, hundred times.

I’m trying to find words tonight, immaculate words that categorically do not exist, and on the television cows are singing about cheese to the tune of the Green Acres Theme and I like hamburgers and steak as much as anyone, and milkshakes, I LOVE milkshakes, but if I could kill every cow on the planet with mind-bullets right now I absolutely would.

It would be a cow-genocide the world would mourn and discuss and lament for the rest of forever. I would bypass the fame I’ve been working on for an eternity and rocket into infamy but it would be well worth it.

It occurs to me now that those singing cows probably weren’t real and I’d be better served by killing cartoon cows, but I’m not taking any chances. Go to the source. Nip this shit in the bud.

I would give up beef entirely if it meant finding these words, but they don’t exist so it’s all as pointless as anything else in our lives.

Diamonds and babies and cars don’t add up to anything.

The words I’m looking for are a requiem, I suppose. Remembrance.

The Gospel of Donald.

They are adjectives, too. Words to tell you all a little about my father.

Because today is May 1st. Today is, unbelievably, impossibly, the second anniversary of my father’s passing.

And passing, is a VERY strange way to put it, but it has at least the illusion of class so that’s what I’m going with.

Two years, man. It boggles the mind.

I’m not sure I thought I would make it this far without him and, truth be told, I’m not sure how I have. I wrote about him in a blog on this day last year and I encourage all of you who might care to read that here. And inside that blog you will find other links to things I’ve written about him which you may read if the mood strikes you. They are all superior to this blog and i’m not sure why. i just don’t have much left today, i think.

I don’t want to be redundant and I’m not looking for pity, I guess really this blog is entirely for me. A few paltry, sad-little words for one who must be kept.

My father wasn’t perfect. He was as scarred and weary as any one I’ve ever known, but he was generous and selfless and I love him very much. He was passionate and brilliant and kind. He was strong and gentle and he was my father.

And though in my own muddled way I believe he is still with me, every time something great happens I can’t help but think, “He would have been proud of me,” and that makes me feel wonderful. But I think also, in my selfish, selfish ways, “I want to share this with him, and I can’t.”

And then I want to fist-fight death.

I want death to scream so loudly he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice and I want see him broken before me and I want him to beg me for mercy and I haven’t decided yet if I would show any.

If I didn’t we’d have a serious population problem on our hands, soon.

It’s in the other blog so maybe you saw it and maybe you didn’t, but call your dad if you can. Hug him if you can. We all collect enough regrets throughout the course of any given day. For me, heroes, make today, too, a holiday. Make it the day you tell your father the things you should have said a long time ago. Make today the day you refuse to regret. Probably he won’t even care if you call collect.

And if you, like me, cannot call your father, I’ll raise my glass to him tonight just as I raise it for mine.

As I said 365 days ago: Donald Martin Hunter was 6’2, when I was younger I thought my daddy was a giant. It wasn’t until I was taller than him that I realized just how enormous he is.

And I still miss the hell right out of him.

Get a beverage of your choice and call your friggin dad, will ya?

E