Hop's Thoughts

I do not do it often, but every now and then, I glance back at old posts to see where I was in my life. This morning I looked and realized I was coming to the end of something I tormented friends with, called 100 Days of Hopper. In this day, in 2014, I wrote of my decision to leave Westchester for good and all the reasons. There was no joy in leaving and definitely no joy in staying. The change in my life has sadly had very few positives. It's changed me. It's made me more cynical, if that were possible. It's made me question the humanity of others and see people without their facade. It's also made me pay attention to what they say, and I believe I've learned to read messages between lines they don't realize they've revealed. Sadly, I don't really believe I've found much out about myself, other than the walls my mother described so often. She could always set me straight, even if only for a while. I also read a post about that one friend. The one ...

CNN has a journalist named Ed Lavandera and while filming the flooding. He kept rolling, kept reporting as an elderly man was removed from his home. He kept reporting while pulling the elderly man onto a boat. He then pulled the family's dog on, still reporting. Then he paused, as he relayed the message to the studio that the man's wife was bring brought out, he said "Give us a minute. She has Alzheimer's and we don't know what condition she is in. It was a rare moment of compassion in a field where a photo or a sound byte is everything. Moments later, the woman was filmed, but he demanded the cameraman put down the camera and help, reassuring the woman "you look great," Forget that this reporter was putting himself in harm's way, doing more than he was sent to do. Forget he showed basic human decency by assisting in rescues. In the height of the madness, when people don't think straight and most reporters would be thinking about their careers, ...

I left the library today. Three movies in my hand, knowing one was at home. I thought about how I'd be back on Monday to return them. Who knows if the woman with her three kids, one in her arms, maybe three, four months old, and two others, maybe four or five, wanted one of them. The automatic doors opened and I was immediately hit with the smell of a diesel exhaust. The gray haired lady approaching winced and her nose twitched like Tabitha. She gasped a little, then passed. I turned the corner and saw a woman in a short black dress checking under the hood of her car, almost leaning in far enough that the workers across the street would be rewarded for their stare. I walked down the street, passed a bow legged old man, wearing a slightly too small blue polo shirt, with a tattoo reminiscent of Popeye. I nodded, then thought of whether he was a sailor and if he'd seen battle. A muscular man with ear buds passed again, almost trying to bump shoulders with me on the more than wide ...

I've never been a neat freak, but have always taken pride in how I treat other people. While living in other people's homes, even if for a single night, I've always made sure to, at the very least, leave it as it was before I arrived. I do not think we can excuse people based on age or ignorance. I don't think being respectful of other people's property, especially their homes, is a learned behavior. I simply don't believe one needs to be told to be respectful to do so. Living in other people's home has taught me a lot. I've learned that the expectations other have of me are very often the exact behaviors they lack within themselves. I've learned that my level of respect both for their material items, privacy and general comfort, is not always reciprocated. I've also realized that sarcasm and playful jokes are not effective in remedying these inconsistencies. Many times I find, it's just easier to do what needs to be done and move on. The...

I had to unfriend someone on Facebook yesterday. I have three rules about friends, as it relates to Facebook. Don't get nasty with my other friends Don't lie about me Don't you ever fucking sympathize with Nazis Now here's the thing. I don't think this kid realizes he's sympathizing with Nazis, but that's somewhat how Nazis began. The naive, the complicit, the cowards and the stupid, didn't want to ruffle any feathers, so they either went along or stayed quiet. A few years later, six million Jews and many millions of others were killed. This is known. This is taught in school, by our elders and it's clearly understood that while history has a habit of repeating itself, never again will we allow Nazis to be a thing, especially in the United States of America. So it's 2017 and I have a friend, an ex-friend, because I'd likely lay him out if he stood by his posts, whose comparing some group called Antifa to Nazis. Now, I'm not u...

I just spent the better part of an hour writing an epic blog on American Patriotism. As I reached the end of what had turned into more of an essay, I realized something. I had spent the entire time explaining what isn't patriotism, referencing many things I've read or heard lately, in defense of patriotism. It was all nationalism, socialism , capitalism, Marxism, communism, conservatism, liberalism and a few other ism I don't know the names of, but nothing was patriotism. It then dawned on me that patriotism isn't a love of country anymore, but a love of a country we all desire, but as the current culture has shown us, isn't attainable. My main theme was "we all hate Nazis." Another theme was "we all SAY we hate white supremacy." Finally, the last theme was, "do we really love our neighbor?" I deleted that and this is all that remains Nearly every great politician has spoken of patriotism in terms of questioning one's governm...

Almost every morning, I walk in the dew soaked grass behind the house I'm living in. It started as therapy and I keep telling myself it is, but there's another reason. It's the only time the grass doesn't hurt my feet. The moisture softens the hay-like blades, so much so, it feels like a cushion. I know the mid-morning sun will turn that comfortable stroll into something akin to a bed of nails, taking all the leisure out of this morning routine. Sometimes I sit and watch the neighbors meticulously cut their lawns, envious of the green lush landscape they create and I have to remind myself, "it's not my house." The once bare deck is now adorned with a massive hot tub, a table with six chairs and an umbrella, but oddly no glass. A second table with a hard plastic top, I assume to make up or make due for the broken one. A grill with a giant cover and some scattered toys cover the rest. I usually pull a single chair and lean it against the house, to give mysel...

I'm still only about 110 movies, so far this year. Paltry numbers compared to years past. This month a slight change has occurred; a library card. So possibly going to revisit some classics, but who knows...my new list is growing and growing. Hard to believe I was in the hospital and a rehab center during this time. Seems like months ago. Also, a side note. I do not count documentaries in my top or bottom 3, so I am not a Negro is not getting snubbed. It's brilliant and is a must see film. Black Belly Of The Tarantula - Giallo. Beauties and young Gianinni. Works, but a bit boring. Sarah Silverman: A Speck Of Dust - Her delivery is like no other and it works magnificently.  Headshot - It's no Raid: Redemption, but unreal action and violence and non-stop energy. The Image (short) - Young David Bowie as painting comes to life, with It Follows vibe.  The Keepers (series) - Strong start, but too much staged dramatization, hurts message. Blondie's New York - Doc about...

April 1, 1984. It was a Sunday. The night still held onto winter's chill, but the sun of the day had felt warm. Warmer than it was I suppose, but at thirteen, I was never still enough to feel the cold. I stood, the furthest from my home. Two sewers down, protection from the long ball. The pros hadn't begun, but the children of my Brooklyn neighborhood had retired our footballs for bats and baseballs. It was my favorite time of year. The smack of the bat, whether it be a real baseball, softball, tennis or rubber, made a sound that made me feel whole. All the sounds of baseball rung out like a symphony in my ears. A weak grounder to the pitcher and it was our turn to bat. I jogged in, nodded to the older black man who owned the laundromat, sitting in his folding chair, smoking a cigar, paper folded neatly by his side. It was Sunday, so he still had on Sunday best. He lifted his fedora, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then used the hat to motion me over. "Aren...