Miami [2026]

There’s a couple guys I like to play cards with every week at various bars around town. Two of them are neighbors, one’s a fellow retail veteran, and occasionally Lammi stops by. Generally, I’d consider all of these gentlemen to be “friends,” but on occasion—I’ve been the subject of their judgmental, cinematic wrath. Specifically when it comes to movies that oneself may or may not have watched.

And look, I don’t claim to be a Siskel and/or Ebert. I just like what I like and have seen what I’ve happened to see.

Raiders of the Lost Ark, Days of Thunder, Father of the Bride Part II, Independence Day—a lot of my film influence has come from movies that I had as a kid, what was commonly showing on basic cable in college, and whatever’s happened to be on various streaming services I’ve had pseudo-reliable access to as an adult.

All that to say: if you ask me if I’ve “seen [insert recent movie here],” there’s a very high likelihood that the answer is: “no.”

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy movies, but I also don’t understand the indignation that comes when I truthfully answer that I’ve never seen Pulp Fiction.

I did recently watch Travolta in “Broken Arrow,” though, and that was fun.

And God-for-fucking-bid you try to calmly explain to someone that you’ve never seen Back to the Future all the way through, but have seen enough parts of it over time to still understand references when it’s brought up.

Out of principle, I’ll probably never watch it now.

Also: no matter how much peer pressure is laid at my feet, I will never back down from the opinion that Star Trek IV would’ve been a fine two-part episode for the television series, but isn’t a movie I need to see again.

I’ll take “Generations” before re-watching those time traveling humpback whales.

There has been one film named by my friends, however, that seemed to grant me reprieve from their incredulous questioning: The Big Lebowski. It’s the one movie that I don’t find any annoyance with people quoting; a film I actually own and can watch repeatedly without losing interest.

Now, I’m certainly not unique in this feeling towards this 1998 classic, but I was nine when it came out and didn’t discover until later in life within the apartment of that aforementioned fellow retail veteran (thanks, Andy).

I once knew several self-appointed film critics and won’t attempt to mimic their performative commentary, but to put it simply: I think The Big Lebowski is perfect. Especially for someone who grew up bowling and evolved into a person that pines for the simple life of Jeff Bridge’s main character, “The Dude.”

The “bums” may have “lost,” but they’ve been right all along.

Movies tend to be escapist fantasy, however, a fact of reality that I acknowledge and have no other choice but to abide. There will always be bills to pay, responsibilities to manage, dogs to walk, and “tumbling tumbleweeds” to watch roll by. Yet, when the jukebox is queued up with songs from the movie, a new hand is dealt (literally, not figuratively), and a fresh round of beers has been placed on the table of some dark and dingy bar on a Thursday night—I feel truly at peace. That’s my idea of vacation, even if I’ve only traveled a few blocks away from home.

That’s not to say: I don’t appreciate a “true” vacation or a getaway with friends, but such ventures invite both logistical challenges and the unexpected. The kind of travel that can force one into a self-imposed introspective spiral where your aging days, both of the past and future, are rapidly called into question. Sometimes, a trip to the beach becomes a duel with rodents in a rented home and verbal sparring with VRBO.

I may have been sitting next to friends in a rental car while looking out at the ocean and palm trees, but my hands still gripped my knees as if I was on the bus to my day job. Mac’s Club Deuce brought me back, though.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke, we were treated as regular people rather than the sun-scarred tourists we clearly couldn’t hide being. After being handed a High Life and poker chip for the all-day happy hour, I looked up at the bar’s television to see a familiar face. 

“The Stranger,” stared directly into the camera and spoke. Although the speakers were silent, I could still hear those iconic words from Sam Elliot’s character:

“‘The Dude abides.’ I don’t know about you, but I take comfort in that.”

I traded it in my poker chip for the next beer because, well, “sometimes you eat the b[e]ar and sometimes the b[e]ar eats you.”

“It’s good knowing he’s out there. The Dude. Takin’ er easy for all us sinners.”

Mac’s Club Deuce.

Memorial for Evelyn Valdes, a Miami social worker who was killed by police as they were attempting to shoot a suspect.

“Mr. Pink Takes Flight” (“Monsieur Rose s’envole”) by Philippe Katerine.

Tri-Rail bound for West Palm Beach.

West Palm Beach.

Brightline departing West Palm Beach for Miami.

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