Mitch's Blog

The Rewatchables podcast has never done Clerks or Mallrats. Shocking!

Republicans somehow managed to sprint from “we’re trying to protect women in sports” straight to defending a woman being shot in the head three times at point blank range for trying to drive away from a masked thug.

ICE is “a bunch of meatheads who are basically Biff’s sidekicks from Back to the Future running around with tear gas and handguns and a sense of impunity."

Mitchellaneous did not go out at the usual time yesterday morning. When I noticed this, I poked around for a few minutes looking for a technical reason for the problem. Eventually, I figured it out — I had scheduled it for 2025. D’oh! 🤦‍♂️It’s coming up in a few minutes.

Billy Crystal’s apartment in When Harry Met Sally is over the top even by NY movie apartment standards. That’s a billionaire apartment. Billy is clearly money-laundering. As is Hugh Grant in Notting Hill — no way he affords a flat in Notting Hill based on income from a failing travel bookstore.

“All of us, citizens and immigrants alike, are being ruled by people who think life is a privilege bestowed by authority, and death is a fair penalty for disobedience."

In the 80s, VHS video dating services were the future.

Everyone inside America’s most flailing destination city has a theory for what’s wrong. Now I have my own.

At a bar downstairs at the Luxor Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, I recently found myself next to a 67-year-old man who had come to town to get a tattoo on his shoulder. The tattoo in question was of Yosemite Falls, in California. As best I could understand it, he was getting branded with the landmark because he was enmeshed in a situationship that wasn’t working out. He and this woman had apparently taken a memorable trip to Yosemite earlier this year, and he hoped that—after he showed her the tattoo—a tarnished spark would be rekindled. I wished him all the luck in the world as he took his leave of me, and for a few minutes, I was alone among the chirping slot machines, nursing a gin and soda and pondering how no place on Earth can make you believe the impossible quite like Las Vegas.

I know more people who hate Las Vegas than love it, and I’ve never been able to construct a convincing argument for why they’re wrong. We are granted only so many vacations in this life, and it might seem ill-considered to spend one of them watching the Blue Man Group in an Egyptian-themed hotel in the Nevadan desert. But here I was, at the Luxor, on a quest to renew my love affair with this city.

A well-reported, well written article.