"You were there," Tavis Smiley, asserting an obvious statement of fact timorously.
Breakfast? Risotto, eighty percent consumed, anxiety attack abated, last mug of espresso cooling on my scarred heels. Google doesn't seemed too concerned about outbursts or homicidal impulses, as they, Google, keep mailing me nice suggestions, and hey, Google, if you want a hissy fit, all I want is to re-monetize my account and don't know how babe, and my stingy viewers aren't going to download me to kindle so I can buy myself a new beret. Every militant cripple has to be out for herself, but I'd like the beret before my journey, fraught with peril, commences. I wonder how I can do this, with my extensive knowledge production of what homelessness entails. How can I beat those odds?
It hasn't happened, yet, but I've had my fill of this landlord, meanwhile, thinking-- have to not give up. I did earn three thousand, so I must be able to earn more, and wish I could post more details about my ideas, but that would be foolhardy, turning my tumblers for you on the dialectical tensions between the industry and the ethics of the death toll.
Night of the Living Dead still has the power to make us cross our legs in a warding off reflex. At first, the opening seems to signal to the audience that we are entering into a send up of typical bourgeoisie pretensions, loosening up Judith O'Dea, somewhat suggestively. Romero is leading us by the nose, as if to say, I can set the blonde up for a cherry pop too, duh. Then it veers off, unexpectedly, in to becoming a post-apocalyptic dare on miscegenation, which still had a certain fearful fascination for those in the innocent wonders of childhood, and then it becomes an odious indictment of caste tensions, and cleverly reverses expectations, to remind us why the Southern mindset in the twentieth century was so horrible, so worthy of guilt, necessitating tolerance for Smiley's pretensions, Tavis closing his eyes to sway to the guitar strumming of the loose-skinned folksinger, a white witness to the times, "when Martin was killed." A bit bold on the part of Tavis, to do that on a set studded with floodlights, a kind of obstinate bubble, a testament of faith that one day the progressive level playing field will be victorious.
No Tavis. You'll never see that dream realized, because difference can never be equalized without creating a new class oppression, and the very fact that I am past the half century mark, unable to separate myself from government control of my destiny, is a glaring defacement at your altar. Duane Jones did have a nice piece ass, but I was just a kid.
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