Johnny Abbes

He wished to banish from the minds of chivalry around him his own indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess Rebecca;" Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe, location 1650, or as an object of crystalline hatred, to remind my .0001% regulars, second woman from the right

O, rest assured, part of this is self-flagellation for my own gullibility, never to be entirely gotten over, which earns contempt. I want to destroy a kindergarten case management psychological mindset because its ape like antics, and I mean the literal social agitating of shrieking chimpanzees, did me so much harm.

Woody Allen's defenders are invested. Wilder  must have his dwindling share of proponents as well, yet I was never partial to either the wit and anxiety of the former, nor the hyper-manic slapstick of the latter, despite Young Frankenstein, which had its moments of bestial abandon, one that triggers the primate grin to forestall aggression. Why does dissimulation trigger homicidal rage? In the attempt to balance her excellent magazine feature on Allen's immolation of his stature, Phoebe accented that Mia threatened to kill her former partner. Is there any woman out there who doesn't understand such sentiments? If this had turned into the next OJ Simpson trial, Farrow had a justified defense.
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I have no regrets in my purchase of Llosa's novel, despite the novelist's deep leftist convictions-- yet multiculturalism is not a salve for Caucasian trauma of lighter touch. San Domingo and Haiti are apparently separate countries on the same insubstantial island as a matter of skin tone: Haiti is an African colonial commonwealth of the US, and Trujillo's old patch is a Spanish-Indian infusion with a little more self reliance. I thought I was buying something else, back when I vacuumed up e-ditions for kindle. WTF do I care about this sorry land mass and the legacy of its diaspora? What is Llosa demanding of my empathy, and how much genocide do we have to carry to our graves?

Since I am confronting mortality of my relatively horrific life, with the back of Jerry's corduroy blazer before my youthful asinine eyes playing "The Cripple Who Loved Me," like an Ian Fleming title track, this is the failure of my potential: I have researched Haiti for years. I have handfuls of articles on its flamboyant and ruthless leaders, fascinated, wondering why we don't just eradicate this sorry excuse for a civil society, because I created a Haitian psychiatrist for a longish satirical spy thriller where King Arthur and Guinevere are father and daughter engaged in incest, sodomizing the knights of the round table. I kill them all in the end; hate the story and don't know what I'm doing with it, but like my Haitian psychiatrist. I had no idea Llosa had written a nearly identical tale, but novelists cannot change the world. Mario sort of does what I thought. Crippled lions, k cera, cera