Dandy Walker Recriminations

for her part, she liked her boobies. -- Virginia Woolf, one hundred fifty pages in prior to the stones in her coat

Au contraire, Rotten Tomatoes, Grauman and Davis created the first real anti-metropolis film of its kind with Lady in a Cage, a stark black and white with an uber realism to countermand a certain Shakespearean absurdity. This is a film that imprints itself in utero, exposing liberalism for what it is, a crock in the eddy of self interest. There is a little Sunset Blvd, here, consciously or otherwise, upgraded to be a little less exaggerated, closer to the big NE or Midwest cityscape, with a dash of Chaplin. but for the fact that Grauman wasn't offering viewers a digestible farce. Lady is closer to an existential travesty, its hint of mother son incest translatable, as it is always translatable for aging glamour girls, as di Haviland biding farewell to regal beauty, and James Caan saying hello, an imitable Brando who always has a streak of malevolence, whether he is the good guy or not. He's mean, cowed only by more ruthless brawn. 

Davis pulls a few strings, even for a 53 year old film. Fences would not normally be as brazen as Mr. Paul, but this movie is otherwise chilling for its honesty in relation to crowd theory and unwillingness to act, how the underclass preys on vulnerability, the aging, makes lack of functionality,expendable, namely with the death of the wino who precipitated the home invasion. Just as with the dead dog in the opening, we gaze in curiosity before we'll help, or act, sucking the life's blood out of those we can.

I conveyed to Sims, little center city big man, that I'd go to his job fair tomorrow, and for that, ought to lie down, knowing I will not really sleep, nor probably be treated with any receptive interest, even if I perfume. The faces of my former mental health consumers have carved themselves into my sad, anxious gaze, with my deep passive aggressive contempt. None of what I've been through since I moved to Temple University is Brian's fault, but if I could hold his attention for 30 minutes god help the man. Why?

I am not sure. I'm 52, with violent dumps which intimate I ain't getting anywhere near Oliver Sacks terminal old age, the mortal guru of equanimity, and it is not precise to label my state legislator an adversary, as such. His Gnosticism hasn't harmed me, but if I had the nerve, which, tomorrow, I shall not, I'd tell him this equal treatment for orientation business is just more Orwellian comfort food. Brian could pass as anything, a partner for Deloitte & Touche, but no. Gay identity is but party noise. When the world can look past me as a spastic savant? Not possible.