Tall Pyramids

Joseph Hayes The Desperate Hours is like a harpoon piercing the heart of the Eisenhower era, but what caused it to tap into the anxiety of its audience? Post-war GI PTSD? I grew up with Bogart as the desperado with a conscience as a kid, and the lines of the threat in the film were not yet ready to lift the sheath behind the real psychic wounds of violation. Escaped convicts made headlines sixty years ago, then were carefully stage managed. In contemporary mindsets, escaped convicts are almost the charming amicable anti-heroes while we chew the fat over spree shootings and family annihilators, with American gun ownership out of control.

We might comprehend the libertarian argument for the individual right to bear arms, but with gun ownership comes a weighty responsibility. As a nation, we fail in this responsibility, and I'll shock my mythical homosexual adversaries with the assertion that weapons and their owners need regulation. When a driver can no longer operate a vehicle their license is revoked. Same principle should apply to police, soldiers, and every Okie spooner north of Ohio.

My rare lighter side procrastinates with Majong puzzles, and I'd like to cold cock Microsoft. On the verge of winning a format not the most complex, but rarely beaten, automatic updates slipped my mind and shut Toshi down, which, again, is the only reason this post is here. The save prompt did not take, and now I'm pouting, but should be working anyway. In Diamond Park, amid the vandalism, and domestic travail, gimp dealers stabbing their bitches who screamed and ran dripping blood down the hall, I worked. I did not win contests or get paid until I obtained online access, but I worked. It runs deeper than my resistance to the den mother mindset of the nanny state. I've stopped believing in myself. I knew my savings would disappear from my early days on LiveJournal, and my preposterous solution to that were penny articles for Examiner. Sigh. I believe I'm still employable, but I need the right habitat, unless I want to give myself a reason to go on parole.

I haven't engaged the police, just yet. It feels like a satire. Hannibal against the Roman Republic, post menopausal tits added, like Artemis and Sheeba. Bogart always has that underlying vulnerability to his machismo, the bobble head before the actual toy invaded pop culture.