The largest of the war programs, begun three months after the outbreak of the Civil War, also evolved into an old age program-- Raymond Richards, Closing The Door to Destitution
At the risk of alarming Blogger's gate keepers, I thought I'd be dead when I reached this point in my personal fortunes, and, amazingly, I am not; not yet, but I am driving on a trick wire. One thing goes awry, like my old micro bake oven kicking in, and I've had it. I cannot rely on my relatives supporting me with checks forever. In tandem with this, my freelance pitches have foundered. I am working, but I cannot think of new markets, have trouble comprehending how Burry bet against credit default swaps and made money for his sometimes irascible investors. I even went so far as to trouble Timothy Taylor to explain this in a post, and the plodding economist finally ignored my email, perhaps not knowing how to explain bear markets. Buy low, sell high. My financial acumen goes that far, but I will be damned if I can grasp how failing subprime mortgage loans made a very few very wealthy, nearly killing me without trying-- not that Michael Lewis doesn't have command of his subject in The Big Short. I just do not see how bankruptcy for indigent failures like me drives investment. Independent press authors wrote openly about living off accumulating debt in the Small Press Review when Len Fulton still printed his tabloid monthly. I lived off my Discover Card awhile in 1996, but sank so far under I am afraid of applying for credit again, and certainly can't claim commissions. To boot, I'm out of nicotine, and will have trouble handling the pathological rage seeping into Riverside's infrastructure. Getting past the month of January is going to be a tickle, and not of the salmon pink variety, and yet, despite this, I'm unwilling to implement my suicide. Not just yet. Maybe I hit on something and a merciful editor gives me a small advance toward a kill fee, though it would have to be a fast transfer.
Entertaining the notion of seeping into places has always entranced me, in terms of its literary motifs, which is why a loosely joined interlocking episode film like the 1995 Four Rooms merits the attention of piss water. The film may have been based on Roald Dahl's unsparing success entertaining children darkly, but the dowager saw it as an overlay of suburban spoofs like Bewitched and The Addams family, and those series too, benign as they were, stitched over the questions we asked in our nuclear households, "Is this all?"
Whether one rooted for Elizabeth Montgomery or preferred Lee Remick, the comedy actress did not have Remick's range, which was good enough to support Richard Burton.
In terms of sour mafia films, Johnny Cool inhabits its place with malingering urine odors, yet it is fascinating to watch Silva waltz his little rancid dance. Montgomery comes exceedingly close to doing something interesting at the intersection of good breeding horny for brutality. It is, in fact, one of her best studio roles. She almost saves the film, but not quite. Nomenclature fails us at certain points of comparison, and Tim Roth would go on to better success as the sinister epileptic in The Deceiver two years after Rooms falls flat, and yet cannot quite share the mantle for emulating Brit Pack menace in maturity as does Christopher Walken, who drew Richardson into a web of evil which subsumed her.
I was never in a place where I dreamed of an assassin's infamy, and do not mean to make light of the UK's concern over Colborne, but his arrest is reminiscent of an episode of Mister Ed. A horse is a horse of course, and the thought of taking pot shots at the Prince of Wales, as if succession actually changes things, is ludicrous, and yet, this is the age in which we live, isn't it? Time to check my mailbox, and humiliate myself trying to buy a box of cat food with quarters.
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