"They were considered to have right wing elements. And perhaps many of them were."-- Luigi Perelli, carving out his justifications for righteous polizi
One cannot quarrel with creator John Ridley over how well made American Crime is, craft and care is evident, especially when absorbing the alienation Pollari is able to project. He is an interesting young actor, but the message within the series, thus far, leaves one with a certain ambivalence. There is an atmosphere of forced intensity to it, freezing jello cubes with little wiggle room, leaving a European take on the grey area between justice and criminality, like The Bankrobber's Wife, seem light, comparatively. But what Ridley reflects is stark, sometimes leaving the viewer to squirm, which is why Shades of Blue earns a preference. It takes chances, but stays within parameters I can handle, and I am heartened that the writers allowed Wozniak to keep his humanity.
I also have to give praise to Liotta where it's due.
I never cared about the man and his acting before, Scorsese or not-- and there is a puzzle-- Scorsese is of my ethnicity with many of my concerns and I am somewhat hostile to his work, not able to quite put my finger on it, what repels me away from it, but Liotta's character work on Shades woke me up and bit, hard, but it's not quite erotic. I was wrong about that. Closer to the shock of recognition in tasting old wine with new flavors. Lopez is Lopez, and we can take issue with her credibility in projecting a cop outfencing everyone, but Liotta is charged, and perhaps age does this to us all, jacking us up to folly in that bracket of time left before things really head south. I mean fuck, he's giving a signature performance, and it rivets. I missed the finale, and maybe I'll run it this weekend, but it is a good show, mixing up the usual expectations in a crime drama. I'll offer more later. I've been online most of the afternoon and I'm looking at overages, barring chasing down a hotspot.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Redford and Streisand
can it be that it was all so simple then
To pick up on Streisand's melodiousness, conventionalized regret, it was not so simple then, not for me. Whatever I may have intimated about my adhesion to Jerry McGuire, I fought a literal life and death struggle about emailing him in 2007 (am I a stalker?). I did not want to start crying, did not want to beat myself for failing the intellectual acumen he saw, and oh, we were fine in email, off to do my chores. A few hours later it was soup city. You haven't seen drama queen until you've seen an Italian American with cerebral palsy beat her chest with grief as if over a crack in the earth, about to fall. I did not want him to know my composure would be still that easily broken over this disciple teacher aggrandizement, but my composure is brittle. I knew he was aging, and for the sake of his legacy, I acted, but I also flipped out, and I mean flipped, and punished my ex, poor Frank. I railed, and the poor bastard took it, clueless, as I was trying to bust a hole through five inches of concrete, with no one to tell me "cool it."
He is just a very smart, brassy, peripatetic New Yorker, Jerry. I mean, that's about all. We're not gods walking the earth, disappointed in myself, him, both, a little envious that some students can fool around and it's cool, but subtextually knowing he would have rejected me as a woman anyway, regardless of personal loyalties and Widner's administration having a shit fest if their special student popped her cherry on a half cocked veteran. Merciless, aren't I? No longer feeling physical desire. My cunt is tweed and my lungs on auto alert, and in his last bit of sage advice, his bad heart taught him how to be positive.
But you never really talked to me old man, and one wonders why women like me do this to themselves, emotionally void fathers to the emotionally impenetrable, willing to perish in a pointless protest against society, never having gotten what I want.
To pick up on Streisand's melodiousness, conventionalized regret, it was not so simple then, not for me. Whatever I may have intimated about my adhesion to Jerry McGuire, I fought a literal life and death struggle about emailing him in 2007 (am I a stalker?). I did not want to start crying, did not want to beat myself for failing the intellectual acumen he saw, and oh, we were fine in email, off to do my chores. A few hours later it was soup city. You haven't seen drama queen until you've seen an Italian American with cerebral palsy beat her chest with grief as if over a crack in the earth, about to fall. I did not want him to know my composure would be still that easily broken over this disciple teacher aggrandizement, but my composure is brittle. I knew he was aging, and for the sake of his legacy, I acted, but I also flipped out, and I mean flipped, and punished my ex, poor Frank. I railed, and the poor bastard took it, clueless, as I was trying to bust a hole through five inches of concrete, with no one to tell me "cool it."
He is just a very smart, brassy, peripatetic New Yorker, Jerry. I mean, that's about all. We're not gods walking the earth, disappointed in myself, him, both, a little envious that some students can fool around and it's cool, but subtextually knowing he would have rejected me as a woman anyway, regardless of personal loyalties and Widner's administration having a shit fest if their special student popped her cherry on a half cocked veteran. Merciless, aren't I? No longer feeling physical desire. My cunt is tweed and my lungs on auto alert, and in his last bit of sage advice, his bad heart taught him how to be positive.
But you never really talked to me old man, and one wonders why women like me do this to themselves, emotionally void fathers to the emotionally impenetrable, willing to perish in a pointless protest against society, never having gotten what I want.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Did Hollywood North create Eric Harris?
"Sandy, God is not a democracy."-- Reverend James Liddell
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Emancipation of the Flesh
"What do I have to do?"--Franka Potente
What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.
I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.
What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.
I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Slopes of Mucus
It is difficult to know when a COPD flare up is a chronic bronchitis revolt, or just a cold, or allergies in my less than sterile environment. Eschatological alarms reign over my identity, and though the pneumonia grip has passed, this year of my life seems to be the year. However much the majority of happy go lucky social media users read Disability in Entertainment Arts and then flee, well, my spastic domestic terrorist in mortal combat with the obsessive disciple of a master I've all but disavowed in a 34 year tantrum because a childish invalid feels jilted, doesn't really have much quality time left at her disposal. I've diffidently grafted onto Yabberz, and though I may not be able to prove who came from twitter at the urging of my fanatical controlling tendencies, go, join.
I too want a verified account logo, as if I'm joining the next Cabinet on the Beltway in 2017.
I too want a verified account logo, as if I'm joining the next Cabinet on the Beltway in 2017.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Delayed Quest for Hot Spot, ctd
"What was he getting at?"-- Stendhal, in the mind of his astute peasant courtier
There are limits to how far Kantian concerns can bind the sinews of our differences, just as allowing myself to be antagonized by digital burlesque trolls is an exercise in futility, no matter what their breast and stocking entrapment to visit their web cam footage might conceal. Objectified, ostracized, sometimes feared from a very early age, only desired by white addicts sniffing on the trail of my mother's phonons, for a fat woman she wreaked of slut, and it never left her at a loss for shit at our door after the fabled divorce, so deeply gouged in this family's psyche. One may have a bad body image bordering on dysmorphia, but to have red light women fling it in your face that they are so much more desirable is a vicious cruelty, whether intended or not, and then, on top of that to have a fuck-witted socialist from California be so impolitic as to tell me I'm ugly, this is a brush burn on the grain. His daughter is too a spaz, and why not, as the most common birth defect? Even after all these years, of wounded naiveté taught so many lessons, I let my guard down for parents with crippled children, purportedly comparing. My Roman father's blunt cruelty is oddly preferable. I'm fully aware, however, even with Demi Moore's resources, or her former resources, which I'll never have, I'm a homily peasant, with a madam's airs, and plastic surgery would have Phyllis Diller results without the moxie. I also feel at least a slight commiseration for the daughter of such a jackass. Wouldn't it be nice to have an auto hypoxia button for parents, bagging them for alien lizards nesting ships?
There are limits to how far Kantian concerns can bind the sinews of our differences, just as allowing myself to be antagonized by digital burlesque trolls is an exercise in futility, no matter what their breast and stocking entrapment to visit their web cam footage might conceal. Objectified, ostracized, sometimes feared from a very early age, only desired by white addicts sniffing on the trail of my mother's phonons, for a fat woman she wreaked of slut, and it never left her at a loss for shit at our door after the fabled divorce, so deeply gouged in this family's psyche. One may have a bad body image bordering on dysmorphia, but to have red light women fling it in your face that they are so much more desirable is a vicious cruelty, whether intended or not, and then, on top of that to have a fuck-witted socialist from California be so impolitic as to tell me I'm ugly, this is a brush burn on the grain. His daughter is too a spaz, and why not, as the most common birth defect? Even after all these years, of wounded naiveté taught so many lessons, I let my guard down for parents with crippled children, purportedly comparing. My Roman father's blunt cruelty is oddly preferable. I'm fully aware, however, even with Demi Moore's resources, or her former resources, which I'll never have, I'm a homily peasant, with a madam's airs, and plastic surgery would have Phyllis Diller results without the moxie. I also feel at least a slight commiseration for the daughter of such a jackass. Wouldn't it be nice to have an auto hypoxia button for parents, bagging them for alien lizards nesting ships?
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Diapers in the Closet Deja Vu
"I feel like a visitor to this marriage!"-- Morris Chestnut, bad bluejeans shuffle
I remember the user handle Cambaird from years ago, in a more turbulent space of grievance, which must mean I was a member of Yabberz years ago; I do not believe I was banned, as sometimes I am the one who surfed off from sites in a huff, annoyed by the disruption of trolls who couldn't see that my suffering was of the utmost importance. The differential, between then and now, isn't a cure so much as it is biological erosion mitigates intensity. Linda Dezenski is two years my senior, now chastened under a grant for railroad victims within very specific parameters (though I do not believe she has physically departed from Liberty, as they claim, when I telephone to warn them my battle is coming), and she hit these symptoms of our unraveling before me. Plaque psoriasis is a loss of adhesion, and it resided on her right elbow 15 years ago just as it is now perennial and perhaps a permanent problem on mine. She has the resources yet, on the backs of all those rib cages pierced at the point of her sword, to chase after cosmetic solutions, appeasing vanity's struggle with the clock, while I pour pitchers of water over dander, rolling around in scissor tackled knits, investigating which hot spots I'm going to attempt to huddle in, giving retail outlets money I can ill afford while attempting software downloads over trade-ins, a street roller once removed but for a sheer act of will. An eatery on Commerce Square is closer than Joe's Coffee, while determination vacillates between staying closer to residence, the latter retains more possibilities for a commercial pitch, in that space where entrails haven't evacuated my body cavity.
The mobility medical scene in Unbreakable has a sinister suspense. We stay glued to Jackson, in a suspended animation, in his give and take with Robin Wright, the wife of Bruce Willis, superhero of circumstance. In Not Easily Broken, (2009) the white physical therapist is a contrivance, left to hang like a chad on a Florida voting ballot, in an outrageously maudlin narrative, which conveys, nevertheless, certain truisms about the vindictiveness of black matriarchal dominance. No one should have to mark their closure on their prime of life via hazy recall over computer monitors built like television sets with vacuum tubes, watching a second rate actor who seems custom made to play a lizard in a disguise of the human epidermis.
I remember the user handle Cambaird from years ago, in a more turbulent space of grievance, which must mean I was a member of Yabberz years ago; I do not believe I was banned, as sometimes I am the one who surfed off from sites in a huff, annoyed by the disruption of trolls who couldn't see that my suffering was of the utmost importance. The differential, between then and now, isn't a cure so much as it is biological erosion mitigates intensity. Linda Dezenski is two years my senior, now chastened under a grant for railroad victims within very specific parameters (though I do not believe she has physically departed from Liberty, as they claim, when I telephone to warn them my battle is coming), and she hit these symptoms of our unraveling before me. Plaque psoriasis is a loss of adhesion, and it resided on her right elbow 15 years ago just as it is now perennial and perhaps a permanent problem on mine. She has the resources yet, on the backs of all those rib cages pierced at the point of her sword, to chase after cosmetic solutions, appeasing vanity's struggle with the clock, while I pour pitchers of water over dander, rolling around in scissor tackled knits, investigating which hot spots I'm going to attempt to huddle in, giving retail outlets money I can ill afford while attempting software downloads over trade-ins, a street roller once removed but for a sheer act of will. An eatery on Commerce Square is closer than Joe's Coffee, while determination vacillates between staying closer to residence, the latter retains more possibilities for a commercial pitch, in that space where entrails haven't evacuated my body cavity.
The mobility medical scene in Unbreakable has a sinister suspense. We stay glued to Jackson, in a suspended animation, in his give and take with Robin Wright, the wife of Bruce Willis, superhero of circumstance. In Not Easily Broken, (2009) the white physical therapist is a contrivance, left to hang like a chad on a Florida voting ballot, in an outrageously maudlin narrative, which conveys, nevertheless, certain truisms about the vindictiveness of black matriarchal dominance. No one should have to mark their closure on their prime of life via hazy recall over computer monitors built like television sets with vacuum tubes, watching a second rate actor who seems custom made to play a lizard in a disguise of the human epidermis.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Fuck the Sam Smith Oscar Backlash
Surprised, are you? Spastic has absolutely no idea who the milkweed faggot is, but crowd sourcing goes after aging aggressive militants like me for speaking truth to cooing dove feeds about positive attitudes, and it actually has a detrimental effect on Justine Sacco's livelihood, and now counter culture wants to cannibalize itself because a young gay singer displays nascent brain fog?
Correction is the way humans learn from mistakes, but we're all on social media now, and might want to stop and think before magnified castigation drives our lesser lemmings off a cliff. So he was wrong, didn't search the Oscars history, and put his foot in his mouth? How many elephants have been poached since then, dying in agony from our puny bullets spiraling in their cerebellums? Why don't you apply yourselves to my problem and let me time share a living space so I can divorce myself from corrupt Protestant methodology as it pertains to a lifelong landlord of whom I'm weary? Do something useful for a change.
Correction is the way humans learn from mistakes, but we're all on social media now, and might want to stop and think before magnified castigation drives our lesser lemmings off a cliff. So he was wrong, didn't search the Oscars history, and put his foot in his mouth? How many elephants have been poached since then, dying in agony from our puny bullets spiraling in their cerebellums? Why don't you apply yourselves to my problem and let me time share a living space so I can divorce myself from corrupt Protestant methodology as it pertains to a lifelong landlord of whom I'm weary? Do something useful for a change.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Vantage Point
"What, you want her to adopt you?"-- my sister, while I was trying to explain Mia Farrow had disabled children in her care
Spring is a difficult transition; went so far as to telephone the office, interrupt my father, to say I was going to the hospital, and didn't think I'd be on tonight long enough to nose dive a G, but I'll be back soon, however near an end game I am approaching. Perhaps it was too much over the counter appeasement.
Spring is a difficult transition; went so far as to telephone the office, interrupt my father, to say I was going to the hospital, and didn't think I'd be on tonight long enough to nose dive a G, but I'll be back soon, however near an end game I am approaching. Perhaps it was too much over the counter appeasement.
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