You are going to have to bear with me on this one. I rely on the WPHIL syndication system more for quality than any other free broadcast access I have, and I was going to digress in frustration that all Amazon Prime and Netflix amount to are content distribution systems, making us all jackasses at the end of the day, though I'll stay with Prime as long as I can. We'll save this for later, however. A minor internalized hilarity occurred because WPHIL17 listed the wrong 21st century film with the same tile: ZapIt had on the grid the Concussion 2015, about the NFL's grand medical conspiracy. What WPHIL actually aired was the 2013 Concussion, and what is the 2013 Concussion? The 2013 Concussion is bored lesbian housewife, after taking a hit by her kid, seeking out prostitutes for sex, and then lets herself get pimped. You would figure I'd have a field day with this, and you'd be entirely correct, except for the fact that Stacie Passon is a courageous director, and this film is representative, outside of its subject, with what I am starved for: a story for mature adults, with mature themes, which ends on a curious Lionel Shriver note. Everyone stays in their places. No police, no Candice Bergin grand scandal. It has a very chromatic libertarian undercurrent. And as I critic, I liked it, but Passon in her dual role as screenwriter and den mother with unsparing eye, ultimately proves my point about the blinding insulation of gratuitous pleasure. I'd ask Sara Posada, while visualizing her astonishment, if it is really like that for women these days, all these wild catting moments and flings and actually rather tepid sexual secrets, and if it is, I am out gunned, mocked by you all, and weep in profuse preferential self-pity. Sniff. The obese teenager who is Weigert's first client is my heroine, personally, for realizing in herself that heterosexual pair bonding is the better part of valor. I was ready to break out the pom poms when she ended this business arrangement, I kid you not.
But let me take a swing at a tricky knuckle ball: if Gretchen Laskas can forgive the dowager for once ballistic outrage, why can't that same forgiveness be granted to a dung mother like Josie Byzek? Let me put that issue in these hypothetical terms: certain lines crossed are flag indicators, and I never ridiculed my more able writer friends personal relationships. Josie broke code. I don't care what he posted that offended her, I could talk to Cecil, he could keep up with me, and she took that away, and doesn't have the armor available to shield herself if I so much as ever set eyes on her again. Cyber relationships, on the percentages, are mostly ephemeral. More than likely I could never have coaxed Morales to dinner, but every time I consider the cost of my isolation, I send a secret prayer out that someone slaps this rancid Lancaster excuse for a Christian across her face, like she deserves. He was the last effort for the vigor I had that might have offered me a reasonable chance. I won't find it on a site like Our Time. You know that; I am too pared to the bone.
Sara, by the way, astonished me first by following me. I would not have asked, and it does provide me comfort, but I cannot treat her like a confidante. This is primarily due to age, and I have taken a care toward reserve. I like her very much though, and demand you all behave. She is possibly a happy future I shall not fully see.
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