James
Woods simplifies what I would convolute. His
followers are “friends”. He is invigorated by his interactions with them, and
since I have utilized the noun in the same fashion with my small following in
turn, my hesitation to embrace the notion of virtual connection friendships
seems unwarranted, or perhaps developmental damage makes my emotional demands
unseemly. In terms of the actor, I never much preoccupied myself with his
performances. The opening story in Cat’s Eye was yet another insufferable
Stephen King satire. Woods had his fun with it, an early signal of libertarian
rebellion. I never thought too much of his cocaine feature, which his tweet reminded me was titled The Boost. Ebert hits the right keynotes, but this hustling isn't a resonating force for me. Shark came and
went, more television legalese, with fictive passion. Cop was typical of the
Reagan era; he does project mania well, as he discussed in an interview with
Terri Gross, and there are feature films which would undoubtedly enthuse me,
but Twitter brought the man to my attention and appreciation. Warmed me up as a
fan, if never a trophy commodity with sexuality to open the door. He allows his
humanism to reveal itself, in contrast to Mia Farrow, who hides behind her
righteous liberal indignation. Sometimes we use formality of address in
tweeting to him, but the majority of us know that device familiarity is not
face to face, and though I’ve written to him that he doesn’t intimidate me, a
hypothetical meeting would leave me unsure of my footing, initially at least,
though he seems more personable than many in the industry. This might be the
confidence of age as much as the insulation of fame. I support perhaps 75% of
his political assertions. This includes his outrage over the Steinle trial. I
read the alternate juror’s Politico piece, and while first degree murder was a
stretch, Zarate had no business picking up a gun. It should have been an
involuntary manslaughter verdict. This continuing progressive implosion makes
Woods and his December leanings towards women sixteen years and above old
school, doesn’t tarnish the pleasure his timing gives me; I do not sense any
sordid skeletons in his closet, though Hollywood lives and subverts itself on
scandal and dirty money, slavers to insure, in our world weariness, that
seediness clings to legends like spores. (This references my nausea over
Spacey’s sexual orientation more than Woods, as I was sexually attracted to the
former and I am not spent with feeling infuriated.) I have no reason, as well,
to disbelieve Amber Tamblyn’s claim, but can assert the same for Woods: the
least of my problems when I was sixteen was fending off the passes of older men
not connected to my hyper sexual mother, and think Amber needs to get over
herself. If she felt threatened due to this episode, she could have contacted
authorities, so, why is she indicting Woods in his twilight years? Was he
aggressive, threatening? His claim that her recollection is a fabrication may
have another meaning, as in, I meant no
harm, but it isn’t for me to judge, and I fail to see why this has to be
held over the actor’s head. We all have indiscretions.
Now,
with all the above qualifications, with what his tweets have taught me about
him, and my one sided responses to him on disability and my ever withering
dismay over living inside my own head, are we friends? No, though he was using
the designation as mannered social intelligence. Could we be? An impoverished
drowning once semi-pro journalist growing gnarled in her spastic contortions,
and a jaded celebrity who speaks his mind? Probably not, for a simple reason:
I’d pucker my maudlin invalid face and pull on him. Men who are men are
supposed to rescue me, and that would be his role, whatever else the dynamic,
on the hypothetical supposition of getting to know one another. This doesn’t
mean I won’t approach his publicist on the topic on which this post dwells for
my column, presuming I survive my current travail, nor does it mean I will not
be a sympathetic interlocutor if I can restore some semblance of my writing
life this season. His skill as an actor comes through over time on our micro
mighty social media habitat. His wit and charm, though they cannot heal me,
makes me feel better. His barbed irony takes me out of myself, and I intend to
stay in his corner, because it is a rare gift few others have been able to
bestow, VIP or not. Given the bastion of liberalism which foments in the Golden State, San Diego's homeless crisis is incomprehensible. Jerry Brown is the progressive paragon of my youth, and between Pennsylvania's string cheese budget on this end, the hepatitis on the other, perhaps we need to stop submerging ourselves as adversaries. I've dealt with a slew of CA residents on Twitter over the years, and maybe they need to get their minds off beach fronts and Beverly Hills.
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