On
January 31st, Vincent D’Onofrio expressed consternation for the loss
of some followers due to voicing his political beliefs, and with a slight
hedge, I offered a mitigating consolation without mocking him, but admit I’m a
bit taken aback by how soft he seems to be outside of the studio’s insulation,
and perhaps I shouldn’t be, since he is a regional performer with crossover
national appeal. Woods is a little larger, but one thing the two actors share
is a sense of the personable on social media not so readily apparent with others,
and since fame interests me as a contextual problem, with questions about
whether Twitter collapses recognition, engenders it with sometimes detrimental spontaneity,
or not, with Ebert’s dictum that “[Celebrities are] just people,” coming into
play, getting used to the pain of this hard vinyl seat, the physical pain and
despondency in tandem. Mike the prick wants 400 dollars to convert what I’m
sitting on to a base with a cushion, and if I was desperate for a usable chair
in the fall, I’m not only now desperate to rid myself of torture, but the spool
unwinding in my interior doesn’t know how much longer I can stand it. The man
at the helm of Mr. Wheelchair has lied to me fifteen ways to Sunday.
He had another chair for me. Now he doesn’t. He was coming in November to
rectify the problem, then it was December. Then January. Each time he was a no
show. Neither of us trusts each other. A little of that fame utilized to raise
conscious awareness might be useful at present, as I’d rather not take the time
and energy to consult a lawyer about this, and Medicare is its own sweet
draconian process.
Today I lost a truck load of followers becuz of my views on where our nation is at right now. My liberal snowflake views,my bleeding heart views,my freedom2call out false info when I c it&my call4equlity.I have2say though it did put a smile on my face. #NoFearNoGreedNoEnvy— Vincent D'Onofrio (@vincentdonofrio) January 30, 2018
D’Onofrio’s
public worry about his drop illustrates that everyone can be affected by “the
numbers game,” of automated models, unless consumed by distress which reduces
its concern: Much to my astonishment, Karina refused to break off our
relationship founded by Craigslist. She returned to Philadelphia for personal
reasons I will not dangle before you with callous indifference, ignored my
indignation, and crashed in upon me with her heart of gold hugs, however
suspect its reliability, so I relented and we’ve made up, just after Amazon’s own
streamlining suggested I might be interested in Breathe, an Indian series with more than one or two parallels
between hero cop with his emotional wounds and his antagonist. Madhavan is
interesting as Danny, a soccer coach whose son is afflicted with cystic fibrosis,
due to more than his unipolar descent into psychopathy. Due to the fact that
this is Bollywood rather than its American cousin, the series whets my
aesthetic curiosity, but this said, I am not convinced this is how killers are
made or pursued in Indian society, but why Danny descends into hell, why he
destroys his own social decency, you’re looking at it right here people. I
could be wrong, but Breathe seems to have its own melodramatic subversion,
damned if I don’t find it funny, even if the logic of his multiple efforts for one fresh donor after the other is unclear.
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