She reminds me of mine too-- Alan :Gordon
I am
up this morning, restless, hay fever sick, with the nurse practitioner who
isn’t licensed to treat me come and gone, nothing said about the allergy ooze
burbling up into my crotch, if the significance of what cunt denotes is now
front and center in our social forums, James Woods ever tongue in cheek in that
regard, my resilience put to the test over Memorial Day weekend due to the fact
that the provider sent me a homosexual drug addict whose shriven swishing ass
was continually revealed in all its dark brown nakedness. True to my
survivalist libertarian sentiment (waving congenially at Austin), I told the
kid to do what he needed to do without getting caught, not bothering to explain
to him the statue passed by Congress making eviction mandatory for any public
housing tenant whose attendant is found in possession of drug
paraphrenia. The dowager knew these demographics for residential urban
minorities long before this volley took its aim, and she’d have to be able to
cope with it for Galahad’s sake, in all its divisive currency, if there is a
future between us. What do I know? He’s here now, oblivious both to what I’m
writing now and what I blurted out in text to him Friday when his car broke
down. I went into a virtual panic so fraught with paranoia it might have well
as been one of Woody’s early classics.
“I’m in love with you,” I typed, not a minute and 30 seconds before
screaming to my cousin that I had to get out if I couldn’t handle it, as I was
deluding myself. I’m handling it now, not referencing a word in relation to
Deep State. Oh, I waited, as women will at this stage, and got Sinatra. Now
that thread sits behind a closed door. We are talking the usual minutia of such
plans between two people, but whether or not it’s an implied us, and as of this evening it once again
isn’t, is moot, even if I cannot mute my damn tongue. With such an affinity for
Roseanne Barr’s pensive bite, my viewer’s might believe I am appreciable of her
rise in the comic genre. Not quite, as she was too close in representation to
our mothers, Alan and I, when prat boy was my best friend, and I had an
antithetical response to her stage routines. I remember enough to posit her
sympathies for the Trumpian brand to her hatred of institutionalization. That,
as well, is a shared value. What I haven’t read, in all the controversy
surrounding her aesthetic choices to reduce and insult Jarrett, though I am
usually a little more obtuse after my “want them dead” post of many years ago,
is the fact that Roseanne’s entertainment abilities come from deep seated
emotional pain. Age many soften what we were, Roseanne, or myself, but doesn’t
eliminate the errors, and the impaired
judgment, in the lingo of psychiatry, hence, she might have been expected
to do something like this. I have no love for Jarrett, but going below the belt
isn’t really a legitimate critique of her near blind idolatry for her president.
I’ve been there before. I have figures like Woody Allen and Clint Eastwood, and
yes, James Woods too, on my mind, because so many of the big stars are gone. Allen and
Eastwood are of an age, and so superlatively iconic, that they’ve become
ruthless, in their respective genres, just as Woods has turned harbinger. My
dear little big man of an aide, a man who wishes I’d shut my mouth when appropriate,
gave me a little holiday with a free viewing of Grand Torino, and nothing in
the narrative was surprising. Goodbye Dirty Harry, I am mourning a superstar,
anticipating the dead, the pre-written obituary—and this is what Match Point
does for me with Woody, particularly with Meyers’ last climatic scenes. We’ll
pick it up then. I am in a swamped and saturated pressure vat. Bad time to be
in love with lost causes, fatal error my heart, my own reiterating pattern.
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