Back to Black in a Holy Land Apotheosis

We only said goodbye with words I died a hundred times.-- the late Amy Winehouse

We have followed Glenn Close in her various guises of hedonistic, playful, malevolence over the years. The uproar over Fatal Attraction is now nothing more than a cyclic cultural footnote, especially juxtaposed against the reverberating waves of emasculating feminine outcry, castrating the acculturated like Ryan Lizza and the swine like Harvey Weinstein, and even the pedantic like Al Franken. [Erik Wemple is sometimes more filler than substance, but he nails the bafflement squarely on the head with Lizza’s career. Though Wemple is accurate about employer termination clauses, the case here against the noted eastern analyst seems in need of adjudication. I have no vested interest in salvaging a tenacious liberal like Lizza, and I had my supervisor removed simply for putting her husband’s orgasms and performance in the same sentence, so my alarm may seem hypocritical, but to impugn the man over what has a feel of sour grapes seems to be a loss of proportion…] Dangerous Liaisons might be an extended metaphor for weaponizing the AIDS virus, and it is my favorite Close film in a way that The Big Chill is almost instantaneously a non-entity. Like many performers, however, Close embodies the nefarious enforcer, and she can dial her medical professionals up or down, accordingly, always with a slightly malicious air. There are hideously interesting aspects to The Girl with All the Gifts. The opening scene was the only time I have ever seen wheelchairs used as protective devices for a threatened able-bodied minority, but I am going to go out on a limb and call the narrative evolutionary diabetes of popular culture. I have nothing against women like Carey earning a living off of established zombie conventions, but her motifs come on the cheap. Oh, there are creative instances, a distillation of the bond between teacher and student in merciless institutional settings. Sennia Nanua does an excellent job as monster child heroine with her idealism and principles contrasted with insensate drive, with her savagery toward cats a deliberate poke in the eye. Consumers don’t need a reference website to see McCarthy’s imitations of 28 Days Later, stark geography, stark existence in tandem. The dowager wearies of Walking Dead syndrome.

However much appreciative of British one-upmanship against their American colonial counterparts, the BBC and Channel 4, if not ye old Pinewood Studios, love of humbling redneck reactionaries with an elitist sensibility of how acclimated European minorities are simply isn’t a real world reflection of social mobility, inside a class system or not. And we dare not exclude the French from this contention, since David Baiot is the Remorseful, if corrupting, Homosexual of The Churchmen. Audiences cannot possibly dismiss his fully rounded character Emmanuel as not deserving of ordination and grace, unless it emanates from his conscience, not ours. This diversity outcry from Mcdonald may have accurate demographics, but to the English mindset, there is no such creature as a British African who can flip black counter culture on a half penny. Ask Sophie Okonedo. Any regular PBS viewer knows her as the indispensable token of Great Britain’s sobering success, never mind the empire’s ruthlessness when Jamaican field hands were executed for the sake of sugarcane in the 1840’s. Okonedo is the unflappable gauze bandage, exchanging a prosecuting barrister for an unassuming lesbian like a living hologram. It is in this sense “Melanie” is captivating on the cheap: look at the little black girl behaving like a duchess. This is what sells, African appropriation and elocution of Caucasian table manners. If her predatory ferocity is a survival tool in the new world order, exactly what that is in Carey’s disaster remains mystifying, since we have little idea if the fungal symbiosis of the third generation will essentially wind up being the jealous plants of the body snatchers. Contrary to what my audience reads here, I treat the Muslim Saran quite well, especially since my bitterness is beyond her comprehension. I let her have a few dollars here and there, and she has no idea I’d ship her right back to West Africa, that I examine her like a foreign invader who will invariably destroy my United States. If she understood this intolerance, she would weep, and perhaps marvel at the strength of its roots, ingrained by self-inflicted alienation, among other things. Some journalists take the bull by the horns and equate Trump’s behavior with mental disease, and these are in the majority. Will, Sullivan, Joe Scarborough. Wiser men like Ed Rogers see Trump’s behavior as unpleasant, remembering that none of us are expert at psychiatric classification. I am impatient with certain aspects of Trump’s crass, but as someone long wading the trenches of expendability, every time I distance myself from his bluster, the left swings me right back with what is indicative of hysteria. There is still entertainment to be had in making Jerusalem an apocalyptic focal point simply on the strength of conviction. Jewish Israeli’s have  a divine right because the Torah makes it so, or Trump likes to side with winners, in the simplicity of reasonable accommodation.

Perhaps, within a week, or two, I will stop being let down by Mike’s schedule, (the wheelchair mechanic) I can order a new charger and or trade in my kindles and return to reading, actually passing my stool into our civilized sewer systems, as I could in the fall, and be more forgiving of the turn of the screw. I do not think Trump will necessarily ignite a catastrophic third world war. I also don’t believe the GOP will shield him indefinitely. This doesn’t imply impeachment. His reign isn’t worth what that would entail, but I am no judge of what constitutes mental defect. Isn’t Al Sharpton also a bigoted bully?

Contact Imports and the fall of Usher

And I know that I'll never be free/
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.

I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.