I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse.
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.
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you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.
As the fame of the coffee plant spread to other lands, its centuries long voyage was about to begin [sic].
The resentment of America can be understood in light of the success of Three's Company, even if everyone understood the irony of Suzanne Somers' cluelessness, nascent innocence, which hearkens back to James's success with the novella Daisy Miller, but Somers' only claim to recognition illustrates the exhaustion of capital. The comedienne has lost her telegenic appeal and cuts a rather sad figure. She looks like an Irish alcoholic and should consider transforming herself into a silent partner. If you look closely at Ritter in Bad Santa one feels the same queasiness around the sickbed. We may not be able to internally cue ourselves onto silent heart valve death waiting for a fatal tear, but he looks and sounds seriously ill against the unwitting Thorton, not that my comparison is exactly complimentary: Ritter had some talent beyond farce and timing for studio audiences. Somers has a decollete. She markets what she has, but still, do we ever ask why we don't close the door at some point? Time's up? Sunset Boulevard is mythic on this particular point-- not currency, everyone dims, but the ability to adapt. I imagine sooner as opposed to later our physical deaths will be virally milked into a virtual immortally which raises its own ethics.
I was correct to assume Judith Light honed her line readings on Soap Opera, wrong as to which one. Not Bobbi on General Hospital, but another character on CBS, an illustration of queer limits. She is forceful on SVU, but cannot follow through her lead in A Strange Affair. Jay Thomas, like my ex, was a cruel bastard, minus the uncouth porcine stupidity, which speaks to the convenience of intelligence, and a merciful, dignified end. My would be brother in law may not have known what to do after Frank nearly died from three strokes in succession, but up close, its aftermath was a grotesque lingering for which video rarely has the courage.
