Nevertheless, America's "culture of celebrity" remains misunderstood, particularly when critics discuss its historical roots.--Charles L. Pounce de Leon
I cannot say I am intimidated so much as astonished. Miles O'Brien not only responded to an innocuous question of mine, straight out of disability culture---
but followed me back. I am not an uber fan of his CNN rapid fire delivery, but decided his reporting was occasionally useful to me, and then, with his unfortunate accident in 14, lifelong cripple decided to take pity. He never noticed me before, and I just telephoned my entire family within local range to express my jaw drop at this offer of credibility from a video professional with whom I could never compete. I certainly cannot chastise a recognized science journalist for not paying attention to what he was doing, and unless I delete significant portions of my caustic rancor from this account, and never tweet another post, it won't last. I violate every aspect of decorum this fellow's moral clause contract imposes upon him, regardless of whether or not it is a natural inclination of his personality, or learned behavior. I do not deserve what his follow signifies, but I will bask, momentarily. Perhaps it came about because he learned a thing or two in the club.
Not only do people point to very different features when they describe aesthetic experience or justify aesthetic judgments, but the language of aesthetic discourse also varies tremendously from one place and time to another.--Marcia Eaton
10 Rillington Place encapsulates a verity that transcends its age as a film. I remember viewing parts of it at a young age, but believe the lugubrious waif this spastic moll once was took it as a thriller; the revisitation and nostalgia of it is more chilling, and sexually arousing. Being drugged into passivity pussy access is a stimulus. Asphyxiation after the fact is not. Necrophilia is putrid. No one looks at a man like Christie and wants to suspect that he can strangle an innocent child, achieve erection with cadavers, and yet the lexicon has overtaken us, giving Hannibal in his incarnations another kind of veracity, a language of irony with pop culture and the liberation of murder, a liberation that takes on its own linguistic structure, embedded in Saussure's classification of human vocalization. The parent empire has staid formulations, even the same frictions with the African diaspora. Bryan Fuller mitigates it by being hip. Americans like a classy subversion.
I mull Devito's arc. Drowning Mona has yet another kind of truism, marred or not by familiar casting. Mothers have to live with the psychological score cards imprinted, and as a consequence, we laugh at the adult maiming and emasculation, wincing. Marcus projects a good old schlub in the end while we whack each other with all our emotional baggage, naked vulnerability. Jamie Lee Curtis hits one out of the park. She made me laugh in a 25 year old satirical drama that ran fresh for me, cuing recognitions in its exaggeration. But our real vulnerabilities inflict real trauma.
"I've always recognized the personal bond between us."
Linda Dezenski wrote that to me fourteen years ago and what the fuck is she doing? is what I asked myself. She never telephoned Matrix to see how I was. Never extended her friendship after I had resigned from her department. I felt gratified, however, and thought her authority would remain a safe harbor for me. Infantile? Perhaps. In 01, in a tactical mistake, I met with her between mutual human shields. You stay away from me. An indictment uttered I've been putting on trial ever since. I liked her before I made the attempt to trust her. It is difficult, not having healthy and happy social bindings, and that was one thing I wanted, friendships. The esteem of work, my own self reliance, all up in smoke. Let's see.
Louise tried. Daniel Schneider tried, but these are online contacts. Schneider was a misconstrued apprehension. Louise was too close to home and too young. Ed tried, and miscued and I bristled, again, on trust, I engaged his associate. Zach and I bumped like fools, but it was not Zach. My history with Project Share is best left as ancient history. Everything instant digital access is necessarily beneficial?
I did not place Jessica Biel's celebrity until Home of the Brave (2006) floated by my consciousness three, four times. With Jackson, Ricci, this should be a stronger ensemble than it is, and I paid slightly more attention to it last time when the realization dawned that Biel carried a hand amputation. What her post war beau said to her character about pushing people away is an applicable issue as it relates to body image, which is why my former manager, Linda, may have gone off on me about her convulsions during orgasm.
I cannot say what Winkler did that makes this movie drag past any tolerable hold, but I am of the position that mediocre work never really helps in pushing our moral centers forward; white noise is fairly easy to tune out, as evinced by the fact that the dramatic arcs here are so watered down, took so long to get my attention.
I remember querying my relatively invisible audience about 127 Hours, and search is not coughing up the post, so I either left it at Live Journal, where I wiped out my account finally because whatever was left I decided would find its way back into my concerns, and I'm watching the film now on the CW, with the realization that both Aron Ralston and James Franco are of a generation long past me. (According to anecdotal dating, I am technically a baby boomer though I am almost a decade younger than the poet Robert Thomas.) Ralston is gen X? My era never looked at Utah's unique landscape as a thrill ride, a drug alternative, and I could never treat the landscape the way Ralston does. Those of my era did not see environment as an extreme sport. For us it was a spiritual responsibility, conserving environment.
Rahman's score, however, was always the tempo at which my mind moved, a genetic inclination toward dance. All things being equal, I will not be passing on the torch with the same rapidity as Christopher Hitchen's fall to cancer, but it's Ralston's set from whom I'm seeking better solutions when bodies are vulnerable. I don't know if your ears are deaf, but perhaps they're tin, and I am a peevish echo in the reeds?
