Pakistan Is A Scorpion

I just had a chat, not so much strange, as disconcerting, with an alleged contractor for the US Marines on Google Plus, and I was polite, but bewildered. I am too soldered up with naive scar tissue to play cyber fantasy games, anymore. I used to, but  got too sucked into it, and cursed myself for logging on to see how Hangout connections worked.

What the fuck am I supposed to say to men younger than I with my drying punta, to take a term from Barry Unsworth, the great mimic? Of whom I was not cognizant of decease, by the way, and thought the novelist still living. 

I miss sex, being a naturalized trollop, I do, but I also know it is too late for me to find liberation with a man, on Viagra or not. My affairs were hurried trysts, without orgasm, frigid woman ripe to get her head twisted by homosexual vultures and straight mentally ill molesters alike. Some of which I've detailed, perhaps not well enough for my viewers to understand the sense of violation these inappropriate behaviors from my clients imposed on me.

He is a Hispanic widower from Ohio on the ground in Syria, and my sympathy, if he wasn't bluffing, walked hand in hand with an interior tantrum: I am fucking bored and don't want to be doing this. Everyone wants a photograph. I directed him to the photo I uploaded on Medium with my Afghan column, an incongruous image placed there because I did not want to run afoul of permissions. 

Since I had lashed out at my former manager the way I did fifteen years ago I assumed it was due to bisexual susceptibility, and challenged myself accordingly, but never went in search of an experiment. The women who actually did hit on me made me feel three things: the mixed race woman who dared to do what she did triggered a need for self-immolation and a homicidal urge to give her a lethal hematoma. This is the reality of state intake systems. Like Cosby's alleged accusers, who couldn't gain traction, I have to live with the knowledge that I could have subjugated myself for the benefit of Miss Eddie's indulgence; she would have died if she had forced her pass much further than she did, and it can always happen again. The only response from the ambulatory world is to go through another 50 minorities with whom I do not wish to engage; we should be able to do better than this, which is why I fight Presby's intimidation tactics so forcefully. Eviction notices are more humane than 22 years of harassing intimidation to pair me with women who exploit me.

The client? Sharon was an amputee. I was tired. It was past ten in the evening. I was at the Darby Project Share in my small manual Quickie in which I wasn't all that maneuverable, supposed to use my skills as an advocate, but people self-involved in mental aberration, I've learned, could care less, and try to take advantage, and that is what Sharon did, whipping out her arm behind my back and running her finger up an erogenous zone. My back flexed involuntarily, but her hit wasn't arousing, and in fact what was being gauged was my susceptibility to collapsing boundaries, much like what Annabella Scoirra faces as the vulnerable therapist against Deborah Unger. Scoirra raises her palm to halt her patient. With Sharon, all I could do was retreat inward because of where I was, and woke with the memory Monday morning, angry. This is what I've been subjected to all my life: finger fucked in the Home of the Merciful Savior, assaulted under my mother's blind shadow. You know the rest, but unlike Chris Cooper, doing the repressed fanatic in American Beauty, chewing cunt isn't on my secret Happy menu. If it was I'd have a few bodies on my belt by now.

Yes, I feel provoked, and shouldn't have responded to the fellow's invitation. My post title comes from Lynn, a reporter I once posted with, echoing what all Americans knew after nine eleven.

Teeth Grit

Gary Oldman's Romeo is a precursor to Things To Do in Denver, of a kind, though Garcia and Walken finer tune their ridicule. Oldman and Olin are Medak's marionettes, self-consciously absurdest, overtly farcical, only Roy Schneider playing the Don like a Prospero who has learned the value of enhanced interrogation behind the finesse of seemingly victimless corruption, the short cut to the buffer zone of high class bling worth transforming into a gimp, or a one-armed villain like the elusive one armed man from The Fugitive, only difference is Olin is a brass tit menace, and Oldman doesn't need veneers to grind himself into a grimace offering the illusion of soot between the incisors of his under bite, suggesting the permanence of his tainted morality, unable to erect the decency of his desire to be the straight man with the model trophy wife.

Marinara Sauce

"What if they come after the kid?"--Annabella Sciorra

One gets Abel Ferrara, but the way in which The Funeral spirals outward unnecessarily causes confusion, and if I can sit still for the next viewing I will take a second look. Walken was not entirely convincing as anything but Christopher Walken keeping time with rigid key notes, stuck between Francis Ford Coppola's operatic take on the consolidation of power, and Scorsese's more graphic glamour menace. You don't stand in the dirt arguing with your mark as a salve to the ethics of your marriage and then conclude with the recognition that compassion is not part of the Costra Nostra business model go boom. Ferrara does offer some convincing grimy moments with the Giovanni flashbacks, and this degree of courage might have served him better. A truer examination of how greaseball peasants made American bling culture. The inner city gangsta model is a corroded copy of an already disintegrated model.

Sciorra simply isn't in the film, not quite divested of Criminal Intent barometers of conscience, in the thirties the wife of a syndicate player wouldn't have had that level of pristine television diction, and why Gallo has to redo a tap to Reservoir Dogs is too self serving.