Albert Finney's Papacy

"Death carries no passport," Louis Gossett Jr pretending to address the UN before being assassinated

When TheGaryo initially discovered my thus far lone twitter account, the dowager assumed he was a comic book fan, not a British footballer. And as of this writing, I am not certain who the fuck he is, nor what he deigns to offer. I only recently noticed his numbers, a whale of his own making, perhaps. He also stopped following me, twice; twice returned, and I would have gone on blithely ignoring the man, to the extent we assume gender, but for the fact I suspected him in relation to hoax accounts sent my way.

If he is a British athlete of standing, I can only speculate his motives for being charitable to a spastic racist in the process of losing control of her game: he is being charitable, or wonders about the possibility of chronic injury. If it is the latter, O'Neill would be better off reading Hockenberry, who I only recently stopped following, exasperated because I was weakly clinging to the shared experience identification. It only takes us so far, like the embarrassment of shitting yourself in front of an Israeli source while eating olives. The Israeli graciously clucks his tongue, and out comes a mop and pail. I may not know Hockenberry, but I know too much, inclusive of the fact he has never turned his Dateline/PBS beam on the cruelty of CIL culture. Clint Eastwood, as a former elected official, he makes great target practice, never mind NCIL corruption. This points to my decoupling, with my own incontinence an integumental hindrance growing in proportion to lack of resources, and Riverside's central thermostat. My landlord took away my ability to control the radiator. It sickens me, and I get blamed, as usual. Complaining does little, though I've attempted, in the past, to talk to Mike Pera, who should face a firing squad for being the dumbest Caucasian on the planet. I might have beat the situation this morning, but waited and had a potato, eating so much less than I used to what is coming out of me must have mitigated any arterial plaque-- or I am not absorbing what little nutrients getting dissolved in my stomach. 70 degrees outside, my bedside window cracked, fan running, my end of life career a battle with fecal puss, like Slothrop's post-modern swim through toilet plumbing.

For the record, I am ambivalent about Karol Wojtyla's usurpation of the Roman Empire's last titular vestige of its grip on the world. Ceding to the Polish, then the German balks and the cardinals go to Argentina. Scowling. Was the Cardinal Wojtyla a great force of moral resistance? If memory serves, that may be affirmed, but he turned the papacy into a celebrity contest which will continue to have troubling indications. Hopefully I'll be gone before Nigeria gains control of The Curia.  

Pubic Lunch

October 6 President Sadat is assassinated by 4 members of Jama'at Al Jihad, a parcel of Muslim Brotherhood history

Rebecca De Mornay displays a curious sexual aggression with Antonio Banderas in Never Talk to Strangers. The paint by numbers schematic of this narrative is a few notches above in sobering responsibility compared to its fraternal twin De Palma slasher, yet DeMornay's performance reaches through the formula, and is worth mentioning in the context of repressed and traumatic memory. She gets the brittle vulnerability pushed to its trigger point right within the reticence of the lead character's control, and had that unifying copulation scene been shot for a mature audience, at least one quadriplegic might not have been able to withstand not acting on the frustration.

It goes to the disabled journalist's point, however: All physical intimacy, however healthy and consensual and beautiful when it is about the conception of children, has triggers. The further from conceiving you go, the more potent the trigger, and, when we move along the spectrum of homosexual eroticism, the closer you get to this with a partner (and I have observed more than you) the more legitimate disgust with the frailty of human flesh one is entitled to feel. Again, much like Orson Scott Card, science fiction novelist turned hot potato, I know progressives are having a field day, and radical equality for evolutionary mechanisms is here to stay, but I believe that as we lose the constraint of definition, we lose a unique sensibility that kept us human in the first place, and if a liberal wants to ask me if my former ally doesn't deserve its happiness on the same terms as my paternal cousins (who I believe have relatively stable marriages), my answer is no. Innuendo has been circumnavigating the web for years that in ratio to Bill's sexual appetites, Hillary had an equal indulgence for *pussy*; I have never seen it substantiated, but I am also not eager for a repeat of our sniggering contempt for America's eminent centrist couple. I liked Bill Clinton. I thought he had potential to be a great president and I'm angry with him for failing, but I remember far too much, and Hillary's ruthlessness with her excuses does not mean she deserves to be the first lady who actually takes charge at the helm. She failed to deliver on health care, gave the GOP enough of an ethical dilemma that they never got over it, didn't do much at State other than to suggest kindness would work better with Assad. I would not be worse off under Hillary than I am today, but if I am still functional, I have my doubts I'd wind up any better.