Amazon Queen

Casting James Garner was tacky perhaps, but since everyone loved The Rockford Files that was capital to bank on in the past, and Maureen Stapleton bypasses her near mutilating death experience without a hitch, and if Biehn is an empty cypher, the fault may not lie solely with Bianchi. I caught the similarities and antecedents with All About Eve on my own. Garner is a likable personality, but outside of a stock western cowboy with trigger wounds, the man never inhabits a character. Like Bea Arthur, Garner always plays himself, and by the time this feckled infusion finds its way to Chicago Hope, it becomes stultifying. Yet The Fan is more than a hybrid tongue in cheek slasher film; it is also a bridge between old industry glamour and our modern hyper classification, the end result being it has shaky footing in both worlds. Bacall's fragility is stunning, and even more beautiful in the median between youth and withered old age, such as is apparent in both her role and off screen tiff with Kidman in Birth.

Catherine Zeta Jones and Stephen Fry want to help all Caucasians who go whacked by the age of 45. *Her* trigger was Michael's throat cancer, aren't we so lucky to be educated thus? And Fry perhaps created tri-sexuality, fucking men, women, and the Monty Python legacy altogether, why not end his life if he cannot become god like Charlie Chaplin? I went hunting, and indulged my usage looking for an early bit of Bogart sentimentality I was going to utilize, but I cannot find the film title. Fans would know it; he tumbles to his death after being emoted by the girl with the game leg, before he made the big time, smoking himself to the end just like Christopher Hitchens with his palpable extrusions. I cannot remember why The Rockford Files were enlivening. Perhaps it reassembled the last frontier self-reliance, with James taking his lumps because the noir code says this is what the good guy has to do until he gets old enough to get a Supreme Court series cancellation.

I have little sympathy for Fry. Only his affluence leaves him once removed from the clients I dealt with daily, and suffering is tyrannical, selfish. Those of us with victimization and life long indigence may have commiserate excuses, but not Fry, even if he only remains second tier. It is much the same as a Syrian refugee casting an eye on my lifelong threats of eviction by landlord because of my lack of willingness to passively comply. I can still take a shit, watch a flat screen television, do not live in terror of Islamic schisms, so who am I to live in pain at the bottom of the American barrel? I am old enough to see this sarin usage as a repeat of Saddam Hussein slaughtering his own in the war with Iran.

How The Cymbals Reverberate

When I reviewed, or interpreted The Others earlier this year, I was unaware that Nicole Kidman had followed through on her psychological thriller arc with the equally creepy but possibly more uneven Birth (2004). Though I missed few, the minutes that escaped me were still crucial, and I'd like to screen it once more, but Cameron Bright was used to much better effect here than he was in the stupendous and confusing Ultraviolet, another film that has drawn my mention during my unfortunate LiveJournal stint. Endless revision, tying in the old posts and the new, for what exactly when I cannot solve my application problems, but this will wait until after the holiday, as the dynamic between the new little lady and my poor Vincent has exhausted me, and I am close to giving up the love of feline parenting, though it will break my heart, already rife with fragments. I will not be celebrating tomorrow; indefinite at this point, but I may try a weekend holiday ride to Penn's Landing. In all my years at this location I have never taken the 21 bus to the pier. For me, during the active years of my field work, it was always in the opposite direction, to Darby, smaller maybe, but to my memory the Darby borough is just as bad as the city. Drugs more concentrated, and I have more graphic memories of my mother's drug use, the purple bruises in the fleshy crook of her elbow, the rubber tubing I wasn't supposed to see. What was it that I said about reticence? But the irony of Doty's continued lunging over my review is that particular review was of no consequence as compared to what I write here for the sake of testament, alienating my family, and those who knew me. I think Doty has a lot to learn about what can be controlled in public domains, and what cannot; in contrast to his desire to be loved by his readers, I do not care about my audience in that way, so much as the integrity of my work itself, and if people are dismayed by what I produce, I do not go on a boner about it. I have been praised for the power of my poetry, for how hard hitting I am, or impressed poor Louise, who I abandoned through no fault of her own. She is a perfectly nice young woman who found my work *very raw,* and we should have left it as that. I have been criticized as pretentious, but unlike Doty, I did not harangue the now inactive Usenet poster who threw out that red meat. I like the complexity of my imagery, though it leads to the flaw of a certain top heaviness that can topple my poetic construct. I have been rejected as many thousands of times as the paltry dollars I have drawn in on my work. I have been accepted for publication in sometimes unexpected ways, and I have not been as successful with marketing paradigms as some, including those whom I actually respect, like Cheryl, (not liking the Oprah juggernaut and my expressed frustration at comparative trajectory is not the same thing as disdain; Cheryl is authentic--Doty is a crock, a load on) but there are reasons for this beyond talent, very much related to my vulnerability, strained resources.