I have absolutely nothing to post, and logged on to actually research Nigeria for my diary entry, savage desolation of which, unseen except by my hard drive, Blogger would not disrupt my account, but not the savage desolation of which you might imagine. Not that he would answer me, (oh geez, this is him now) but I'd quaff John by his ears, today, for spending so much time with me when we were underclassmen. I'd go back in time and lunge at him, beating his sinewy Italian chest, saying "why? why torment me if you didn't want me?" and he'd punch a mirror, drop acid perhaps. I don't even know what the idiom means, dropping acid, and my rental agent is using government agents to corral me in a cage, or black authoritarians, whatever, I'm Kundera's Stalinist joke, a one spastic circus, who hopped in the shower before the news, as usual, and nothing happened, and if I had not called the guard earlier in the month, and had lain there, waited, wriggled, experimented and with strenuous effort picked myself up, I would not now be in this most dynamic challenge, as an obstinate -- what? A Roseanne?
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Showing posts with label cameron diaz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cameron diaz. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Sunday, April 19, 2015
La Stanza di Angelo
"Go ahead and cash it." Fathers with federal reserve notes
If quintessential American archetypes can be likened to grammatical correspondences, Peter Berg gets the declension right in his 98 dark comedy Very Bad Things, mostly due to Slater and Diaz pulling weight on the rest of the ensemble. There is a little bit of Fargo here in the mix, without the far north accent, but it is a good steal, leaving the narrative unharmed through its imitative exaggeration. Americans tend to be less methodical, more reactive, in yet another end of century send up flaunting emotionalism back at us, in a satirical expose with amusing veracity, kidding ourselves about a little negligent homicide and multiple murder sprees which follow, with Favreau just clueless enough to make the ending seem like a legitimate consequence.
Laughing at the consequence of crippling effects, piled on as an insurmountable internment, is just fine. The activists code it among themselves, a coping mechanism.
If quintessential American archetypes can be likened to grammatical correspondences, Peter Berg gets the declension right in his 98 dark comedy Very Bad Things, mostly due to Slater and Diaz pulling weight on the rest of the ensemble. There is a little bit of Fargo here in the mix, without the far north accent, but it is a good steal, leaving the narrative unharmed through its imitative exaggeration. Americans tend to be less methodical, more reactive, in yet another end of century send up flaunting emotionalism back at us, in a satirical expose with amusing veracity, kidding ourselves about a little negligent homicide and multiple murder sprees which follow, with Favreau just clueless enough to make the ending seem like a legitimate consequence.
Laughing at the consequence of crippling effects, piled on as an insurmountable internment, is just fine. The activists code it among themselves, a coping mechanism.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Taps
High features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun," Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe
The more we learn. It was an accidental circumstance that a Jewish public housing tenant, who is in a comparatively soiled outhouse more lowly than the gorilla below me, reconnected me to mental illness empowerment intake; my anger was triggered because I asked the aforementioned tenant for more information, and should know by now that ethnic Communists undergo lobotomies in terms of gate-keeping skills. My spirit, my very essence, needs a change, and the reason America is in jeremiad is because the social safety net is destroying our ability to take the initiative, and my starvation for fresh space is turning into a pathology, and it need not.
This is not about mood swings. I have client confidentiality I need to maintain-- Christ-- but I knew well enough how pedestrian Edward is-- never again. Never. You may hold me accountable. No more overtures to public housing residents. That the president has lost all credibility with me is not nearly as disconcerting, but represents a national disheartening. I would prefer to leave the country, seriously. I can more readily doom myself under European case management than rot in the city of my birth, watching my digital clocks tick. Given the time I should be resting, but I am trying to contract typhoid like John Malkovich, who also does blindness in his first major supporting role. Actors never get it right, even the top billed like Malkovich whose face is now in protean death mask stage, sightlessness. Not Cameron Diaz in Garcia's vignettes.
Things You Can Tell is very good, merges into itself and its inclusionary frictions, yet I balk at saying it is a great film meshing disability, urban loons drawn familiar, to our recognition. I have dealt with Garcia as auteur before-- but the film doesn't fit on the mantelpiece properly in terms of really challenging viewers. This is how I am dealing with it now. With Garcia, it is about the magical realism of the father. The style is a shield, because we know we're looking for nuances of interpretation. These days we're all magical realists, our wars fought to be cached on YouTube. Living the science fiction we read as affixed adolescents, our government at the bidding of a Charlie Rose scoop. Yet despots fascinate us. Admit it. We create narratives around them, held by megalomania, giddy when it is fractured by hubris. Mussolini hung like a dead and bloated mule carcass. Czar Nicholas out of tune and executed in countless variations of Doctor Zhivago; all of Russian literature is Doctor Zhivago, the American induced mortal illness of Hugo Chavez, or Elizabeth's beheading of Mary Queen of Scotts via Glenda Jackson.
The blind rarely have a fixed eyeball. Their countenance usually has the appearance of a pronounced brow ridge.
Some affection for Isabelle Allende. The aide who received the stories of Eva Luna recognized me this morning. She was a single mother child herself years ago. Blows to the solar plexus aren't helpful. Deep breaths. I thought Edward Berkowitz cared enough about my concerns to be discriminating, and taking a few minutes to categorize the situation behind these private lectures he disseminated with Zen-like laissez-faire would have shielded me from a past with very negative consequences. Perhaps some of you understand how leaving a job is like a divorce. He worries my use of detail compromises online safety, but my emotional vulnerability never crossed his mind; he and I know each other and have the ability to ascertain each other's reality, unlike forum moderators. Existential hopelessness.
The more we learn. It was an accidental circumstance that a Jewish public housing tenant, who is in a comparatively soiled outhouse more lowly than the gorilla below me, reconnected me to mental illness empowerment intake; my anger was triggered because I asked the aforementioned tenant for more information, and should know by now that ethnic Communists undergo lobotomies in terms of gate-keeping skills. My spirit, my very essence, needs a change, and the reason America is in jeremiad is because the social safety net is destroying our ability to take the initiative, and my starvation for fresh space is turning into a pathology, and it need not.
This is not about mood swings. I have client confidentiality I need to maintain-- Christ-- but I knew well enough how pedestrian Edward is-- never again. Never. You may hold me accountable. No more overtures to public housing residents. That the president has lost all credibility with me is not nearly as disconcerting, but represents a national disheartening. I would prefer to leave the country, seriously. I can more readily doom myself under European case management than rot in the city of my birth, watching my digital clocks tick. Given the time I should be resting, but I am trying to contract typhoid like John Malkovich, who also does blindness in his first major supporting role. Actors never get it right, even the top billed like Malkovich whose face is now in protean death mask stage, sightlessness. Not Cameron Diaz in Garcia's vignettes.
Things You Can Tell is very good, merges into itself and its inclusionary frictions, yet I balk at saying it is a great film meshing disability, urban loons drawn familiar, to our recognition. I have dealt with Garcia as auteur before-- but the film doesn't fit on the mantelpiece properly in terms of really challenging viewers. This is how I am dealing with it now. With Garcia, it is about the magical realism of the father. The style is a shield, because we know we're looking for nuances of interpretation. These days we're all magical realists, our wars fought to be cached on YouTube. Living the science fiction we read as affixed adolescents, our government at the bidding of a Charlie Rose scoop. Yet despots fascinate us. Admit it. We create narratives around them, held by megalomania, giddy when it is fractured by hubris. Mussolini hung like a dead and bloated mule carcass. Czar Nicholas out of tune and executed in countless variations of Doctor Zhivago; all of Russian literature is Doctor Zhivago, the American induced mortal illness of Hugo Chavez, or Elizabeth's beheading of Mary Queen of Scotts via Glenda Jackson.
The blind rarely have a fixed eyeball. Their countenance usually has the appearance of a pronounced brow ridge.
Some affection for Isabelle Allende. The aide who received the stories of Eva Luna recognized me this morning. She was a single mother child herself years ago. Blows to the solar plexus aren't helpful. Deep breaths. I thought Edward Berkowitz cared enough about my concerns to be discriminating, and taking a few minutes to categorize the situation behind these private lectures he disseminated with Zen-like laissez-faire would have shielded me from a past with very negative consequences. Perhaps some of you understand how leaving a job is like a divorce. He worries my use of detail compromises online safety, but my emotional vulnerability never crossed his mind; he and I know each other and have the ability to ascertain each other's reality, unlike forum moderators. Existential hopelessness.
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