This evening's Simenon mystery was affecting, and I missed just enough of the title not to be able to give it to you, but it was an Assassin La Jeune Fils type. Lesbian petting which doesn't entice me. (My problem is masochism and pain associated with it, but another day when I'm ready to lose 20% of my small social media cotillion for exposing what Keats paraphrased as "hateful thoughts".) Then a grand old woman with her own tragedy trying to save the culprit. Only she goes too far, and the ending, affecting. Fucking French norms. Crazy and yet in part they get it right.
Dirty Snow I've mentioned. Not ready to reread it. No need to in my five hundred things, but I must have every Simenon title. I must, absolutely, at least before, well. Let me return to the conscience of Charles Lane and suicidal depression. Therapeutic advice runs thus: take happy drugs and don't recriminate over what cannot be changed.
Okay. Happy drugs do not work for varied technical reasons, and I cannot change a great deal, including not being able to sit outside and get away from a broken transsexual who I despise, not being able to get away from my clients, my fucking ex, who looks like a corpse, and every fucking organization and working class minority tells me to keep going back to Liberty Resources without respecting that I cannot, without respecting that I know too much about the corruption that turns Medicaid into a pimping service. Do you live with the elderly who attacked you? And an ex fiance? And disability center board members who are as corrupt as mafia dons? It is bad enough aging with cerebral palsy to the extent I have it, eating the reverberations of trauma every day. If I want to go to sleep, and I am absolutely sure, then I should be allowed.
I really have become a racist, and I apologize, but black society and its counter culture isn't where I belong, and I have to eat it. More on this later. I've decided to visit City Council and try to greet Denny, and deliberately ruckus, paying the price of the pissed.
Showing posts with label charles lane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label charles lane. Show all posts
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Larry Carroll Cheat Ledes
I thought Stewart was in trouble, like the 39th POTUS with his braying jackass teeth. This is why I do not write for television. Carroll knows he is wrong about the type casting, and that Stewart will always owe his breakthrough fame to Rick Berman. I would not make much more money doing what Carroll is doing, and I know precisely how to do it. But no, I keep butting my head against the wall. Liberal fastidiousness. Conservative silence, or admonishment. As usual, I came online to research some items and overstayed.
What is upsetting me is my awareness of the fact I am Vester Flanagan. The furrows in his face match so many thousands, only I wanted to go further, like McVeigh, and take out an entire system with explosives, implements of mass destruction about which I know nothing. I am not Flanagan in that I wouldn't live stream any hit list kills, and I want to be clever enough not to get caught, much like Hannibal. If we come the 01 movie to Mads scene with Fuller's Pazi, both are weak, but Giancarlo Giannini's Pazi succeeds in swinging the pendulum back to remind us that Hannibal's pathological allure violates the shield of decency. What Fuller attempted to ask viewer's with his kill of Pazi, was did Hannibal rectify historical guilt, since we are to infer the Pazi crest shielded much sin.
Turning grievance into virtual reality isn't a solution, even I know that, but I do not think some of you realize what caviler attitudes leave us, in terms of consequences. I am getting nit-picky with Swarthmore. I knew I never had a chance for that position because the assistant editor viewed my profile and went mum and only told me today she wanted the full CV. I'm sure having an adamant conversation with her next week will miraculously reveal the stairway to heaven, but I'm intent on having that dialogue, and may get arrested downtown after that. I like Lane's writing at times. I prefer that masculine force, liked his character in the movie against Glass, but if he could see my home movie, the years of medical torture, the abuse, my systemic battles with the welfare state, he then might see more of a moral dilemma.
What is upsetting me is my awareness of the fact I am Vester Flanagan. The furrows in his face match so many thousands, only I wanted to go further, like McVeigh, and take out an entire system with explosives, implements of mass destruction about which I know nothing. I am not Flanagan in that I wouldn't live stream any hit list kills, and I want to be clever enough not to get caught, much like Hannibal. If we come the 01 movie to Mads scene with Fuller's Pazi, both are weak, but Giancarlo Giannini's Pazi succeeds in swinging the pendulum back to remind us that Hannibal's pathological allure violates the shield of decency. What Fuller attempted to ask viewer's with his kill of Pazi, was did Hannibal rectify historical guilt, since we are to infer the Pazi crest shielded much sin.
Turning grievance into virtual reality isn't a solution, even I know that, but I do not think some of you realize what caviler attitudes leave us, in terms of consequences. I am getting nit-picky with Swarthmore. I knew I never had a chance for that position because the assistant editor viewed my profile and went mum and only told me today she wanted the full CV. I'm sure having an adamant conversation with her next week will miraculously reveal the stairway to heaven, but I'm intent on having that dialogue, and may get arrested downtown after that. I like Lane's writing at times. I prefer that masculine force, liked his character in the movie against Glass, but if he could see my home movie, the years of medical torture, the abuse, my systemic battles with the welfare state, he then might see more of a moral dilemma.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Suge Knight may not know my neighbors
Not sure why Acquired Deficiency received as many views as it did. Beneath the surface I miss my blunt idealism, and, at least when he wasn't posting about his co-habitation conflicts (noting that I have not been honorably reticent toward my ex Frank either) I was moved by Andrew Sullivan's sincerity. What the fuck else to deem it of course he cannot possibly engage in high risk sexual activity with his partner but how can they be celibate?
Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.
Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point.
Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.
Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.
Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point.
Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Personal Loyalties
He handed us fiction after fiction and we printed them all as fact. Just because... we found him "entertaining." --Peter Sarsgaard as Charles Lane
A television commercial when a freshly resigned case manager still had access to cable through a defunct company. One question Americans might ask is how we enforce anti-trust laws when Comcast is the sole provider of pay for view, despite diverse distributors like Netflix and Amazon and Verizon. Verizon is a now redundant spin off of AT&T, but it is a communications utility. Netflix I never fully comprehended but suppose it started as a rental agent. Amazon is a retailer, and now all these corporate models have there own cable box.
In 1997 I was still in job divorce mode which seemed, as a rupture, to take forever to heal, and there was the commercial for The New Republic. I called, subscribed to the print edition, knowing nothing, certainly not that Marty Peretz was insane. I discovered that later on my own in my dialogues with TNR, particularly with Michelle Cottle, but in 97 I read a contributor's article about lice and typhus and old world Jewish quarrels, and fell in love with the writing. I wanted to write like that, doubted I ever could, and understand why David Plotz and Lane want to kill Stephen Glass. I'm a million miles removed from Airforce One's onflight magazine and part of me wants to kill Stephen Glass. TNR has been much changed and diminished in these 17 years. One of their interns was nice to me when I pitched, and I've recounted this, and still get horny over the fact that The New Republic was nice to me and I did nothing with that capital out of fear and intimidation. I emailed them shit on spec later but I myself knew it was shit on spec; that door had closed because I feared to assert myself to get at the former corrupt bastard who ran this city, John Street. I met Street without wearing a brassiere without ever intending to do that. There was a gathering in the parking lot and I had a sudden craving for a burger and threw on shit clothes and rolled down and there was Black Mafia himself and I died. Being ever the politician, he grasped my shoulder and asked how I was doing. No idea I hated him and his excuse for a brother.
Shattered Glass doesn't work as a film because it is too close to reality of events which have damaged us all, and yet, Stephen's breach of ethics, his fabrications, his plagiarism, and the exposure of other notorious cookers of truth who followed, point to a distinctly modern problem as old as the hills. We don't like being drawn in for fools by more temperate psychopaths, remain fascinated by such villains, and don't look too closely at demarcations, such as the fact that bias builds its own slant. I have read John B Judis in TNR's pages, and can't say I always get his policy critiques, but I do not consider him to be virulently anti-Zionist. Jewish liberalism is not always sacrosanct, and has its own unpleasant equivocations which cause undo harm. Philip Roth exposes it however diffident or enthusiastic one might be about the author. I've certainly experienced it, and wrestled hard with my conscience afterwards, despite the roots of poison which have led me to eschew certain other vectors of radical equality.
Yet Billy Ray deserves credit for nibbling around the edges of the edifice we call the fourth estate, and Sarsgaard reached in deep to pull out an inspirational scene on the nature of integrity, despite the fact we have to find ways to entertain the audience, and do it daily. Everyone is in the brand game.
A television commercial when a freshly resigned case manager still had access to cable through a defunct company. One question Americans might ask is how we enforce anti-trust laws when Comcast is the sole provider of pay for view, despite diverse distributors like Netflix and Amazon and Verizon. Verizon is a now redundant spin off of AT&T, but it is a communications utility. Netflix I never fully comprehended but suppose it started as a rental agent. Amazon is a retailer, and now all these corporate models have there own cable box.
In 1997 I was still in job divorce mode which seemed, as a rupture, to take forever to heal, and there was the commercial for The New Republic. I called, subscribed to the print edition, knowing nothing, certainly not that Marty Peretz was insane. I discovered that later on my own in my dialogues with TNR, particularly with Michelle Cottle, but in 97 I read a contributor's article about lice and typhus and old world Jewish quarrels, and fell in love with the writing. I wanted to write like that, doubted I ever could, and understand why David Plotz and Lane want to kill Stephen Glass. I'm a million miles removed from Airforce One's onflight magazine and part of me wants to kill Stephen Glass. TNR has been much changed and diminished in these 17 years. One of their interns was nice to me when I pitched, and I've recounted this, and still get horny over the fact that The New Republic was nice to me and I did nothing with that capital out of fear and intimidation. I emailed them shit on spec later but I myself knew it was shit on spec; that door had closed because I feared to assert myself to get at the former corrupt bastard who ran this city, John Street. I met Street without wearing a brassiere without ever intending to do that. There was a gathering in the parking lot and I had a sudden craving for a burger and threw on shit clothes and rolled down and there was Black Mafia himself and I died. Being ever the politician, he grasped my shoulder and asked how I was doing. No idea I hated him and his excuse for a brother.
Shattered Glass doesn't work as a film because it is too close to reality of events which have damaged us all, and yet, Stephen's breach of ethics, his fabrications, his plagiarism, and the exposure of other notorious cookers of truth who followed, point to a distinctly modern problem as old as the hills. We don't like being drawn in for fools by more temperate psychopaths, remain fascinated by such villains, and don't look too closely at demarcations, such as the fact that bias builds its own slant. I have read John B Judis in TNR's pages, and can't say I always get his policy critiques, but I do not consider him to be virulently anti-Zionist. Jewish liberalism is not always sacrosanct, and has its own unpleasant equivocations which cause undo harm. Philip Roth exposes it however diffident or enthusiastic one might be about the author. I've certainly experienced it, and wrestled hard with my conscience afterwards, despite the roots of poison which have led me to eschew certain other vectors of radical equality.
Yet Billy Ray deserves credit for nibbling around the edges of the edifice we call the fourth estate, and Sarsgaard reached in deep to pull out an inspirational scene on the nature of integrity, despite the fact we have to find ways to entertain the audience, and do it daily. Everyone is in the brand game.
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