Sensibilita was at the heart of Futurism's main objectives--Futurism and the Technological Imagination, p.63
I made a genealogical error here and not a soul corrected me, neither the irritable Transcendentalists at Niume, nor in my nastier Twitter comfort zone. John Carradine was David's father. I mixed the lineage up, inadvertently. The dowager thought Cassidy was David's sire, but I was thinking of David Cassidy when he was my fake rock idol fuckable back in the day, and I mean that in all affection. Fuckable is softer: The Partridge Family may have been a crock-a-too, but my palpitations went soft for groove boy junior with his shag. That was our hairstyle. I decided to barrel some quick revisions into "John Carradine in Milan" and submit it to a pay-mart. Shouldn't take me more than 72 hours, but I bristle defensively at every editor to the right of the owner's booth at the Stanley Cup finals: I am not deleting this post my my account. I will take it off Niume, but not here. I am going to die soon, and Google must not extinguish this legacy, regardless of its antithetical umbrage with the ferocity of what I hate. Liberals made me promises and destroyed me, and I may get myself in trouble with Sanders' operatives if they do not vanish from my junk mail address. I regret supporting Obama, even in the face of his opponent's evident Sundown Syndrome, but I have to own the aging 08 anomaly at the primaries searching for difference. It was a failure. I regret Trump too, but his protective detail didn't haul me out of Riverside for telling the brash New York personality to get his fucking act together, and I respect that. If I had tilted at Barack one could only imagine my inconvenience, but Obama isn't a true African American, as has been noted. He is half Kenyan and half Caucasian Communist, and we used to black ball individuals like his fast and loose deceased mamma. Perhaps the CIA gave her cancer, as she was a really loose-cannon radical, from what ?I've gleaned: I have to own I hoped in this poor boy whose identity is in the vapor of a cirrus cloud, but Sanders's operatives are either going to get the fuck out of my virtual space or report me to the FBI field office again(?) I am not positive that Liberty's firm in Jersey actually had me flagged on an FBI alert: I told the CIL if someone like Omar Mateen came after them, I'd be ecstatic, and they prohibited me further contact. I threw my trauma they inflicted on me in Nancy's voice mail (she and I know each other by sight, not well). The prohibition vanished, as I did not say I'd be their Omar, only that IL will one day face what he represents if they do not start learning to be accountable for their institutional cruelty and racism. Whether my viewers are American, and are familiar with our rampage culture, or not: this will be the next shock, the next grief, the next battle with the NRA's money and stiff necked reliance-- a CIL will one day buy it because of what they do to the formerly indoctrinated such as I. NCIL has to put a stop to this if they want to save lives, and if I live long enough Congress is going to change the law. I am not the only one traumatized by IL assurances which flip on a dime, when statements like "you can always come back" actually mean "you will get an interview and then be ostracized the rest of your life." This behavior can kill people, especially those with sensory deprivation and limb impairments. Sanders organization culled me from OFA. I intend to make them regret it, like Walkens' Gabriel makes Simon regret impalement. The first in The Prophecy franchise did have an aspirational, liturgical hope, and even if I am a female, the Holy Father may find, to his astonishment, that I'm the Tuscan Joan d'Arc, a ferocious inquisitor who thinks the rack is rather beneficial.
Showing posts with label christopher walken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label christopher walken. Show all posts
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
The Taste of Ginger in the Encroaching Dark
The largest of the war programs, begun three months after the outbreak of the Civil War, also evolved into an old age program-- Raymond Richards, Closing The Door to Destitution
At the risk of alarming Blogger's gate keepers, I thought I'd be dead when I reached this point in my personal fortunes, and, amazingly, I am not; not yet, but I am driving on a trick wire. One thing goes awry, like my old micro bake oven kicking in, and I've had it. I cannot rely on my relatives supporting me with checks forever. In tandem with this, my freelance pitches have foundered. I am working, but I cannot think of new markets, have trouble comprehending how Burry bet against credit default swaps and made money for his sometimes irascible investors. I even went so far as to trouble Timothy Taylor to explain this in a post, and the plodding economist finally ignored my email, perhaps not knowing how to explain bear markets. Buy low, sell high. My financial acumen goes that far, but I will be damned if I can grasp how failing subprime mortgage loans made a very few very wealthy, nearly killing me without trying-- not that Michael Lewis doesn't have command of his subject in The Big Short. I just do not see how bankruptcy for indigent failures like me drives investment. Independent press authors wrote openly about living off accumulating debt in the Small Press Review when Len Fulton still printed his tabloid monthly. I lived off my Discover Card awhile in 1996, but sank so far under I am afraid of applying for credit again, and certainly can't claim commissions. To boot, I'm out of nicotine, and will have trouble handling the pathological rage seeping into Riverside's infrastructure. Getting past the month of January is going to be a tickle, and not of the salmon pink variety, and yet, despite this, I'm unwilling to implement my suicide. Not just yet. Maybe I hit on something and a merciful editor gives me a small advance toward a kill fee, though it would have to be a fast transfer.
Entertaining the notion of seeping into places has always entranced me, in terms of its literary motifs, which is why a loosely joined interlocking episode film like the 1995 Four Rooms merits the attention of piss water. The film may have been based on Roald Dahl's unsparing success entertaining children darkly, but the dowager saw it as an overlay of suburban spoofs like Bewitched and The Addams family, and those series too, benign as they were, stitched over the questions we asked in our nuclear households, "Is this all?"
Whether one rooted for Elizabeth Montgomery or preferred Lee Remick, the comedy actress did not have Remick's range, which was good enough to support Richard Burton.
In terms of sour mafia films, Johnny Cool inhabits its place with malingering urine odors, yet it is fascinating to watch Silva waltz his little rancid dance. Montgomery comes exceedingly close to doing something interesting at the intersection of good breeding horny for brutality. It is, in fact, one of her best studio roles. She almost saves the film, but not quite. Nomenclature fails us at certain points of comparison, and Tim Roth would go on to better success as the sinister epileptic in The Deceiver two years after Rooms falls flat, and yet cannot quite share the mantle for emulating Brit Pack menace in maturity as does Christopher Walken, who drew Richardson into a web of evil which subsumed her.
I was never in a place where I dreamed of an assassin's infamy, and do not mean to make light of the UK's concern over Colborne, but his arrest is reminiscent of an episode of Mister Ed. A horse is a horse of course, and the thought of taking pot shots at the Prince of Wales, as if succession actually changes things, is ludicrous, and yet, this is the age in which we live, isn't it? Time to check my mailbox, and humiliate myself trying to buy a box of cat food with quarters.
At the risk of alarming Blogger's gate keepers, I thought I'd be dead when I reached this point in my personal fortunes, and, amazingly, I am not; not yet, but I am driving on a trick wire. One thing goes awry, like my old micro bake oven kicking in, and I've had it. I cannot rely on my relatives supporting me with checks forever. In tandem with this, my freelance pitches have foundered. I am working, but I cannot think of new markets, have trouble comprehending how Burry bet against credit default swaps and made money for his sometimes irascible investors. I even went so far as to trouble Timothy Taylor to explain this in a post, and the plodding economist finally ignored my email, perhaps not knowing how to explain bear markets. Buy low, sell high. My financial acumen goes that far, but I will be damned if I can grasp how failing subprime mortgage loans made a very few very wealthy, nearly killing me without trying-- not that Michael Lewis doesn't have command of his subject in The Big Short. I just do not see how bankruptcy for indigent failures like me drives investment. Independent press authors wrote openly about living off accumulating debt in the Small Press Review when Len Fulton still printed his tabloid monthly. I lived off my Discover Card awhile in 1996, but sank so far under I am afraid of applying for credit again, and certainly can't claim commissions. To boot, I'm out of nicotine, and will have trouble handling the pathological rage seeping into Riverside's infrastructure. Getting past the month of January is going to be a tickle, and not of the salmon pink variety, and yet, despite this, I'm unwilling to implement my suicide. Not just yet. Maybe I hit on something and a merciful editor gives me a small advance toward a kill fee, though it would have to be a fast transfer.
Entertaining the notion of seeping into places has always entranced me, in terms of its literary motifs, which is why a loosely joined interlocking episode film like the 1995 Four Rooms merits the attention of piss water. The film may have been based on Roald Dahl's unsparing success entertaining children darkly, but the dowager saw it as an overlay of suburban spoofs like Bewitched and The Addams family, and those series too, benign as they were, stitched over the questions we asked in our nuclear households, "Is this all?"
Whether one rooted for Elizabeth Montgomery or preferred Lee Remick, the comedy actress did not have Remick's range, which was good enough to support Richard Burton.
In terms of sour mafia films, Johnny Cool inhabits its place with malingering urine odors, yet it is fascinating to watch Silva waltz his little rancid dance. Montgomery comes exceedingly close to doing something interesting at the intersection of good breeding horny for brutality. It is, in fact, one of her best studio roles. She almost saves the film, but not quite. Nomenclature fails us at certain points of comparison, and Tim Roth would go on to better success as the sinister epileptic in The Deceiver two years after Rooms falls flat, and yet cannot quite share the mantle for emulating Brit Pack menace in maturity as does Christopher Walken, who drew Richardson into a web of evil which subsumed her.
I was never in a place where I dreamed of an assassin's infamy, and do not mean to make light of the UK's concern over Colborne, but his arrest is reminiscent of an episode of Mister Ed. A horse is a horse of course, and the thought of taking pot shots at the Prince of Wales, as if succession actually changes things, is ludicrous, and yet, this is the age in which we live, isn't it? Time to check my mailbox, and humiliate myself trying to buy a box of cat food with quarters.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Days of Papal Infallibility
"Because I have pressure sores"-- Christopher Walken
Al Pacino is a transformation performer. Within the apex of his talent, he changed American cinema, worrying about the maturity of applied technique much later in his career. Andy Garcia has moments of only fleeting authenticity, aping the great man with whom he appeared in Coppola's trilogy summation, which should not have been made, just as much of Garcia's work should not have been made, except when he gets interesting with self-referential irony about the art of melodrama itself. as in the 09 City Island, which makes a middling attempt at creating a language around the business of cinematic creation within a movie itself, pushed even further, and sharper, on cable, as when De Niro played a producer and Bruce Willis plays himself, having a bit of a Homeric temper tantrum in a clip on yet another Charlie Rose promotional segment. Is this language of sophistication synchronic over time?
The Roman Catholic Church is already a dead entity, despite militant fossils like myself who do not believe in pastoral tolerance for homosexual indulgence, throwing my moral weight with the synod over Francis, then caught myself. Church authority began to die from the dawn of mass literacy, let alone the dawn of Protestant reformation and the Vatican 2.0 under John, and the fact that the Argentine is playing politics as opposed to being a spiritual leader means doctrinal infallibility is a de facto anachronism. If a speck of spastic dirt on the wall under increasing intestinal stress feels disheartened by apostasy as a democratic forum, then all is finished.
Declare defeat, go home, and perhaps preserve my form as a calcified figure on which the grandchildren of millennials can gawk, a pseudo-historical trope. What is the big deal? Fisting in secret, fisting in the open, I myself have posted about Frank and his fingers within my rectrum as a mock-up of vigor, virility. Believers might say I'm lying to myself, that I really do believe in Christ as equal parts human divine, laughing at the rigorous objections of Dawkins to words like transubstanation, and yes, well, I was raised in Catholicism, and in middle adolescence, threw my emotions into testament-- but even before university, I challenged priests and Jewish counselors alike, questing, on fire, offensive, even as a young woman, had anyone cared, I would have been excommunicated, which invites laughter, which in Eco, spells the death of metaphysical need for answers.
Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead strives to be larger than itself, and yes, Walken exposes, successfully, the narcissism with which we surround broken bodies, but as a comedy about brutality, boast, and repressive tolerances, lines not to be crossed, it bounces a bit much, like an IKEA catalog glorifying plastique fabrication even as its laminated pages curl and burn in the stink of a propane fire, the fatigue before the actual dying commences, not living long enough to polish every post, which justifies some literary critical assertion that post-modern subversion has fallen to the wayside of the NASDAQ index.
All I ever desired was a decent husband, like the fictional Maigret who actually seems to have more corporeal embodiment than Bruno Cremer, the actor who best fleshed out the detective among so many famous creations which have no real life counterpart; a decent husband, one who would have supported my ambition, a pleasant hamlet, my own space, decent literary friends. Instead, I am ugly, a trauma who draws out lesbianistic tendencies in even more marginal ugly inner city minorities who make pest control seem heroic. And yes, after the traumatic episodes that challenged my life itself, I asked, queried my internal self, did I want those games with another female, and such fleeting hormonal sensations which come with masturbatory aggression, that level of pornography itself whose exploitation is still policed, regardless of the progressive scorched earth policy for tolerance.
My answer: a resounding no, is like a flake of dandruff in a libertine world, healthy pink flesh too often pasty, soft, anemic, or brown and exaggerated. Thick buttocks, breasts so large they veer toward eccentricity. I think fecal face was a clever slang term, pointing toward epistemological values even in second rate ensembles.
Al Pacino is a transformation performer. Within the apex of his talent, he changed American cinema, worrying about the maturity of applied technique much later in his career. Andy Garcia has moments of only fleeting authenticity, aping the great man with whom he appeared in Coppola's trilogy summation, which should not have been made, just as much of Garcia's work should not have been made, except when he gets interesting with self-referential irony about the art of melodrama itself. as in the 09 City Island, which makes a middling attempt at creating a language around the business of cinematic creation within a movie itself, pushed even further, and sharper, on cable, as when De Niro played a producer and Bruce Willis plays himself, having a bit of a Homeric temper tantrum in a clip on yet another Charlie Rose promotional segment. Is this language of sophistication synchronic over time?
The Roman Catholic Church is already a dead entity, despite militant fossils like myself who do not believe in pastoral tolerance for homosexual indulgence, throwing my moral weight with the synod over Francis, then caught myself. Church authority began to die from the dawn of mass literacy, let alone the dawn of Protestant reformation and the Vatican 2.0 under John, and the fact that the Argentine is playing politics as opposed to being a spiritual leader means doctrinal infallibility is a de facto anachronism. If a speck of spastic dirt on the wall under increasing intestinal stress feels disheartened by apostasy as a democratic forum, then all is finished.
Declare defeat, go home, and perhaps preserve my form as a calcified figure on which the grandchildren of millennials can gawk, a pseudo-historical trope. What is the big deal? Fisting in secret, fisting in the open, I myself have posted about Frank and his fingers within my rectrum as a mock-up of vigor, virility. Believers might say I'm lying to myself, that I really do believe in Christ as equal parts human divine, laughing at the rigorous objections of Dawkins to words like transubstanation, and yes, well, I was raised in Catholicism, and in middle adolescence, threw my emotions into testament-- but even before university, I challenged priests and Jewish counselors alike, questing, on fire, offensive, even as a young woman, had anyone cared, I would have been excommunicated, which invites laughter, which in Eco, spells the death of metaphysical need for answers.
Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead strives to be larger than itself, and yes, Walken exposes, successfully, the narcissism with which we surround broken bodies, but as a comedy about brutality, boast, and repressive tolerances, lines not to be crossed, it bounces a bit much, like an IKEA catalog glorifying plastique fabrication even as its laminated pages curl and burn in the stink of a propane fire, the fatigue before the actual dying commences, not living long enough to polish every post, which justifies some literary critical assertion that post-modern subversion has fallen to the wayside of the NASDAQ index.
All I ever desired was a decent husband, like the fictional Maigret who actually seems to have more corporeal embodiment than Bruno Cremer, the actor who best fleshed out the detective among so many famous creations which have no real life counterpart; a decent husband, one who would have supported my ambition, a pleasant hamlet, my own space, decent literary friends. Instead, I am ugly, a trauma who draws out lesbianistic tendencies in even more marginal ugly inner city minorities who make pest control seem heroic. And yes, after the traumatic episodes that challenged my life itself, I asked, queried my internal self, did I want those games with another female, and such fleeting hormonal sensations which come with masturbatory aggression, that level of pornography itself whose exploitation is still policed, regardless of the progressive scorched earth policy for tolerance.
My answer: a resounding no, is like a flake of dandruff in a libertine world, healthy pink flesh too often pasty, soft, anemic, or brown and exaggerated. Thick buttocks, breasts so large they veer toward eccentricity. I think fecal face was a clever slang term, pointing toward epistemological values even in second rate ensembles.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Straight Arrow
"She showed him it was okay to live again." --Christopher Walken
Since we were most recently discussing reconciliation and its lack thereof, I have forgotten I wish to grate on your nerves one last time this evening, and mention that Tony Scott redeems the flawed vehicle Man on Fire, and yes, it is flawed, with an over-sentimentalized brutality, and a silent ruthlessness hinted at, but not quite evaluated fairly, in Denzel's Creasy or Walken's Rayburn, and the Latino father's Russian roulette suicide is sanctimonious, and yet, and yet-- what makes Washington fatally over the top in Training Day somehow falls into place here, with its gritty textured realism, redeems the monstrosity of our own capacity for the cruelty of expenditure, of willingness to annihilate, whatever the reasons, fraud, money laundering. That Walken downplays his menace, and is world weary, humane, slightly tongue in cheek, compliments the sense of redemption earned, something else your favorite Catholic atheist is roasting on her spit.
When I return, it will be for revisions, and as always, better penetration, even if I never reach the lighthouse.
Since we were most recently discussing reconciliation and its lack thereof, I have forgotten I wish to grate on your nerves one last time this evening, and mention that Tony Scott redeems the flawed vehicle Man on Fire, and yes, it is flawed, with an over-sentimentalized brutality, and a silent ruthlessness hinted at, but not quite evaluated fairly, in Denzel's Creasy or Walken's Rayburn, and the Latino father's Russian roulette suicide is sanctimonious, and yet, and yet-- what makes Washington fatally over the top in Training Day somehow falls into place here, with its gritty textured realism, redeems the monstrosity of our own capacity for the cruelty of expenditure, of willingness to annihilate, whatever the reasons, fraud, money laundering. That Walken downplays his menace, and is world weary, humane, slightly tongue in cheek, compliments the sense of redemption earned, something else your favorite Catholic atheist is roasting on her spit.
When I return, it will be for revisions, and as always, better penetration, even if I never reach the lighthouse.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Right To Bear
Nothing is as frightening as a disillusioned liberal.
--popular saying
I twirl her reputation like a baton in the hands of a cheerleader who possesses the dexterity to twirl, watching the shiny loose change tumble from her pockets, blood bouncing in her skull, dizzying, post-surgical nausea unpleasantly sloshing in a disturbed stomach, my once and never again editor from Lancaster, taking from me what can never be replaced, will this end of life investment in venom be worth it? My energy is too fagged on this warmer winter morning to refine the incision, lucky for my skimmers, so I speculate, pondering the gun control issue, and the unfortunate rise of the new witch hunt over those with mental defect, diseased brains, or mood disorders aggravated by poverty, and sometimes deliberate blindness of self-interest. Both sides have it wrong, the radical left and the anal retentive NRA.
Against the NRA is the fact that guns are designed to kill very efficiently. The right needs to admit this and stop beating about the bush. Guns are lethal weapons, and even in trained hands, lead to tragic and unintended consequences. They may give us nice fantasies, especially in the hands of a still vibrant, erotic, dangerous Christopher Walken in his early Reaganesque Forsyth vehicle of mercenary cynicism, but they erode moral empathy, and make our inner cities war zones of post traumatic stress inbreeding.
Against the left: Stop splitting hairs and stand for something. The second amendment needs to be revised, and that revised law needs to be ratified the way the founding fathers intended ratification to work, passed by a 2/3 state majority. Easy, no, but progressives damn themselves this way all the time. Sexual equality is cosmetic sissy whining and obscures real concrete and serious issues that ail the failed Enlightenment Ideal that was supposed to be the United States. Stop picking on what is primarily a problem of underclass poverty, mental illness, and start asking some serious questions about weaponry and capitalism, corporate profit. Toying with an article proposal here, the specifics of which shall not be for your consumption.
--popular saying
I twirl her reputation like a baton in the hands of a cheerleader who possesses the dexterity to twirl, watching the shiny loose change tumble from her pockets, blood bouncing in her skull, dizzying, post-surgical nausea unpleasantly sloshing in a disturbed stomach, my once and never again editor from Lancaster, taking from me what can never be replaced, will this end of life investment in venom be worth it? My energy is too fagged on this warmer winter morning to refine the incision, lucky for my skimmers, so I speculate, pondering the gun control issue, and the unfortunate rise of the new witch hunt over those with mental defect, diseased brains, or mood disorders aggravated by poverty, and sometimes deliberate blindness of self-interest. Both sides have it wrong, the radical left and the anal retentive NRA.
Against the NRA is the fact that guns are designed to kill very efficiently. The right needs to admit this and stop beating about the bush. Guns are lethal weapons, and even in trained hands, lead to tragic and unintended consequences. They may give us nice fantasies, especially in the hands of a still vibrant, erotic, dangerous Christopher Walken in his early Reaganesque Forsyth vehicle of mercenary cynicism, but they erode moral empathy, and make our inner cities war zones of post traumatic stress inbreeding.
Against the left: Stop splitting hairs and stand for something. The second amendment needs to be revised, and that revised law needs to be ratified the way the founding fathers intended ratification to work, passed by a 2/3 state majority. Easy, no, but progressives damn themselves this way all the time. Sexual equality is cosmetic sissy whining and obscures real concrete and serious issues that ail the failed Enlightenment Ideal that was supposed to be the United States. Stop picking on what is primarily a problem of underclass poverty, mental illness, and start asking some serious questions about weaponry and capitalism, corporate profit. Toying with an article proposal here, the specifics of which shall not be for your consumption.
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