Molar Snippets

The Burrowers (09) has antecedents in the earlier American sneak-hit, Tremors. The difference lies in the send up. Tremors has its fun poking at the creature genre, and offered the audience nicely plotted irony. Burrowers, however, caught me by surprise, half tempting me to send This a fan mail for running a very well done movie that took itself seriously and aimed a devastating impact at reactionaries like me. Along with District 9, Burrowers falls into my knapsack, scantily loaded, of rave favorites; it is the type of film I hoped online users would recommend for this thrashing thesis. As to the specifics, and a hats off to JT Petty (too young for me to hit on alas, but I'd send out a fucking wedding proposal in an eye blink)-- I'm a bit tongue tied, inured to being idiotic, but it brought me back to the one multi-cultural issue I've equivocated over, been ambivalent about, perhaps, and not quite parallel to Cape Town as a Dutch company carved out of a continent not quite tamed, and that is the systemic pacification of the American Indians.

I've taken heat, at least online, for pushing back against white guilt over atrocities, without necessarily snickering at indigenous romanticism over its tribalism, though it is also true I run out of patience with it. I've held my fire, saving it for the I'm ready to fight gay radical equality. A few of you may have noted by now that I have little love for egalitarianism. Canada scores on this one. I know when I have to cede the field.

Glycemic Igor

The only rationale I can see for Legends of The Fall being produced is industry handlers wanted to cement Brad Pitt's body for its earning potential, which various celebrity urls list as anywhere from 100 to 180 million. This seems low, given his staying power, and the partnership with Jolie. There is also the comparison to A River Runs Through It, virtually the same film. See Pitt nearly kill Julia Ormond, the implicit message for the girls being prime rib comes with a price tag: we are all better off fantasizing about grade A fucking instead of doing what it takes to get it, because potential pitfalls lurk, if not by death on the ever closing American frontier, then by conviction for stalking.

Hopkins was cast to be Gregory Peck, the cosmopolitan force taming North American ecosystems as opposed to integrating with it, like the natives whose totem metaphysics are more harmonic than that for which empirical measurements allow, not that I have any issues with indigenous indignation or passive compliance with their adaptive way of life being crushed, so much as I think it's time to move on, and look beyond the efficacy of gaming casino ownership. This is not a round about way of saying Rand Paul is not wrong, but he isn't, and his tenacious alarm is on point.

Watchbird was my least favorite of the MSF episodes made, but I have to concede that it was ahead of me on the prophetic implications of drone technology, and it need not be a corrupt president we have to worry about if these drones are given access to domestic airspace.

I have been trying to recover enough stamina to enter into cyber recovery of my manuscripts, but I'm not there yet, and indeed, yesterday almost passed out after moving my bowel, leaving me worried about my strength to find consultant work outside of my writing, as well as coping with the stress of relocation. The physicians were never much help with my continence management, other than to ask if it was chronic. I am a bit of a hypochondriac, but I felt the taste of death in this latest episode of ebbing faintness, and could barely transfer, type a paragraph. Potatoes for dinner helped me reset, Anthony's mildly sinister squint implanted once again on my short term memory. I was hoping for two or three more years of quality time, but I am uncertain I'll get even that.