Matters of Life and Death in an Aide de Camp

It's not your business -- a nursing aide in his degree of over-involvement

David Niven would decease just shy of a decade after starring in Vampira, a mindless piece of camp the dowager took solace from despite Prime's superfluous generosity, her bad leg an unremitting source of discomfort. Not a matinee idol of my time, he nevertheless radiates the humanism of the British Empire at its finest, cheapening himself in the decade of me, the decade of youth, with herein a breast and curvature patriarchal fantasy quite worthy of Hugh Hefner, who lasted with remarkable tnacity into the digital era. Beneath its superficiality, however, Vampira does for Niven what Assassination Tango does for Duvall with its much weightier center of gravity, allowing old dogs the assurance of relevance. Whatever feminine critics might say of the opening kill shot of the babette while the tourists wade in on the joke, Duvall plays the same game with December-male trophy status as Niven's handlers do 28 years before, scoring a few bimbo points on cross-ethnic sexual intimacy to boot, while the dowager misses making her own coffee, being alone and sleeping until six pm if she wishes, her surly breast desirous of making her male paraprofessional go away. Right now I don't feel like characterizing him through a pseudonym. I just want him to find another job and get the fuck out of my life, despite his sensitivity to my humiliation and my constant inquiry about my feelings and even unanticipated sparring matches. I can eject myself, at considerable inconvenience, as I've written, but it will be more for the worse.

I did an idiotic thing, and told him about Tassoni, buried in my archives, the instances of my Tassoni episodes, and to my utter chagrin, Galahad friended John on my phone, and more bloody awful still, John friended me back. Who wants the past tense of bittersweet losses to of a sudden have contemporary currency? I've posted things here about my undergraduate life which would undoubtedly antagonize the man I never got over, in this half-quasi sing song space with a minority who went one or two quarters with me towards the finish line of a turbulent spring. As I've also written, I am not huge on Facebook virtues, don't do selfies or announce events or floral arrangements, instead grilling my way into a fabulous family annihilator, but nevertheless, John and I are in feed, because I let a hip hop minstrel tap dance on my memories of the deepest longing for another Italian American I ever had. What the fuck is it with men? Act, don't reflect, never mind mortification, a way of stating you're saying fuck you and help me at the same time, remember? I epigrammed his 2002 email, and suggested he and Galahad could bromance on their respective tie-in, namely me. Yes, I am furious, and said I love you, now a second time, to a man passionately insisting he isn't my boyfriend.
You must remember this, a kiss is but a kiss. Judy Dench may offer up the inference that it's all in the incipient detail of domestic charms. God save the Queen.

Half Century Skin

It must be nice for a playwright to spawn something like Heaven Can Wait.
Segall may be a footnote, but his conceit bridges two centuries, and I can think of four, five other films besides the 41 original, only the David Niven version of mild weight, having the right touchstone for its English fable qualities. What underlies the fantasy mechanism between that sacred and profane in temporal transit, is the resolution of interrupted fulfillment. I am sore, perhaps a symptom of diabetes, even though I do not abuse my diet as badly as my mother, on my elbows, and where I bend, under my belly, and I am not ready for prime time. It has turned rather chilly very quickly, and, if I can haul myself out later today, I may need more than my shawl, trying to make breakfast, fighting languor.

We all have to die, at least, thus far; we are not anemones. Some biologists think they are immortal under environmental constants. I would not want immortality, but dying unresolved and unhappy will only increase my anger, sharpen my bitterness. All I want to do is move, and I might as well be igniting the start of the Afghanistan action, rather than watching its withered climax. I am unreasonable and must have a hole in the head if I believe I can leave public housing in this climate, but my weariness is in my marrow, and I am not allowed even this level of selfishness, a change of environment. I opted in for hash browns patties, just two, because I am going back to bed. It may be the fall air. My rage builds, then crashes, builds again, feeling like I have been duped my entire damn life, a naive dunce. Many of my early posts on this study looked at Jodie Foster's film career, as I grew up with the actor that she is, and the thought occurred to me that if I contact her agent for an interview, if I can come up with an idea, I will censor Hinckley on my own, even if the media has their names inextricably linked. I have the publicist. Foster's oeuvre belongs here, and a film like Nell only confirms this, as painfully bittersweet as it was to see Natasha and Liam in a youthful mode.

Natasha Richardson's acting has always felt fake to me, and I think in the context of the girl's story, she almost makes it work, as a flaw, in her conservative supporting role, but the qualifying flag has to remain, almost. I was able to see Neeson's hunger for his wife, but not vice versa, perhaps only a flattered coquetry. If they married in 94, mmm, I have to give it up, whether this was the laudable, drooling set romance that fans, in shallow fashion, ga ga over. kimmy bit me awake at 8 last night for her supper, but next I looked, when I attempted to settle down it was 10:30. Then I managed the film. We'll have more when I can think.