A break from the break of a sax serendipidity

You purchase Pain with all that Joy can give,/
And die of nothing but a Rage to live.--the last enlightened hunchback

The 1961 Goodbye Again is a masterpiece of my era, still a vibrant, living film. All Night Long, despite its fidelity to Stratford, cleverly embedded in a beatnik improvisation, fails the litmus test of its underlying anxiety, unsure of its own liberalism. Paul Harris does a good job of reversing expectations as the naturally regal chieftain, and McGoohan does as well as my managerial agent Trudy Richardson exaggerating the cowardliness of dissembling, but much like the problem of Othello itself, McGoohan loses hold of Johnny's core, and there is no accountability here for anyone. Des is not in forensics with ligature marks. Cas doesn't press charges, Rex abandons his band with Oedipal guilt, his wife chasing after him submissively, perhaps as an albatross of uncertain omen, and Patrick bangs his drum in insolence. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?, five years older and nearly as evasive, is nearly down by comparison.

O comes nearly 40 years later, transliterating to the jazz on the court, is more provocative, but at least has a rationale? If Cosby wants the opportunity of a comeback, one way he might do it is by challenging the meandering estuaries of Obama's legacy. We have the 44th president of the US excoriating a comedian who could be his father on the basis of civil court transcripts-- this says as much about our national uncertainty as the controversy over Iran's entry into the nuclear family. We cannot define Bill Cosby as a monster and simply ask Congress to revoke his medal. My attacker was a black addict. I've forgiven him. 

I have interacted with Joan Tarshis and could have easily lied to the woman. She thought I was in the Cosby press corp and I gently corrected her, but it was within that interaction that I came to sympathize with Eugene Robinson's dissonance over Cosby's serial accusers. Social shaming has its place, but can rapidly capsize too far leeward.

Behind The Bars Schematic, With Sharp Hazel Glint

I never knew Patrick McGoohan was American born. I thought he was British, and his image was carefully crafted as such, that precursor to James Woods' hypermania. Perhaps I could go desecrate his grave and go out on a weird news item. I got up late and watched the tiresome Danes of Unit One despite myself and inadvertently went down memory lane with All Night Long, ate a little and managed no further misadventures on the toilet, and honestly do not know if I am dying due to my cop down to nicotine vapor, or if it is just the stress of generically bad medical equipment and that I need a shower and a better mattress. Acceptance. Seven stages of death, or aggrandizement of allergies, and I'm still in the process of sniveling to the Philadelphia police force. Can't get a lawyer? Whine to the enforcers and all the sudden you can die in Kafka's comic moral guilt. My fall in oh 2007 was actually serious. I was in my badly fitted manual Quickie I purchased for 810 on my own dime, and flipped accidentally wedging my left breast on the feline carrier. I thought I was going to die, and to make a long story short a rendezous with Geek Squad led the guard to my door but the stitch under my armpit is constant and if it is cancer it certainly isn't being aggressive.

I did actually see most of The Prisoner on PBS, and unfortunately cannot refresh my memory either through Amazon's avarice or AT&T's lassitude with their garrulous disabled customer, but the series is certainly a cult status farce with deep seated roots in the satirical tradition, and I'm interested in expanding its allegorical bent; for that reviewing is necessary. What McGoohan did well as a performer was offer the reassurance of definition and then fracture it. But let me go for now. I am trying to stay comfortable enough to work and shut off my "I cannot go on" outcry and work and remain upset that I managed nothing and had to log on because of the omnipresent automatic updates. I'm studying what I watch for a blog which really pleases my own interests, when I started what ten years ago was new fangled, all the rage, blogging, and it's already dead. Damned if I understand online ebbs and trends, but I cannot work and study every fucking video under my nose and make myself homeless to really shorten my death by COPD. Hopefully, I'll be back in a few days.