and Farrah Faucett's death becomes a footnote in history, a commentator on Jackson's overdose the same day
So
much of a fusillade, these so many
things to do while shading in the margins of circling the drain, and where does
directional conscious lead? To a mild sense of astonished commiseration for
Scott Baio in social media mothballs. He gets attacked for tweeting about his
daughter playing golf. We should all have Mr. Baio’s problems while we lament incontinence
destroying what is left of quality of life, and Melaine shouts about cooption
of a Delete Facebook pushback (promptly deleted after her bout of agitation over her indignation of digital etiquette, for Christ's sake, with this country's problems). I too am now universally excoriated by the
disabled community. We all die alone,
the title of a German guilt novel so thick with pathos it submerges like a
diving bell, or like Farrah dying on a luxurious duvet, maintaining her wounded
Texan girl looks until the very end, but that very end was the most horrible
transfiguration of what and who she was, inured, after years of medical drama, inured, but not quite inured enough not to find O'Neal's material trappings grotesque, purely and simply, a fetish of baubles. He'll never answer my questions about The Driver, this piece on merging Walter Hill to Carter's bubba presidency. I've worked so hard to penetrate, merge a thesis on my own terms, my life vacuumed under, much like the impression of a manufactured construct Alana Stewart leaves behind, a residual effect, Baio's solicitation of crisis management is merely a pragmatic reflection of reality. Video rules our lives more thoroughly than any impending existential threat to our existence, like medical rationing. I regret absorbing Farrah's struggle. It was rather tense, superficial. Perhaps Mr. Baio is just a proud, decent dad, but I am past accolades. If a critic wishes to appear sympathetic, Baio had a amicable mien, in the window of youthful vigor, suitable for the nostalgia toward milk and cookies. While Happy Days splayed its wholesome innocence, I was in the surgical ward, bones broken, my insane mother driving me into a squall, arguably dooming us both, those fleeting moments sparse. Have I no joy, nothing in this momentous arc? Only those moments before the end of my affairs.
I hurt Sunday evening, my face mottled in loneliness, poised to do anything to end this *home care*.
It is a contradiction in terms, to complain about LiveJournal, and yet continue to post the deplorable sentiments on the darker side of difference, but this is due to the fact that I am utterly ignorant about handling Google's applications to fully move over to Blogger. I know it is simply a matter of transferring code, but I do not understand how to do it. No mind here for computer science, but I will soon have to clear my slate for three or four days, and resolve these issues, including cleaning up and/or reformatting my laptop, as I have lost my ads so the sympathetic among you can pitch me pennies, and there is absolutely no reason to stay if something is wrong with the Ad Sense application.
Mind, I do not have any intense feelings about LJ--I just have not found any writers here who click, who are on my same wave length, or even smarter. Other than certain communities, most other member journalists don't engage me as a reader, although I am obviously supportive of the disabled community that exists, but they cannot help me, insofar as I know, and I cannot help them. Not really, not anymore. I am tapped out, first and foremost, in part, sinking, though I do try to resist indulging the fact that I am in pain, at least directly, and political ideology does not seem to have any solutions for me. I disagree with the ACLU, for instance, on certain key points, like gender equality, and their protection of the far left, specifics of which will be left for another day, but vainly hope to deploy them, simply due to the fact that I am too poor to relocate myself out of Riverside on my own accord.
I scanned Yahoo Trending about the suicide of Robert Kennedy Jr's ex-wife, and I have more reasons in the field than Spalding, or David, and Mary too, to consider early termination, but I am too angry to imagine those who know me saying "how sad," and a certain defiance, as well as a co-mingling of lethargy, and my still mewing desire to salvage some kind of achievement, this has held me back, but by the same token, I need to bring some kind of change to the fore, because my strength is not superhuman.
Ryan O'Neal discussed Tatum's antipathy to his relationship with Farrah , and I see this as something quite normal in relation to father daughter dynamics in a broken home. With a name made actor like O'Neal these typical bourgeoisie issues are somewhat inflated by Tinseltown glitter. My relationship with my father's other women, especially my stepmother, was fraught with conflict when not absolutely ice cold, and this is very middlebrow, pedestrian, not quite high enough for A-list scandal status, such as swirled around Tiger Woods, and the dent that his marital splintering had on the fact that others depend on his image for their livelihood.
I have to give Ryan O'Neal credit. His interview with Tavis Smiley to promote the new book about life with Farrah Fawcett is the worst thing I've seen since the modern format was generated. There is a subtext here relating to the resentment of adulation, which I have previously discussed, and which makes it interesting, despite O'Neal's own disenchanted ennui. Fame is a burden, especially when it leaves you behind, its capital exhausted, and the only thing left is the salacious twitter that you're the guy who hooked up with the bionic man's wife, and Tatum did not make a successful transition like Jodie Foster. Tatum ceased being America's darling a long time ago, with just enough clout for bit parts on Criminal Intent, though Wolf's franchise has also exhausted its relevance. Ryan finally remembers to turn on his persona for the last ten minutes, but still says stupid things, without admitting the obvious, which is that he wrote the book to piggyback on his deceased wife's currency, needing the money, though of course Farrah's death from cancer is not Eric Segal's sappy Love Story, which has its own subtext of America's Wasp elite crumbling before neo-liberalism's expression of personal autonomy. In 2012 this is nearly what the Victorian Era represented to the absolute ideological thrust of the 20th century, culminating in the seizure of world wars, end result being that boundaries have all but been eradicated. As much as I'd like to offer O'Neal my commiseration, his resentments seem somewhat flimsy. The entertainment industry is what it is in the United States due to the triumph of material glamour, and I myself cannot exhaust too much capital on the fact that a Barbie Doll modality was one of the many burdens he and Fawcett had to carry, while she fought hard in her maturity before that camera to be an Authentic Woman. Real humanity is still invisible in this context, the reality of bodily vunerability being left to progressive documentaries about human disease and denial of mortality.
