Allez vous faire toutre?

Hats off to the fine citizens of France, who've presumably gone bug eyed with the not so salacious intrigue of Sebastien, homosexual extraordinaire of Mouelle with Arabic curly hair, making a pass at an American cripple of Italian descent. If Sebastien was not a fake account, I owe no one on the Parisian rave scene an apology. I am not quite as destitute as one of Zola's tenement villagers, but with a little work the asshole in question might have inferred I'm not a penis transplant in need. I am in search of independence restructuring and the restoration of employment, and I get a hundred and one page views over the utterance of "stalker". Uh huh. Whatever was the glory of Notre Dame? Disciplined artisans who believed. I envy it greatly.

A Moabite in Judah

"I think it started when Burr shot Hamilton."-- Dr. Randy Barnett, Georgetown University

What I wanted to discuss Tuesday morning, with a certain degree of blandness in my demise, is the destruction of Paul Ryan's legacy. Jack Posobiec, local Trumpian jackass whom I followed briefly to see what formula he was using that I wasn't, in order to support himself, blockhead who treats his followers like eighth grade civic students, collapsing the lack of virtual dimension on social media with the invocation to raise your hand (and where, Jack, are people supposed to raise their hands in the automated continuity of cloud computing based storage?) Damn stupid fuck, Posobiec. I attend three universities and get out-shined by a Protean buzz head like this fellow, who observed earlier in the week, "Ryan has been in the legislature 20 years, can you name his accomplishments?" That was a stinging rebuke to a tax reformist, and I think, not entirely fair, not even by the standards of Chait's summary for Intelligencer. When I was still on Niume's failed public blogging platform, I too jumped on the bandwagon, badly wanting the ACA repealed. It has made my access to reasonable standard of care that much more difficult, and this was the one thing I had hoped the GOP could achieve. While it's trues that Trump was light on policy details, Ryan was an experienced legislature who committed a stunning ideological failure. This diminished his prominence, and that was the end of that. But instead, let's switch gears
to Twitter's detractors, once again delivered by Dr. Barnett and his delightfully cribbed humor. I happen to enjoy the way Barnett delivers his bon mots thank you, and he was kind enough to tweet beck to me about the demise of the filibuster, which I believe is an overlooked issue in contemporary legislative battles. I happen to agree with Reynolds, particularly in light of the fact that I mistook Sergio Siano for a Korean lesbian and got into a brawl with a British faggot named Farlene, or some such spelling, and half the international disabled community. I am laughing to the point of burning tears in my eyes. 
My Samsung Galaxy is larger than my old Apple, but if I do not open the actual thumbnail pictures of account holders, I cannot see them all that clearly in miniature. I knew the retweet came from a follower in Singapore, and leapt to the wrong conclusions. On my computer screen, Sergio is clearly a male who didn't want to be embroiled in a date rape. However, if you examine his thread, he claims he was accused of being gay, does gay things, and isn't homophobic. He insists on it more than once. While the old fashioned term "gay panic" actually points to the possibility of a psychotic break, people need to cease and desist on the issue of homoerotic fear. It is perfectly natural to be afraid of letting go of that kind of inhibition. I told Sergio, as I have written here, that I was molested by an insatiable black woman from the inner city. It was one of the most difficult episodes in my life, and this is why gays and lesbians get killed. I comprehend violent reactions against such prevaricating tactics of exploitation. Gender fluidity is going to take us quite some time to process, to hit on equitable solutions for all, including insecure heterosexuals. Speaking of which, I have not read Douthat's wasp piece yet, but he is defending caste poise, dispensed to the masses. Why was Ruth, as King David's great-grandmother, so important within the Torah? Think about it for a while. There are a number of lessons in Semitic apocrypha. 

Arthur Miller's Larynx

"What are you, my wife?"   -- a harried paraprofessional who was grateful I recalled he forgot to fax his time sheet

When management turns on the radiator, I always tend to destabilize in my intestinal region, though somewhat unbeknownst to me, I was vulking waste into my disposal briefs because of a summer cold, so the situation has somewhat reversed itself, even though my interior air quality is now analogous to a fabled Turkish bath. And we've had so much of this lately. Erdogan's authoritarian hypocrisy, the House of Saud and its Janus face. If I am familiar with Khashoggi's writing I cannot remember it. Of course he did not deserve death in a choke hold with dismemberment, but I am going to assert a truism via which I only diminish my once vaunted desire to return to the ranks wherein those with contracts club each other over the head: Saudi Arabia is an enemy.
It is over now, the cold, but I desperately need to regain some independence. I cannot continue to function like this, with or without this minority and our near affair. I don't want him, and this is a near 180 degree turn, but I can't feel anything for a man who disdains my thirst to return to analysis. Our welfare partnership nearly tore asunder this past Monday. He became furiously angry that the kitchen was in moderate disarray, given my punishing helplessness in this Quantum model. I love my godfather, but the vendor he runs, Mainline Medical, failed me. My suffering is obdurate, and my purported nurse blew a gasket because I did not make the fill-in aide do a better job. He frightened me as if I had actually been weak enough to sleep with him, and it nearly ended that morning between us. It is probably the way it will end, although he grew tender, appreciative, when I simulated "being" his woman, reminding him the time sheet had to be faxed, after we closed the rift which only fuels my confirmation bias. A failed little boy who cries for his mother, this fellow. I'd flick him away like a speck of lint, remembering I too can reject able bodied men. I'd go on, colder, harder, bigoted, but you've had enough implosive virulence from yours truly whose first priority is weaponizing anesthetics against homosexuals, mounting them with pins, despite the papal voice of Francis: Do not condemn them. Indeed, I admire the illumination of Foucault despite his resistance to thesis, on body mechanization. AIDS was in its infancy as a known pathogen in 1987, so I cannot, much like Erdogan, go "too" far, but I respect Foucault's use of a structuralist approach to make us see the insidious nature of control on our physiology, invidious , ever encroaching. Perhaps, the more rigorous the work product, the more sexual risks Michel Foucault needed to take. Well, he was French.
Into this, the Facebook engaged in a mass purge last week, and Breitbart, nonetheless, stirred me into empathetic anger for Brian Kolfrage. I am following him on Facebook, not yet on Twitter. Here is the article informing many of us about why we lost PM Beers. Here is the press release. It may read like a conscientious consumer protection plan, yet I never trusted social media from day one, and have some degree of difficulty placing a three limb amputee with a family to support on par with Rasputin. I will have a more focused post on the conflicts herein, perhaps on LinkedIn, which censored me briefly from participating in groups due to "lack of relevance." Now I simply do not engage. Before my older more functional Quantum failed, I made a tremulous job search on LinkedIn, and nothing ever panned. I received letters of interest from unfunded grants, like Plato's cave wall. I have to broaden my efforts. However weakened, the dragon wakens once more. Help me.

Cumulus Babylon

"Now I know, that rose trees never grow in New York City."-- Elton John

And now, of a sudden, I’ve found my way back into Captain Fantastic, the greatest English speaking musical album of all the world, which might not have come into existence if the dowager had been the enforcer of Britain’s anti-homosexual laws. They would have had been enforced. Reginald Dwight might have received an ad hoc rupture of the Vas Deferens from the testicles in the necessary imperial need for order, not that this would have cured where his desires led, nor it is as false a dichotomy as you might believe, in my willingness not to fear locking horns over decency and the progressive expansion of artistic force. American rock was a relatively innocent flirtation riding on Elvis Presley’s corn fed hips before the British invasion occurred. The foment of my youth, however, can no longer rise to the sheer delphinic epiphany of “Curtains,” and lesbians in Lancaster, those whom I used to know, might be in danger of my ire in less than a hyperbolic fashion if their circumference shrinks to within striking distance. Last week, a brief wildfire erupted, but even then I knew, as old a conflict as Mann’s Death In Venice, an ironic, if well studied choice, that one cannot defy biology, unless, as in The Ambassadors, where queer genius is obfuscated into the concealed repression of an illicit, if straight, extramarital affair, or The Tempest, which is Shakespeare’s mastery proclaiming the aged wisdom to be paramount, that mature partnerships can only reinvigorate up to a point.

This is not to say conservative reactionaries do not have needs. We’re not monks, but my New Mobility feature, in 04, exposed and attacked this very thicket within attendant care, in which I am now both, conquered by, then turned conqueror of, a sexual attraction inside of it, depending on how I wish to interpret the matter, resolved to turn off the tap as I was, truly believing he was being kind out of pity. He today assures me this isn’t the case, and the lioness in my gonads has stopped lashing about like a wildcat, and remains merely alert in her den, observant, tender, and yes, mildly happy, but it doesn’t change me, nor the way I might see the possible fruition in a father's eyes. 

If I want to go deeper into Elton’s supremacy, however—for me, a specialized supremacy—meaning he is the best among British talents of my era, I will only go deep enough to say that his gifts wouldn’t exist had his homosexuality been accepted as a mainstream biological imperative, as opposed to tolerated, in the late 60’s, and I in turn wouldn’t have been corrupted by his preeminent subversiveness, joined to Taupin’s scathing lyrical narratives. “Alice,” from Yellow Brick Road, still pierces with hypocritical poignancy when it comes to sexual secrets, but that doesn’t mean Bernie’s progressive sympathies have been victorious, nor that I’m the bad guy. I know we can’t put the genie back in the bottle, but there are limits, even things Shawn and I couldn’t share down the road. We’ve already lived a half century in different worlds. My mention of Loving made no dent in our conversations, and since I'm barren, I would not be able to wed, should it come to that, in my faith, but I have to look into that.

General's Patience

"I like girls too."-- Elton John with Kiki Dee appeasing heterosexual conventions when he was a seventies concern

I was once a fanatic for the work of Elton John, and yet, for all that, could never get close, five minutes away from speaking to Taupin on live radio, the producer had a leg crossing discomfort with my question, would not let me through, and then I heard it reiterated in the disc jockey's interview. Fans let things like that go. I've come to regret it, the fanaticism, touched on it previously, and could not follow the seasoned artist's twitter account. The scathing subversive underbite of Elton at his best warped the way I looked at the world, and I had an infantile dismay with his sexuality. Exactly why mystifies me, amid his dichromatic flamboyance, more fascination with it than attraction to it, his weakness was maudlin pathos.

Billy Senese cannot be accused of maudlin pathos. Closer To God alludes and alludes, and yet it is a very crisp film, and rather realistic, however unfortunate this is for the genome project. The tracks of a shrieking baby stay with you. The true climax of the film pierced, and it pierced despite the fact that it was gaming the viewer with Larry Cohen's monster baby. Right before the close of the story, Victor's original child, not meant to survive, goes on a rampage. Jeremy Childs croons to it, Baby Ethan, to lure it in out of necessity, and then Ethan runs to the doctor. flinging his arms around the waist of creator father. The shrieking stops, consolation mitigates its suffering, momentarily, only to be betrayed by a lethal injection, the shrieking starts again, desperate with pain, crescendos into a collapse, overpowered by the chemical overdose. Remove the camp, as Senese does, and discover that a horrified sensibility doesn't know quite which way to turn. The script is not perfectly derivative, but Senese has courage in his daring use of pressure points. I don't envision the science of cloning as a midnight scenario, messy and clinical in parts, as alarming as some transhuman issues. The minute Dolly became cost effective, the fate of manipulating our own bodies was sealed. The only reason a human clone hasn't been done, or revealed, is because geneticists aren't keen on being assassinated, but it is also biologically regressive, like homosexuality itself. Cloning is an inefficient and less viable method of replication. Sexual reproduction was the advance, enabling evolution in its diversity and success: leave it to apes to get excited about stimulating an ovum into carbon copies.

Despite the camp, and its lack of a surgical impricator, the trailer for It's Alive frightened me. I've never been able to shake it off, like one of Warfield's impossible layouts. Patience is not an easy solitaire, but General's Patience is a brain atrocity, a pattern so rigid it's nearly impossible to break. I'd suggest, if you enjoy computer cards, hacking your download to cheat it. You'll live longer.

Back to Black in a Holy Land Apotheosis

We only said goodbye with words I died a hundred times.-- the late Amy Winehouse

We have followed Glenn Close in her various guises of hedonistic, playful, malevolence over the years. The uproar over Fatal Attraction is now nothing more than a cyclic cultural footnote, especially juxtaposed against the reverberating waves of emasculating feminine outcry, castrating the acculturated like Ryan Lizza and the swine like Harvey Weinstein, and even the pedantic like Al Franken. [Erik Wemple is sometimes more filler than substance, but he nails the bafflement squarely on the head with Lizza’s career. Though Wemple is accurate about employer termination clauses, the case here against the noted eastern analyst seems in need of adjudication. I have no vested interest in salvaging a tenacious liberal like Lizza, and I had my supervisor removed simply for putting her husband’s orgasms and performance in the same sentence, so my alarm may seem hypocritical, but to impugn the man over what has a feel of sour grapes seems to be a loss of proportion…] Dangerous Liaisons might be an extended metaphor for weaponizing the AIDS virus, and it is my favorite Close film in a way that The Big Chill is almost instantaneously a non-entity. Like many performers, however, Close embodies the nefarious enforcer, and she can dial her medical professionals up or down, accordingly, always with a slightly malicious air. There are hideously interesting aspects to The Girl with All the Gifts. The opening scene was the only time I have ever seen wheelchairs used as protective devices for a threatened able-bodied minority, but I am going to go out on a limb and call the narrative evolutionary diabetes of popular culture. I have nothing against women like Carey earning a living off of established zombie conventions, but her motifs come on the cheap. Oh, there are creative instances, a distillation of the bond between teacher and student in merciless institutional settings. Sennia Nanua does an excellent job as monster child heroine with her idealism and principles contrasted with insensate drive, with her savagery toward cats a deliberate poke in the eye. Consumers don’t need a reference website to see McCarthy’s imitations of 28 Days Later, stark geography, stark existence in tandem. The dowager wearies of Walking Dead syndrome.

However much appreciative of British one-upmanship against their American colonial counterparts, the BBC and Channel 4, if not ye old Pinewood Studios, love of humbling redneck reactionaries with an elitist sensibility of how acclimated European minorities are simply isn’t a real world reflection of social mobility, inside a class system or not. And we dare not exclude the French from this contention, since David Baiot is the Remorseful, if corrupting, Homosexual of The Churchmen. Audiences cannot possibly dismiss his fully rounded character Emmanuel as not deserving of ordination and grace, unless it emanates from his conscience, not ours. This diversity outcry from Mcdonald may have accurate demographics, but to the English mindset, there is no such creature as a British African who can flip black counter culture on a half penny. Ask Sophie Okonedo. Any regular PBS viewer knows her as the indispensable token of Great Britain’s sobering success, never mind the empire’s ruthlessness when Jamaican field hands were executed for the sake of sugarcane in the 1840’s. Okonedo is the unflappable gauze bandage, exchanging a prosecuting barrister for an unassuming lesbian like a living hologram. It is in this sense “Melanie” is captivating on the cheap: look at the little black girl behaving like a duchess. This is what sells, African appropriation and elocution of Caucasian table manners. If her predatory ferocity is a survival tool in the new world order, exactly what that is in Carey’s disaster remains mystifying, since we have little idea if the fungal symbiosis of the third generation will essentially wind up being the jealous plants of the body snatchers. Contrary to what my audience reads here, I treat the Muslim Saran quite well, especially since my bitterness is beyond her comprehension. I let her have a few dollars here and there, and she has no idea I’d ship her right back to West Africa, that I examine her like a foreign invader who will invariably destroy my United States. If she understood this intolerance, she would weep, and perhaps marvel at the strength of its roots, ingrained by self-inflicted alienation, among other things. Some journalists take the bull by the horns and equate Trump’s behavior with mental disease, and these are in the majority. Will, Sullivan, Joe Scarborough. Wiser men like Ed Rogers see Trump’s behavior as unpleasant, remembering that none of us are expert at psychiatric classification. I am impatient with certain aspects of Trump’s crass, but as someone long wading the trenches of expendability, every time I distance myself from his bluster, the left swings me right back with what is indicative of hysteria. There is still entertainment to be had in making Jerusalem an apocalyptic focal point simply on the strength of conviction. Jewish Israeli’s have  a divine right because the Torah makes it so, or Trump likes to side with winners, in the simplicity of reasonable accommodation.

Perhaps, within a week, or two, I will stop being let down by Mike’s schedule, (the wheelchair mechanic) I can order a new charger and or trade in my kindles and return to reading, actually passing my stool into our civilized sewer systems, as I could in the fall, and be more forgiving of the turn of the screw. I do not think Trump will necessarily ignite a catastrophic third world war. I also don’t believe the GOP will shield him indefinitely. This doesn’t imply impeachment. His reign isn’t worth what that would entail, but I am no judge of what constitutes mental defect. Isn’t Al Sharpton also a bigoted bully?

Arc of Nitrate Decomposition

Let us return to Professor Phillips momentarily, as the representative teacher novelist and vignette author. My first exposure to Jayne Anne was in an 1983 anthology, Matters of Life and Death. I believe this exposure presented before Jerry sent me trotting after Black Tickets, of which I can recall virtually nothing. "Home" is a strong short story and made a strong impression, but it embodies all of Jayne Anne's weaknesses, a penchant for abstraction, emotional coolness, the clipped mildly vicious bite of women in her social class. It points to her lack of sustaining power as a novelist. I blinded myself to it out of sexual frustration and envy, dangerous enough to be generative of bisexual anxiety, despite the fact I never had a sexual fantasy where oral orgasm involved a lithe and more biologically attractive woman making me the masochistic bitch begging in submission, all games, no glory. Deep enough for you? If so, why am I pushing this?

I may not literally die leaving Riverside section 202 after 24 years of hostility and fear. As a practical matter, whatever I do, first responders would be forced to remove me if I get stranded: I am cognizant this expedites what I've seen Presby do to residents for years, and years, since I was 23, but I just can't take it anymore, and I am hoping I am just clever enough to evade the barbarity Inglis House represents. My online voice, however, will not be what it was, so I'm pulling the knives, pressing the most dangerous triggers which usually ends lives of lesbian suckling gluttony, and am capable of a rather close distinction between a feminine sexual threat which would not lead to positive satiation, because the stark existential reality is, I could never be the Jayne Anne whose chic reticence appeals to a man of breeding, the cosmopolitan urbanite I always longed for: her so so achievements as the modern southern female will fade, because it is the standard, literary milk weed that passes for expression. She is more teacher than writer who makes the blood vibrate, and it is the women who reject teaching whose legacy is the most powerful in literary endeavor.

Despite the catastrophe before me, I am putting the strongest parts of my voice together, the Joanne poet who closed the issue of Oxford Magazine Jayne Anne opened. She aspired to the voice of angels. I intimated Custer's Last Stand can be attributable to the modern consumer economy of appliances like microwaves, much more complex in condemnation. I regret my letter to her publisher, forget what the fizz amounted to, but don't regret the torsion of my own self-deception. The cry that I too wanted a lithe eroticism, that I too wanted the power of God's creation in my vibrant woman's vessel, and was denied. Let's see who shall stand the test of time. The visiting professor or spastic survivor of American genocide.

Giant

"Take a break." Melissa Horton, Yaberrz

I've already told myself that Niume is just another tool. My problem is the posts, taken collectively, drip like the orphanage gruel in Oliver Twist, the other Dickens masterpiece never read, so, on my last megabytes for this billing period, I am waiting for the prompts to kick in, and tomorrow, or later, my tweets to my posts will be invalid. Chrome autopass works on some sites. On others, it creates issues.

I do not know how many of you remember Rock Hudson, in his last days, coming out


I do. I have the memory of the news conference, live, in 1985, and here he is, a wasted consequence of both a sexually permissive society, and concealment based on sexual secrets, a matinee idol of my mother's generation, with her mania never fully, effectively treated until she gave birth to my half brother, and survived the heroin addict she wedded in mistake. Benjamin's father was a late diagnosed schizophrenic. For me, Hudson was a television star, the composite model for Blue Bloods Tom Selleck. I was much better off, a naive ignorant youngster who couldn't decode, and had fantasies of a happy middle class Italian marriage-- but my Pulchinella was barren, and he is a ghost.

I made my decision. I am not recertifying with this Presby building. Trudy Richardson, as far as I am concerned, is a hate crime criminal. The real reason Presby doesn't evict, is section 202 makes money putting senior citizens in hospices and homes. It is a consequential decision, and once the deadline passes, that is it. I cannot change my mind. They will move to evict, and I am the one who keeps taking it. I cannot do this forever.

I do not mean to take the collective human mentality all that seriously, but it is overwhelming me, my need for creative space.

Digressing Clinical Aspects

I just wanted to have a dinner party.-- Meryl Streep keeping abreast of ebullient eschatology

Concentrated dramatic creativity can be detrimental; to iterate it once again, the screen adaptation of Cunningham's derivative novel, The Hours, ripped a hole in my chest, and I had to restrain myself from screaming in email. At Cunningham's publisher, or the author, in much the same way I danced on the griddle of hard copy fan mail for Jayne Anne Phillips, before I concluded, in my maturity, that she wasn't a movement author for me, so much as a secondary iconic figure to cling to Jerry McGuire, which in its own way, is me being rather merciless. Was Phillips sexually attractive in her Poets & Writers heyday? Sure, I am not entirely immune to MacLaine's discovery in The Children's Hour, but neither does it mean I have kd lang's sexual fantasies. I do not gurgle over the breast nipple of which I was deprived. It has never gotten me off. I'm simply so masochistic, and in so much pain, that feminine sensuality opens vulnerability-- but I can never read Cunningham, and have to stay away from the film. It is too intense, however much I am the same.

I am not in particularly good shape. "So? What do you want us to say, go get joy juice." Doing a nice piece on twitter's problems, however, still makes me inexplicably lively, as I believe social media's herd mentality is not always beneficent. I am not here to get hyped, or win popularity contests. I am not Wallace either, but I perceive the price he paid for his laser lens elocution, and I am such a lesser, spastic figure.

Winter Moonlight's Vapor Shroud

The Code Black episode which ran last evening seemed to intentionally reference the Spanish Catholic motif that the unpleasantness of life is a dream from which we invariably wake, with varying degrees of courage or fortitude to follow suit, whether it's Dona Luz coping with a deceitful lover and becoming content to be a virtuous single mother thereafter, or the futuristic sensibility of Vanilla Sky rather unevenly adapted for Americana. It was an irritating cheap trick, whether or not there is a certain degree of commiseration for William Young as the compassionate patriarch who knows when to give in to the disruptions of the urban disenfranchised. Spastic has no particular affinity for current medical serials, however more sophisticated scripts, but Raza was at least a curiosity, whereas Rob Lowe is the manufactured, if seasoned veteran, who delivers line readings with new found square jawed machismo. To go from that to the silicon metrosexual tweaks of Pure Genius is insufferable. The public airways may be frambrosia next to what retarded and fed baby boomer narcissism, but it makes taking a backward glance at Cary Grant beat one's chest for glamour, and bourgeoisie style held in place by gleaming hair gel and aerosol. 
Grant was already a mausoleum plague in the Columbo era, but what appealed to our mothers, that vaudeville charm, holds the same magnetism now as then, whether tightly wound in Hitchcock, or more subversively timed in his comedies, which can be decoded along the same lines as Rock Hudson, if with more heartbreaking effect. To scroll a tawdry digital gallery and read that Grant was gay simply because he lived with another male friend was indeed shocking. We may not be able to read orientation on a whim, but Grant? It drew tears, when a more cautious intellect might have challenged the veracity of such claims. As a journalist, rebelling in despair at an encroaching twilight, blows having already broken her back, delving into this particular undercurrent would be akin to chasing Loch Ness: His grandchildren would disavow it, and there is no proof which can be confirmed. The reasons these rumors dog the star stem from the very things that made him one of the greatest celebrities. He toys with sexual secrets to keep his female admirers on the bait, even if we don't give much of a thought to poor Ingrid Bergman, the *gay bachelor's* patsy, as she was against Anthony Perkins in :Goodbye Again (though I would have fucked Perkins in that movie, and again in On The Beach). Bergman is not particularly sexual. She is a gracious elegance of poised need. And the idiot who cast her against Matheau in later years should have lost his job. It did not work. If you see her as the wife of Sartre, sacrificing all for such a great ego, that works. That is how women of her era derived standing, but there is culpability in that social form that shields the deviations of dandies which Proust exposes like a montage in the tide. Spastic cannot read it in Grant, however, the inclination toward sodomy. He might have been an empty vessel mimicking the upper echelon whose ranks he joined by virtue of his talent, but risking that for more roughshod homoerotic experimentation seems beyond where his attention to personal detail would take him. 

Re (Assignment)

"It is people like you, William, who are destroying the moral fabric of the country."-- Patrick McGoohan, Anglicized reactionary

Outland's cultural interplay  operates on levels with a number of tranches. It is an obvious homage by Hyams to High Noon, which in itself isn't really a western, but a question about what kind of country America is, but the narrative is also about Connery's frustration with the Fleming formula. It has its weak spot, the worshipful wife doing an early version of Skype. Kira projects Carol O'Niel as little more than a moon child who wants to be dominated by self-made virility. Don't we all. Beyond this, it offers a fulfilling neo-realism which makes the difficulty of transliterating science fiction all the more rewarding, posited in a plausible futurist technocratic frailty. Walter Hill may not have had a direct influence on Hyams's work, but someone was paying attention.

Methink's Hill's protestations out forced gender switching are disingenuous, but I am not ready to challenge an entertainment icon on his understated political consciousness,  and prefer to go through O'Neal first, and know I have to move: the man is sick, seemingly in need of money-- but I am also barely holding it together. My "essay-ish" piece on The Driver is not slated for Rolling Stone, as its cultural insulation makes me queasy: Wenner switched sides, thus not invalidating arguments about sexuality and choice-- but in recent searches, debated pitching the entertainment icon a slant. It would not hurt. Freelancers get ignored hundreds of times a day-- but I am staying my hand, as they seem to already eat Hill like ice cream. I am trying to probe a little more deeply, much as the juxtapositions in The Prisoner keep the viewer off balance. It too is science fiction dressed up like a primitive comic book (much like The Good Place, which sends up smugness rather cheaply and isn't enough).

For now, this is all I can manage. If I haven't broken the law and assaulted Trudy Richardson, at week's end, perhaps I will have crept through my own physiological torments enhanced by corruption.

Mince Meat, Hytonia Convulsed The Hard Way

Blow me down with a holiday breeze: A PAYING EDITOR JUST SAID YES!
I should go berserk in agony more often, hey Ann? Specifically addressing Ann Tran as a colleague here. Let's discuss my particular conjecture as it pertains to homoerotic elevation.

I have made much in previous posts to my link with Ms Phillips. It both excites and arouses me that she and I share a byline. In my more obscure antipodes, I published a poem dedicated to her called "fortissimo" which is both sexually competitive and dangerously suggestive of foreplay, and not being afraid to challenge myself, I did so, not interested in her sexually, but envious, and perhaps we've been around this bend before, but exactly what am I envious of, other than her privilege of projecting a state of lithe? To be totally, unsparing and uncompromising, did I elevate Phillips because Jerry, whom I deified, recommended I read Black Tickets? It has been so long I only remember liking this early collection as a series of vignettes, and repurchased an e -copy however long ago, two years, despite her relative teaching security against my ironclad welfare death spiral, or does her skill merit my admiration, her accomplished, rural to urbane transference? Last I investigated, she had a stint at Princeton. I have no idea if she has received my ancient fan mail, but where does all this birthday cake icing come from? Machine Dreams lags. I never finished it. Fast Lanes, so what?

This means, to my shock, that the aesthetic sensibilities of dogged eared Shakespeareans isn't always absolutely on the mark. Why exactly then did I deify Jerry so blindly? To hide, not push myself, because I was afraid of giving in to the lesbians who have hit on me, with the mixed race cellulose inner city sow who couldn't keep her paws to herself being the most sordid? I did reject her, violently, and what she did not not arouse or liberate me. I survived. The Hollywood studio system may have long had a celluloid closet, which we'll mine later, as a documentary, but the Screen Writers Guild has yet to really apply itself to the homily woman, the Georgy Girl who snares the obviously appalled James Mason who realizes what he traded in order to be the brow beaten husband. There are no stories out there for us, not really. Occasional cop show. 

The Strength of Apostasy, a good marina sauce

"A science that strives to understand apostasy as a thoroughly social phenomenon has much to gain by recognizing the members of this curious class [...] for what they are."-- David A Bromley, The Politics of Religious Apostasy, p 116

Ray Liotta's poc-marked projection of shell shocked disembodiment is perfectly diachronic between slumming it with Scorsese in Goofellas, to the complexities of the present day. Nothing is so clearly delineated anymore between our villains, our heroes, our collusions, and though one might grow weary of seeing him parody Machiavellian duplicity until his inevitable murder rectifies the situation, he's done it for so long that he manages to make it a high art in this new high octane series, though we might not take away anything fresh, and J-Lo is as Halle Berry still convincing herself she's the diva cop of yore, retreading Angel Eyes and Enough, as if we haven't seen enough of the tight T-shirt braggadocio to know its keynotes.

Italians have always known this however, even in the classic era. The Republicans assassinate Augustus to "save" the Republic-- in essence to keep power divested, only to initiate the monarchical divine reign of the aristocracy -- which only begins its real death throes in 1945, as opposed to 475 AD.

Perelli's La Piovra, with its grisly lurking cowardice, may no longer be "what it was," according to Wapo, but it is now organic, part of the entire textile which make up Euro-Asian societies as a whole, and it takes a special kind of apostate, one as zealous as Wozniak, to blow the whistle and cleanse procedure once boundaries get too muddied. Did the shock value of the homosexual liaison subvert expectations? Perhaps, but it seemed more like an exploitation fuck which thankfully wasn't overtly faked, the kind which victimizes wheelchair users repeatedly. If we were against Henry Hill in Scorsese's little blood bling, we look at Wozniak, and with secret glee hopes he walks out of a bloodbath with Liotta's trademark "ehnanana" Quite a turn within a quarter century.

Carried, Seize, Outreach

Media promotions aren't always trivial, and on the basis of the fact that she is touting yet another celebrity memoir, the fancy has seized me to pour out some of my anguish in reserved fashion to Mariel Hemingway, a contemporary, eclipsed in the fog of losing my poverty stricken battle in a majority black city. Then the entertainment articles triggered my envious memories of Mariel's beauty, not plastique in the least. Memory: watching Personal Best waiting for something subversive and passionate and never getting a graphic scene. Perhaps it was edited for television, but it was this film which drew my curiosity to homoeroticism, around the same year that Henry James's super-attenuation came to my attention, became a life long fascination, until the nursing aide and her obscene invitation to bring me "in the life." In the life-- that is code, cliched by now, in LBGT speak for the quest for pleasure, but let me not go tearing up the cushions on the divan too deeply just yet. Queer theory draws prurient attention like carrion draws maggots, and my trenchant retraction of equal treatment for sexual orientation is invariably the comfort food of liberal mockery-- but also, I am not satisfied with my plank. I'm not an evangelical, as such, and why should I care what gays do?

I don't, really, and don't focus much on the physical intimacy between my ex-friends. Jimmi is fat and pallid and Erik is a fleshed out version of Dr. Seuss in the morgue. Excellent aversion therapy, let alone me and my lovers, but I send Mariel's publicist a pity-the-cripple email. I know not to expect response and assume I would not receive one, but what if I did? She'd probably post, much as Niall Ferguson did, "I am sorry for your situation," and offer me the usual self-help pep talk, but why the urge to penetrate at all?

Because she and I are the same age, and why not share the misery with a celebrity I came up with, whose impact was more subtle than Jodi Foster's? Still, these compulsions of sentiment annoy me. She's just an actress, made famous in a particular point and time, in a particular way, with an interesting pedigree to an American writer who's oeuvre is basically full of shit. Ernest is a god damn con artist, a melodramatic spin doctor, over the top even in his Fascist Spanish Civil War era. Huff. I'm over a mild panic attack, hoorah.

Suge Knight may not know my neighbors

Not sure why Acquired Deficiency received as many views as it did. Beneath the surface I miss my blunt idealism, and, at least when he wasn't posting about his co-habitation conflicts (noting that I have not been honorably reticent toward my ex Frank either) I was moved by Andrew Sullivan's sincerity. What the fuck else to deem it of course he cannot possibly engage in high risk sexual activity with his partner but how can they be celibate?

Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.

Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point. 

Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.

Scales to Skin, Anthropogenic?

"I thought you might like to have it back."-- Dustin Hoffman

There are two films in American distribution entitled Heaven. Blanchett's pre-Babel dramatic allegory, and the earlier Scott Reynolds construct, where Martin Donovan is coyly etched with attractive facial lines, and Danny Edwards does a good job at being a Cosmo coca exotic lure. Both films pit metaphysical conceits with no real world veracity against Western materialism-- in the case of Reynolds a gritty and colorful American materialism-- and in each narrative-- materialism loses. In the 98 film, the loss goes to a transgendered minority with second sight, and in the 02 film, corruption and greed fail to swallow the self-righteous, as encapsulated by Blanchett and Ribisi, barely male and female in their sexual division of the name Philip.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, purposely archived in 2013, Ebert is unhappy with Tykwer's denouement for his poignant morality play, but I am less sanguine that the escape via helicopter was meant to be happy. The fugitive couple vanish like pin pricks in a particle wave as if they never existed in the first place.

Hollywood loves tantalizing audiences with the prospect of the sordid glamorized on screen. Black victimization, cross-dressed in the minstrel tradition, that's entertainment! In real life, inner city sexual practices in the closet veer toward the slovenly, slothful repugnance, thirty second news clip, cousin of so and so from the block raping a five year old, or my *agency* attendant throwing herself on top of me. Dirty, in this context, doesn't mean sexually naughty. It means soiled, just as Phillippa's self-made bomb, in a real city environment, has a grotesque sputum streak about it, even if the terrorist cause has legitimate grievance. Sometimes it does.

Gay marriage will not elevate all homosexual activity on an equal playing field with sexual expressions of love between a man and a woman as representative of a celebration of life. This is just progressive wishful thinking, and won't mitigate corruption that Hollywood does correctly associate between queer lifestyles and criminal illegality. I have had too much real world experience . Where activists and people on the fringes congregate, unethical behavior and corruption usually have a thriving nest. Stability comes with a price, and that is affluence, which itself is not self-sustaining for very long periods of time. Even in a film like Tootsie, probably one of the last of its kind, the script had the courage to illustrate that sexual deception can, does, have negative consequences. Durning's character fell for an exaggerated variation of a drag queen, but that character, the butt of audience laughter while the cat was in the bag, wasn't so funny, humiliated, when Hoffman's character gave up the game.

lo scannacristiani

"What about my needs?"-- a raspy Patrick Stewart

Rick Berman and Brent Spimer stay within the traditional confines of Trek didacticism with Nemesis, the NG film which seems rather lackluster. We have to teach the kiddies about insurgency, after all, so lets have the ever conspiratorial female in the guise of Senator Tarl'uara just wipe out the entire Romulan Senate for an overt sexual attraction to Shinzon, but upon rejection say oh sorry, I'll develop a conscience now and fight him to save the Federation. This is Trek, with all its sleights of hand, some to be forgiven in stronger scripts with better analogies. We get it. Picard/Shinzon. Data/B4. There but for the grace of god, and al-Baghdadi might now be slitting my throat with a scimitar for a less peevish feminine replacement-- but the gaps are nonetheless irritating. If I am a Romulan aborting an elaborate espionage, why not just give my humanoid clone boy a lethal injection? Why is the doppleganger bent on destroying earth? The Borg needs bodies and so the Borg conquer, but Shinzon is supposed to be representative of a rebellious Napoleon, one who wastes his dying breath seeking revenge on a benign republic (us) who had nothing to do with his creation or the hell of the environment to which he was consigned. How many of you pick apart these scripts for loose ends when not contemplating the use of a woofie to have your way with male or female victim of your choice?

I had a one sided dialogue with Richard Morgan, yet another liberal homosexual bent on world dominion, about his sodomy driven rapist, which he has now fabulously published on the digital front page of The Washington Post. I am not envious of the byline, as such. If I ever get in Wapo I have to vanish from its community for a time, and the trope of disability and sexual abuse is too well known. No one cares about the battles I waged with a Jewish woman of my own condition either, except for sewing my posts together for a book about the chimera of activism. I wrote Morgan because his rape story is symptomatic of our narcissism, and what I'd convey to him further is this: he insisted in his column that he did not want to file charges against his rapist, but is he looking at the larger picture? I almost killed myself because I let a former supervisor toy with me for her own amusement. I did nothing about it to stand up for less cruel and chronically inept centers, except managing to get the woman demoted over the threat of a battle which, if it comes, is going to exhaust me for little more than welcoming the new mafia out of the old. We're cripples first, then people. So what if Richard, through his silence, aborting his responsibility to others, discovers later that his rape date does drive someone to suicide, humiliating them more than Morgan could stand with his count of 17 penetrations? He was courageous to put this out in public to counter George Will, but is he thinking of others, people who may not even be in the formerly encoded language of in the life? I am driving at a pattern here of what's wrong with the entire progressive worldview: me first, this emergence is more important than the collective civic good.

I've never been drugged into sexual complicity by either sex; it isn't necessary, as I'm basically defenseless, but we don't get anywhere always ducking our heads.

Paneer Tunneling

"And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat." Where Angels Fear To Tread, page 118

My repugnance toward my former fiance must have stimulated the last of my energies, but I regret allowing him to penetrate me anally with the fingers of his one remaining hand. Either I dislike anal sex or realized I had more esteem at the time than annihilation would warrant, and have forgiven him in his child-like misogyny. Frank is an imbecile, but one of the rewards of fucking imbeciles is applying pressure. Glutton guilt does the rest.

I can write this, write the post I wrote yesterday with its searing brush burns of emotional scar tissue, and yet seriously question the morality of Forster's sadomasochistic enthusiasm, fully aware my battle is over before I sound the bugle. The very act of signing, to couch it in Calvino's referential playfulness, is subversive, and sparks anticipation-- yet Forster is an early 20th century black marketeer. He makes the pain of sodomy seem like a lucrative enjoyment. (I can hear Salon's sexually active contributors laughing at me. I am also considering submitting a column to them about the hostile environment I experienced at both disability center locations), draws his readers in better than any pornographic centerfold, and was one of the first modern homosexuals to promote colonial to native homoerotic courtships. E.M. Forster was "aggressively" gay, to echo Chuck Hagel. Aggressively gay before apes through HIV transmission created *unsafe sex* practices.

Sue Davison had a theory about homosexuality. "The whole world will turn homosexual eventually," this offered up nonchalantly while she glammed me up in the kitchen one day, before college. I do not know, recalling the memory, if she was sounding me out or just being a dumb bitch, but she always tried to help me build my esteem. The make up, objecting to my body hatred of my legs and buttocks. The only person who ever truly succeeded in helping me to take pride in myself, that I'll leave as the obvious and unstated.

Keitel's Mumbai, Florid

"Pakistan is no ordinary country."-- Benazir Bhutto's last preface.

One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.

Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.

The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?

Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.

Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.

Ishiguro's Metabolic Fusion

"People let me tell you about my best friend."-- Harry Nilsson

Clifton Collins is a one armed man in the 09 Sunshine Cleaning because he is supposed to stand out as an expert in the peculiar waste management niche Amy Adams' character Rose finds herself, a kind of modern Virgil and ambiguous scarecrow rolled into one, the Winston of empathy and expertise whose knowledge isn't enough to blunt the folly of American dysfunctional narcissism, as it is embodied in Emily Blunt's Norah. As divergent as they are in their respective use of formats, however, scriptwriter and brilliant novelist, Megan Holley and Kazuo Ishiguro are both saying something about the demands of expertise, efficiency, and the negotiation of personal interaction. The 93 adaptation of The Remains of the Day has a komikaze subtextual ruthlessness, absorbed at a cost difficult to take, that the Anthony Hopkins we see twenty years before in Stevens is shallow, somewhat vapid, salvaged by the colonial mercy of gilded age power embodied by Christopher Reeve.

"And I slammed him, this most famous American in his reverberating helplessness."

We all tend to have innocuous thoughts like these running in our minds, even while reflecting on the aesthetic importance of casting. This supporting role as Congressman Lewis was the best acting Reeve ever did, even if Christine Jeffs as a director leads us to fend for ourselves over why the modern moneyed class would preserve an anachronism like a first rate butler.

My body is not as immobile as Reeve's became, and of course I cannot know how he coped internally with the fact that his body was lifeless. All he had left was the salvage of his mind, for a time. He did not have the luxury of my anonymity to be livid, and used the hope of scientific advance as an escape valve. Ambulation was a loss. Other minds simply cannot conceive bipedal locomotion, and those are the cautionary tales.