Levels of vengeance are coded comparatively. Delight in Ray Liotta's machinations as Wozniak and distaste for Warren Kole's agent Stahl as overly self-righteous still falls within the parameters of a revenge fantasy, even if we weigh how far we're willing to see a world weary lieutenant go. So far Adi is letting Wozniak hold his own, seasoned enough to process rationalizations and methodology, not quite a full sociopath. Invariably, NBC will have an entertaining antagonist fall. Woz will go too far and even wicked delight will turn against him; J-lo will be scathed but left with the possibility of redemption, because this is still television land. Though it is fair to say dirty cops usually get exposed in the real world. This is why beat reporters exist. The Wilkins case, however, is irreparable, and seems to hinge on some bizarre evolutionary throwback. Stealing newborns occurs in the wild, but cases like this, along with aggression in the elderly, and the gruesome microwaved baby case, veer toward unimaginable unease with the inexorable pressures of primate domestication.
Images of that litigation were never forgotten: the mother testifying on video so as to be shielded from public outrage. Killing a newborn is one thing. Cooking it to death invites bile to rise in the back of our throats. How does an incident like that even happen? Lane's alleged attack is as equally visceral and unfathomable and if found guilty she should be executed, on either a material or metaphysical basis. If we're just a smart bit of meat, the meat doesn't need that mitochondrial DNA perpetuating itself, and if humans indeed have souls, Lane fed hers into a psychosis which is better off dead. Even in the dark side of Mario Puzo's world, the author's intimations about why Vito kills an infant stays within tolerable limits, rather than mere sensational butchery. How poor Michelle Wilkins ever truly recovers from this is beyond anyone's capacity to actualize, even within a world view poisoned by lifelong medical, regulatory regimentation. It would be rather a highbrow solace if NBC allows Wozniak to emerge victorious, the cult hero with blood on his hands, still a Brooklyn capo.
A dowager's bitterness is also in part about her own naivete, so invested in intellectual authority, in literary journal submissions, in independent living paradigms, as a way of life. I was a hot property as a student, and beyond, and now I'm sick of it, an advocate of giving idealists brutishly short lives.
Showing posts with label infant mortality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infant mortality. Show all posts
Friday, February 19, 2016
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Crossing Red Lines
"Do you know what swishing is?"-- Oprah Winfrey, shadow empress
The Sand Pebbles arguably belongs to Richard Crenna as an American military officer willing to sacrifice himself for the absurd might is right principle unless the State Department swallows cowardice in the face of being overrun by a half billion righteously enraged Asians; it is both an usually interesting film for its time and place, and chock full of the usual stereotypes we already know and field with familiarity. The Caucasian heat for the exotic, Caucasian guilt for denigration, which in this case is justified, because the Western powers had no business carving up imperial China in the first place, just as in contemporary terms, the Mandarin cyber dragnet has no business making Arthur O. Sulzberger an enemy of state, and yet, it is also a rare piece of entertainment that deals with real historical policy that was morally problematic.
Real time dysentery, though not really, slowing me to the silence is golden cliche, with the additional adduce of moisture saturated air, you would tend to think that a woman of 42 would not hire a girl with a newborn strangled by the umbilical cord at birth emblazoned as a decal on a T-shirt, but dealing with Ingrid Bunton was just as much, if not more, an abusive experience as the woman who threw herself at me. Ingrid turned me into a laughing stock, got sexually involved with a security guard who banged on my door after she had obviously impregnated herself again. I am a seducer. Ingrid is the type of sexually dysfunctional female who usually winds up battered if not murdered, and even the young woman I hired back after I fired Miss Bunton in the baby bump phase said, "There is something wrong with that girl."
The only apartment manager who treated me with dignity had to get involved, invoking the obvious fact that Riverside was not The Love Boat. It would be amusing and it is, in its own way, funny, the lack of control that urban loose legs exhibit, except that it isn't. Opening the door to Ingrid's psyche offers a horrible travesty of silent minorities, the discarded, who are exploited in fairly bestial fashion on a daily basis and have to live with it, and this is the vomit that federally mandated disability centers catapult on the wall like a food fight with mashed potatoes. They do not care about it either in the lowest common denominator. What's a few thousand coolies here or there, after all? As fantastic as high camp, or wearing the dead on our sleeves.
The Sand Pebbles arguably belongs to Richard Crenna as an American military officer willing to sacrifice himself for the absurd might is right principle unless the State Department swallows cowardice in the face of being overrun by a half billion righteously enraged Asians; it is both an usually interesting film for its time and place, and chock full of the usual stereotypes we already know and field with familiarity. The Caucasian heat for the exotic, Caucasian guilt for denigration, which in this case is justified, because the Western powers had no business carving up imperial China in the first place, just as in contemporary terms, the Mandarin cyber dragnet has no business making Arthur O. Sulzberger an enemy of state, and yet, it is also a rare piece of entertainment that deals with real historical policy that was morally problematic.
Real time dysentery, though not really, slowing me to the silence is golden cliche, with the additional adduce of moisture saturated air, you would tend to think that a woman of 42 would not hire a girl with a newborn strangled by the umbilical cord at birth emblazoned as a decal on a T-shirt, but dealing with Ingrid Bunton was just as much, if not more, an abusive experience as the woman who threw herself at me. Ingrid turned me into a laughing stock, got sexually involved with a security guard who banged on my door after she had obviously impregnated herself again. I am a seducer. Ingrid is the type of sexually dysfunctional female who usually winds up battered if not murdered, and even the young woman I hired back after I fired Miss Bunton in the baby bump phase said, "There is something wrong with that girl."
The only apartment manager who treated me with dignity had to get involved, invoking the obvious fact that Riverside was not The Love Boat. It would be amusing and it is, in its own way, funny, the lack of control that urban loose legs exhibit, except that it isn't. Opening the door to Ingrid's psyche offers a horrible travesty of silent minorities, the discarded, who are exploited in fairly bestial fashion on a daily basis and have to live with it, and this is the vomit that federally mandated disability centers catapult on the wall like a food fight with mashed potatoes. They do not care about it either in the lowest common denominator. What's a few thousand coolies here or there, after all? As fantastic as high camp, or wearing the dead on our sleeves.
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