Hillary Clinton, Benghazi Viceroy?

"David, you've killed me!" Donald Sutherland, protesting Nimoy's autonomic miasma.

The 78 remake is somewhat different in subtext from the original 56 Body Snatchers, whose classic delineation is preferable to the muddied liberalism which ushered in the disaster of the Carter presidency. Domesticated, pasteurized kindness, tabulated to Sutherland's empathy enabling, isn't going to achieve jive squat over the ruthless need of a more potent conqueror, hence George W. Bush'es response to Osama bin Laden failed because it was a transference. The actual *enemy* in the aftermath of 9/11 was the Saudi kingdom's buy off of hard line extremism, but the neo-conservatives who had taken over the West Wing, lacked the will to uproot a corrupt oligarchy, and so, 14 years after the fact, we're pea shooting in Afghanistan, which is an ungovernable failed state, destroyed the British Empire's nicely drawn territorial borders for the sake of world order in Iraq, Iran, and another piece of shit country called Yemen, and Obama's carefully controlled airstrikes in 2011 against Qaddafi has essentially destabilized North Africa, while NATO and Putin eyeball each other, pissing in the wind over Kiev, and hoping to avoid a third world war in Syria.

First: If Hillary Clinton is truly responsible for the death of Ambassador Stevens, she should suspend her campaign and leave her party to scramble. Second: the GOP needs to realize that if the US has essentially ceased deploying the army for ground force occupation for anything other than mass die offs in Haiti, then chaos ensues, shit happens, and Secretary Clinton was in treatment for a blood cot derived from a hematoma during the attack on the compound, and the fault, if it lies anywhere, lies at the doorstep of two failed Administrations who have lost the ability to define goals and execute accordingly, because they realize progressives have lost the will for body counts.

Do I have any salient solutions? No, but a good starting point might lie in the realization that the U.N. would survive losing 5 members from the General Assembly. Yemen and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and North Korea and Sudan and Somalia need to be dissolved. That's seven, but such niceties like a shared national identity and ethos have long fled the scene. Erdogan would not mind seeing the restoration of the Ottoman Empire's prestige. That's a start. India could reabsorb Pakistan and Bangladesh. Would there be blood? How much collateral damage have we seen already since ISIS has become a cause? This is the sentiment you get on defecating through a second week of a bronchitis flare up for which powerful decongestants like Mucinex have not yet been deployed. I will not elect Hillary Clinton, but if you do, my antipathy may not supersede my suffocation on my own phlegm, but I'll go down fighting, fanatic ablaze to destroy those by whom I've been thwarted.

Kubik's Chameleon

The sheriff's Goddamn was a murmured curse
        Not for the dead but for the blinding dust
                                                           -- Allen Tate, The Swimmers


I sigh in disappointment, but no studied individual in filmography is assisting me, whether or not they care that Schneider and I sparred each other's bones, and I doubt they do, even in the likeness between Mr. ChickenFried and myself as ugly brunettes and the related caste resentment. Shame at the provocative trigger, and the feeling that I have an occlusion the size of a walnut thrombing in my armpit, waiting for the exact implosive stressor. A little worm made my mind flag slippery in my observation of Larry Gates as Sid Kubik. I should have placed him against Poitier as Endicott, or in the classic anti-communist polemic. Long term memory subtly alerting me, but not effectively until I linked him in this mild winter storm that technically prevented me from driving to the DVM. In actuality, a packed defecation made me fear a Presley simulation. Mildly faint, from leg to left temple, I am the daughter of my grandfather's terminal coronary, "Poppa Lilly," I called him, so you know my Roman grandmother ruled us with an iron fist. Her husband was soft as marshmallow, handing the eight year old in the armchair a copper penny, shiny with the magic of his broad smile, "What 'tis?" He bent over me like a jowl wagging hound, but it is Lillian whose absence pulls; she lived very long, but I miss her the most of all my family. She kept me fluent, beautiful woman, every inch the grand belle, silent strength, auburn hair coiffed perfectly, my body tells me I will be back in her warmth and homemade escarole soon. Mi dispiace nonna Lilly, ti prego perdonami.

Bow our heads. Whatever his ethnicity, for the purposes of the studio system, Gates was a blank check, and did not have any point of origin; he wasn't supposed to have those traits, unlike Ernest Borgnine. This does not mean he could not have been a mafia Don. Northern Italy has its Sweden spillover, fair skin, the type who could have kept a Rico like Eddie rolled in pork grease. Karlson condenses this with theatric artifice, as I mention. Real life does not suck you in to a methodical quarry hunt not minutes after you put a punk in the dungeon, warding off the potential fury of your wife  who will probably rip out your eyes if she doesn't get that baby, properly adorable, and a necessary retrograde: Dianne's Alice will not be deprived of the blessings of new life, a happiness given to a man as uncomplicated as a truck driver employed by her husband. Conte flies to New York, in an affluent cosmopolitan mobility, that might have been a stage set for a cabinet meeting with Ike. There is no question, that to all intents and purposes, Sid Kubik is the assimilated appearance of senior management at the country club, and Conte can be many things in the example of Sinatra, the rat pack play boy, the swarthy breeder whose seed is desirable, but make no mistake. Only Gates can aspire to WASP pretensions, whether or not he is merely a brilliant imitation.

They parry, the nervous avoidance of eye contact by Conte effective; he may not know that Gino has been caught, marked for death not ten feet away, but are we supposed to believe that Eddie buys Kubik's fancy footwork. Is pretty boy really that gullible?