Tight Buttock Bellbottoms

One major issue with black entertainment media is its failure to escape being cartoonish to the point of ridicule. One exception, on the basis of limited clips the dowager attended to, is The Wire, since HBO is under pressure to deliver, but nearly everything else, Spike Lee's angular paranoid defensiveness included, doesn't anticipate 21st century mature realism. Black exploitation is arguably a rather early form of comic book sequences adapted to film. The idiots who graphed Shaquille into the end of century Steel, with its loping shaggy production values, certainly understood this, and those same idiots did a mite better with Snipes as Blade, but not by much. The franchise, turning Dracula into a virtual demi-god, did not really know what to do with itself. Even Menace II Society, which had reviewers in major media outlets in the thrall of a major moral dilemma, rolled off my back when it was fresh from theater to cable syndication. It was stark, but equally an over exaggeration of urban self depreciation when the arguments come down to a drive by roil with semi-automatics. Eliot Ness would have been right at home. Nevertheless, Jim Brown and Fred Williamson were the cool cat upgrades of my tweenish post Sidney Poitier years. Suffice to say, they do not exist in the inner city, only in a casting director's transference from football to urban crime drama. 

Black Caesar's torque ratio earns its three star rating in its last 40 minutes, but I've certainly never seen a capo of any ethnicity have such a vigorous death scene, constraining a gut shot to defeat a car chase, throttle his assassin, doom his geek brother to death, and kill the mickey who crippled him, only then to get bitch slapped by a wolf pack not dissimilar from the kids who jumped my window bars with taunts, "She's afraid! She's afraid!" My unwitting epitaph bestowed on my graduate twenty two year old head. Torque is no salve for banality, however, and Caesar lacks credence in every aspect, its graft, Williamson's ability to project menace, or command power, even using a disability very much not in evidence, to foster the title character's menace. Jim Brown mastered taciturn minimalism, at least, a necessary prerequisite for black males simmering with rage.

A See D See

She's overwrought with vengeance." Peter Rainer

The exertion it takes to masturbate outweighs the reward, but when time is taken to deal with a cunt as uncomfortable now as it was in my folly to ask Linda's advice on the matter, I scroll through a dreary set of scenes. A pallet mattress in a greyish flophouse where I am gang coaxed into masochistic submission, or go through a tie down in some stolen episodes from Japanese porn, with very little cognizance as to why Western men go for Asian women, although I find Indian men arousing and have a rape scene with my former cigarette vendor, infrequently, and exchanged Jim Brown for Bill Cosby in Joan's viral redeye scenario, or would have swapped Cosby for Brown had I remembered Brown was representative of black power in my era. Who, after all, wants to get raped by a thick lip flapper with a floating eye such as Cosby exhibits?

Black abuse of my person is the indelible stain, yet I have not taken my own life, unsure if it is sheer will or simply lethargy, perhaps both, but I will never again allow an African of either gender to lay a hand on me, ever.

Sometimes it's a whirlpool bath, or the married computer consultant's dick. He was kind to me. I called myself his whore, lacerating my soul over meaningless sex with a man whose wife cuckholded him and had a middle aged spastic's insistence. I almost had a fight with my mother's sister and would have had cellphone not served as a check. It isn't her fault she cannot see what institutionalization and her older sister's mental health has done to me. Like my own younger sister, she cannot see it, cannot deal with it, and that is most any audience, almost as indigent now as I was when I ran here because Jerry McGuire was an absence of presence. People attempted to tell me when I was that young that my compulsion to attach to his like was an obstinate distortion, but then again, I have never lived life with a full throttle investment. Not that I feel it any longer, his absence of presence. I've used up that little bit, and to be honest with you, I am irked SUNY contacted me about a no nothing reading I did in Pittsburgh. Not with them. Him. Still playing the teacher with his fucking encouragement. Christ man. I'm a cripple. Neither you, nor Michael, nor David ever talked to me about realistic career options.

You all taught me how to think. Bravo. Didn't stop me from being a vibrating pin cushion for every fucking imaginable threat out there. Even if I agree with blue blood liberals like Dana that McCulloch shielded Darren Wilson, I am glad that he did, which is the inverse of being relieved that Michael Brown is dead, but if you fuck with cops, then you can expect to become dead. I do not fuck with officers, and I can still expect, that one day I may die in their custody. Visions of how that plays out are as varied as the wind. 

Cleaned my coffee pot. Beet salad, lentil soup. If I could lose sixty pounds and get my teeth fixed, a fedora and a zoot suit would suit me just fine, and you can pass the cannoli on that. Plenty of hot coffee too.