"I think it's about finding a place to live," Michael C. Clark, my dead academic advisor running a more harried composition course
Beating someone to death is something, an action, in the abstract, of which I believe I'm capable, whether or not I share Depp's cunning at being able to overcome lesser strength and other limitations. I have little to no idea why Depp is on my mind. It is not Secret Window, which I did not like anymore the second time than I did the first. It may be Donnie Brasco, and his latter day Victorian detective in the Hughes brothers From Hell, certainly one of my favorite derivatives. I like things that show me how far I could never go, or believe I could never go, but I never entered into Johnny as a sex idol. For me that was Elton John, the most notorious British fag, and I no longer enter into his piano and Taupin's lyrics with the same sense of masochistic inducement. My grade school teacher Neil Montgomery hooked me onto Elton John, and I queasily regret it, having to peer into revelations not necessarily easy to confront. 21 Jump Street had status, that I know via reputation, but Depp came to me through Tim Burton, as opposed to music, or an aura of a cult icon. Where Ben Landis is on that scale his fans know better than I.
I tweet to Ben and to some degree Nate and Ali like regular people not to show how cool I am, but because how am I supposed to feign being fazed? If I was 15 years younger Nate Maingard might have needed to flee me with an ANC bribe, not to scare the rainbow candy musician, as we know age and youthful beauty rarely collide in triumph, but Landis, to his credit, has me thinking about personalization, in light of his recent queries about abuse. My three recent tweets to Will about Trump and the Russia hack, to my mind, weren't indicative of personal feeling, which cannot be said for Poets & Writers.
I telephoned them, late, after I hesitated to transfer and then beat the anxiety to transfer, and barely heard the editor's name. I left my number with a bit of kimmy's bristling and bushy tail, intending to duke it out. Just as I asked on Gawker, why does this matter? To the extent I have a reputation at all, and I did, it is in spite of PW, not because of them. Yet I supported them for years, and cannot explain to those of you who don't know it what it is like for a majority of people from your own class to turn on you, get you booted, but the circulation department still wants your fucking subscription. What happened to me on Speakeasy is a reflection of what ambulatory society does to quadriplegics and those with Downs, with MR. Poets & Writers was a predominate voice in my life before they were Poets & Writers. Before I collapse in the exhaustion of age, there will be a score to settle.
Showing posts with label johnny depp. Show all posts
Showing posts with label johnny depp. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Harambe's Canonization
"For the first time ever, we have got proper references to good government, the rule of law and access to justice."-- David Cameron, 2015, essentially meaningless
Depp is barely six months younger than the dowager, and his eyes would get him past the gateway to a really good, hard, fuck on the carpet, the type of fucking which leaves fantasy bruises on underarms, and no, for this sentiment to be presumptuous would necessitate canceling out Depp's intuitive interpretation of marginalization. He gets it; his only role in which this is nearly invisible, to the point it might take a viewer 15 minutes to realize who Pacino was playing off of, (not paying attention to the credits) is the older Brasco, a great film which would have been impossible for Pacino to make without Coppola's genius proceeding it.
The killing of the grizzled dog in Secret Window is a tactless Stephen King cliche, one designed to move the needle on a presumably sympathetic protagonist, though again, one has to wonder about Hutton's mature casting choices as a supporting actor, aside from his need to make a living. It does, perhaps, effectively trigger shock when a superstar gets eliminated suddenly and quickly in a movie, as in City of Industry, but against Rainey's dissociative cunning, Ted is a throwaway character here, a more dominant alpha male who is out maneuvered in a sordid culmination of violence which no one believes. Depp is too cute, as the female postal actress exclaims for the fandom contingent. Designing a movie to be a send up of pretension doesn't work if the suspense is muted by an exposition which plays itself out like a box of chocolates. Cellophane is meant to be distracting. Putin also tries to have the same effect with images, and British satirists went after his picture calendar with pleasurable release. George F. Will needs to get real, however. The United States will not go to war with the Russian Federation over Estonia, however IIves may extol the virtues of autonomy. Even conceding that Russia is resurgent, nothing is ever quite the same as it used to be, and Vladimir cannot reassemble the Soviet Union, even if the sovereignty of Ukraine is also marginal, at best. The world has changed, as the downing of Metrojet 9268 proves. To the effect that countries are still countries, as opposed to cash cows for conglomerates, Putin controls a large landmass with a very sparse population density, which speaks as loudly as any open secret on doping. The US, and Europe, to a lesser extent, also undermines Russian pride, and in a carry over from Crimean conflicts in the 19th century, Slavic mannerisms are still aped by proper Caucasians for lampooning purposes. Don't get me wrong, I am not defending Putin's trollism, but my suffering as an American on the margins at the hands of descendants of Africans is verifiable; not that much has changed since the days of Ellison's tokenism, practices to which Africans still subject themselves to in contemporary Russian schools, whose architecture is subject to flammable hazards, making the oppressed as expendable, once removed, as they always were. To take a page from Zbigniew Brzezinski's mindset, all the Chinese have to do is apply pressure on the Slavs from the South, pushing upwards. Asians have the numbers to spare.
Countries need alliances, no question of that, but cutting through the thickets of Donald Trump's muzzle flashes, there is a relevant question to be had, namely, what the fuck is NATO good for? It hasn't resolved anything running around Afghanistan trying to exterminate corrupt primitives.
Depp is barely six months younger than the dowager, and his eyes would get him past the gateway to a really good, hard, fuck on the carpet, the type of fucking which leaves fantasy bruises on underarms, and no, for this sentiment to be presumptuous would necessitate canceling out Depp's intuitive interpretation of marginalization. He gets it; his only role in which this is nearly invisible, to the point it might take a viewer 15 minutes to realize who Pacino was playing off of, (not paying attention to the credits) is the older Brasco, a great film which would have been impossible for Pacino to make without Coppola's genius proceeding it.
The killing of the grizzled dog in Secret Window is a tactless Stephen King cliche, one designed to move the needle on a presumably sympathetic protagonist, though again, one has to wonder about Hutton's mature casting choices as a supporting actor, aside from his need to make a living. It does, perhaps, effectively trigger shock when a superstar gets eliminated suddenly and quickly in a movie, as in City of Industry, but against Rainey's dissociative cunning, Ted is a throwaway character here, a more dominant alpha male who is out maneuvered in a sordid culmination of violence which no one believes. Depp is too cute, as the female postal actress exclaims for the fandom contingent. Designing a movie to be a send up of pretension doesn't work if the suspense is muted by an exposition which plays itself out like a box of chocolates. Cellophane is meant to be distracting. Putin also tries to have the same effect with images, and British satirists went after his picture calendar with pleasurable release. George F. Will needs to get real, however. The United States will not go to war with the Russian Federation over Estonia, however IIves may extol the virtues of autonomy. Even conceding that Russia is resurgent, nothing is ever quite the same as it used to be, and Vladimir cannot reassemble the Soviet Union, even if the sovereignty of Ukraine is also marginal, at best. The world has changed, as the downing of Metrojet 9268 proves. To the effect that countries are still countries, as opposed to cash cows for conglomerates, Putin controls a large landmass with a very sparse population density, which speaks as loudly as any open secret on doping. The US, and Europe, to a lesser extent, also undermines Russian pride, and in a carry over from Crimean conflicts in the 19th century, Slavic mannerisms are still aped by proper Caucasians for lampooning purposes. Don't get me wrong, I am not defending Putin's trollism, but my suffering as an American on the margins at the hands of descendants of Africans is verifiable; not that much has changed since the days of Ellison's tokenism, practices to which Africans still subject themselves to in contemporary Russian schools, whose architecture is subject to flammable hazards, making the oppressed as expendable, once removed, as they always were. To take a page from Zbigniew Brzezinski's mindset, all the Chinese have to do is apply pressure on the Slavs from the South, pushing upwards. Asians have the numbers to spare.
Countries need alliances, no question of that, but cutting through the thickets of Donald Trump's muzzle flashes, there is a relevant question to be had, namely, what the fuck is NATO good for? It hasn't resolved anything running around Afghanistan trying to exterminate corrupt primitives.
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