Constrained in Sequins

"I don't know why I want to write you
now."-- Robert Thomas, translating heritage.

Anyone who remembers the golden age of Eisenhower matinee as an adult is dead, thus this is a qualification to the inexplicable mystery of why men found Lana Turner a worthwhile trophy hard on. It is baffling. Marilyn Monroe is self-explanatory, like her latter day counterpart, Goldie Hawn, who may have upgraded the motif, but followed in its tradition with sterling lack of deviation. Grace Kelly was upper echelon. Doris Day was barefoot and pregnant, the girl scout type. But Lana Turner? Golden heart ho? 

Loretta Young wasn't marketed to men. On the contrary, her capital as a Hollywood diva was her appeal to my mother. The nuclear family tensions beneath the surface, the cover up of the crime worse than the crime itself. Despite obstacles, if you do not violate the theatrical laws of time and scene your sacrifice shall be duly noted, rewarded in the end. The model has been deconstructed a thousand times over in feminist literary theory. I am not interested in defending it so much as interested in the anxiety which threatens Young's constraint through the course of her career, caught in a high wire act between obedience, independence within her own movement, sacrifice to the pressures of the patriarchy with the implicit acknowledgment that she will be granted a degree of autonomy if she behaves, a more talented and palatable Joan Crawford. Crawford was often histrionic because she scared the living shit out of you, and probably saved a few men the trouble of a vasectomy. Loretta was a more honeyed variation, not immune to the sensibility of threat.

Lush Modes

"Our bodies break down. Sometimes when we're ninety, sometimes before we're even born. But it always happens. And there's never any dignity in it."-- Hugh Laurie in his pilot episode

But for my printer, which I am vainly trying to plug in now and finally succeeded: In vain I am hoping Dell will find the service tag and have a driver for Windows 7, and the good Ashley was correct. Another lump sum dump for a new HP LaserJet which I hope shall be enough, a harangue to my mother's side about my recycling needs, with a reminder that my mother's side is as hyper as I am. Still at the newer Toshiba, learning it and almost done even if I cannot print hard copies, most of this upgrading is hard on low income individuals. What did I do, with my poor stress coping mechanisms, while I waited for the in residence assistance? 

Studied, and I look like a troll,, engendering her own failure. When I can get a nice screen shot of Vinnie or Kimmy or both I will show you my runt with his inadequacy complex. Joey is dead but I can freeze a screen ghoulish shot of his paw prints, his ash box, if I wish to retrieve it from the cabinet. Butterflies Are Free owes much in the generic sense to William Gibson, and ties in to my lack of sympathy for the undercurrent in Madame X that is more or less Turner's deconstruction of her own heyday of A list stardom. The harder I struggle the more it seems I am simply treading water, rabid and totally free of the disease. After a rest, we'll pick it up from here.