Lupine Ponderosa

As decent as I am in creating contextual issues for this project, I may be faulted and rightly so, for my lag time, and my interest in saving Mike Nichols' ambitious mythology upgrade was left to lag during my transition out of LiveJournal onto Blogger, banging my skull against the wall in the median of moving my content, yes, Blogger is better, technically, but I am not there yet, and getting there would probably involve leaving Blogger as well. Writing is difficult enough, with more rivulets for authors than there are people, and I am a cripple too big for her britches who knows she can do TNR but is fearful of the scars this would entail, much like Walter Kirn, who fails to persuade me toward any sympathetic movement as far as LDS is concerned. Why write this piece? What Mormons deny, and what columnists like Kathleen Parker shrug off, is that Joseph Smith was a home grown psychotic who lacked the savvy of our contemporary spree murderers. Kirn cops out on giving TNR readers a hard look, and I've read better in dead independent ventures, like DoubleTake; it is hard enough, writing, and the digital age threatens depth, but to follow from my archive post, last paragraph, the critics of Nichols transitional literalism are correct, the shift from werewolf metaphor to dress animism weakens Wolf, because to take the camp in horror seriously, it needs anchoring with a gritty earthbound texture, and Nichols aims for a liberating mystique in the totem of the wolf pack, during the climax, one which cannot escape the entrapments of comparison that it tries to avoid, unlike An American Werewolf in London, a film not afraid to be playful, affectionate, and provides a rush in a great transformation scene. Is Nichols wrong in the implication, that certain aspects of primal aggression are liberating (Nicholson), but vicious without noblesse oblige, as in Spader's despicable foil?

On an aggregate level, I am not sure, but like Kirn, I cannot go full steam ahead for eighteen hours daily, and need a nap before I return to pushing deadlines, and still fucking around with my rage at Linda, and our vanquished disability center generation. Some might argue that I am too full of my own self-importance, and that may be valid, but at a basic level Liberty Resources stole the last and best of my strength, illegally, in the sense that I cannot reinvent myself at this age. Am I an asshole? Should I leave them alone with their grade school mentality over skills training contradictory empowerment within compliance paradigms? If I let it go, what this network did to me, next time the next spastic may not come out of it without more substantial injury. I am no longer young, and physical discomfort is also taking its toll; I genuinely want to spare another spastic of the future such a bitter pill, and those of you who know the inside like I do, and have been disillusioned, as I have, need to join me. We have to reform this.

Black Jack Darwin

There are things to be said about Blade's life and biography that serve as a stand-in for seediness in an urban environment, I just don't like the films as they have been adapted from the graphic form, and do not really see how Snipes used the role as anything more than a thug camp throw away. There are a number of threads within vampirism, of course, and the Blade saga weaves them together in a somewhat crass fashion that smashes together with the subtlety of bumper cars, with jump cuts into the hyper-stylized martial arts choreography.

The Stoker Gothic/Romantic tradition is one, though I tend to find the Nosferatu meme of fevered consumption and insatiable appetite leading to eco-devastation more compelling, but there is also another motif, not exactly distinct, but more carnivorous and animistic, in films like 30 Days of Night. Here the horror is just the feeding impetus, and little else, with Goth incorporation almost quaint.

The fact that Blade is black may evoke Richard Matheson, at least for enthusiasts, but there is not much allusion or irony in the films. Then there is Let The Right One In.
I enjoyed this film, but remain as perplexed by it as the early TNR reviewer was upon its initial release, and its meaning is something of a mystery. I believe I mentioned this in 2010, when I was still part of LitNet, and some future revisions may be in order.

I saw Wolf again this morning, and Nichols does devolve the storyline, which is very nearly an early Prada on steroids, but I'd like to sit on what I am thinking for a day or two, because I do not think Nichols was attempting a short sell. I think the literal half of the film was a compliment to the clever weave of the mythology and totem in the first part. Does James Spader turn being despicable into high art, as Janet Maslin suggests?

Plumbing

I could not find the dime store candy at Trader Joe's that you can pick up at any pharmacy, but did find lollipops, and remain inching along in superlative increments. If the aeros are not delivered today either to my box or the office, I may not make it, despite the best of intentions, and sucking the tin of pops continuously. I can still afford the charger-fake cigarette products, but do not know that they would work. I know the aeros do, not perfectly, but they keep me out of pain and allow me to write, and believed they would ship in as quickly as they did with my last order, and I have to get working on my other source. I remember the 1994 Wolf with Nicholson and Spader, enough so that the capsule synopsis refreshed my memory.

This interesting vehicle was on this morning, and for our purposes, would have been worth seeing again, but I cannot fight my body beyond certain levels of fatigue as once able, and was actually lucky not to have any mishaps going from point A to getting home to putting groceries away to going to bed, parking the chair too close to the telephone. I could have fallen. Most of the time I only get lucky because I can reach back and grab the bed posts, which have a name in wood working, but I do not need to sweat that out, this instance of fine craft terminology. I am going to wait a few days and see if my station runs this again; if not I'll see if Azmo has it on instant v. Suppose I can check now, and 2.99 is not bad for a rental; I will sit on this a little, as I have learned to intuit these bland network cycles while HBO doles out real drama!

Wolf is Nicholson's McMurphy in mid-arc ,linked in concurrence , not yet Schmidt, coming to terms, closing his books, but old enough to have the rug pulled out from under him. I am turning a dime on why Nichols twists the story to a literal turning point; consider this flagged.

You can find Jimmi's columns online if you know where to look. I am not going to assist, which is me being facetious with my audience; his diction stomps at you in sandstone clogs, like John Candy doing a lumber only to lose the command of the camera. According to Jimmi's logic, every disabled individual who is successfully matriculated is in denial. He never explains himself, Jimmi Shrode; he is just a shriek of hysteria, like a striated dose of Blade.

I am not particularly keen on the character, or the dynamic spun around Snipes' blood craving. I am bored with vampire literature and traditions, what can I say?

There is a supposed Joe Penny send up on the way which fits here, but it might be something else. So I sit, but the exterminator couldn't wait this morning for the colon that does not know how to quit. I plan my fucking life around these building cycles, and shouldn't have to feel guilty. I wasn't denying the exterminator access, I was cleaning my fucking ass, but all the sudden this Protestant gulag respects my privacy. Mike apologized, but I am still a little pissed. I don't know when to expect the next visit.