"I will not hide from you that I am sending you into the midst of the wolves."-- Stendhal, rouge et noir, loc 4183
Memories
of New Jersey drive throughs begin to fade, not as vivid as those Nick
Gillespie possess, such that he would declare the Garden State “the greatest
state on earth,” in a moment of superlative appreciation. It seems the charming
ignominy of dilapidated beachfront properties is closer to the truth, with the
seediness of Burt Lancaster’s Atlantic
City reverberating through the dull grey sand beneath Wildwood’s Boardwalk,
with its titillation of cheap carny thrills, Keystone Cop rides a senile
grandmother might retrieve in a lucid flash, Gerald Ford on black and white
badly received VHF, vainly attempting to save the GOP from the wavering
barometer of agrarian sensibilities which would translate into President Carter's self-flagellation, with his residual sympathizers congregating around his last
public Bible lectures by virtue of rather expensive glioma-shrinking drugs.
Farmland in Georgia isn’t as temperate as Jersey’s perhaps, not that the
dowager has geographic expertise in regional topsoil, remembering northern
Jersey as more sedate, darker, not so many beach bodies jiggling swimsuit love
handles. When things go rancid in this state, within Trenton's environs, or beyond its borders, as in the Thomas Tramaglini arrest, they spoil in rather dramatic fashion.
If this had been the late summer of 1981, the most flagellant controversy surrounding a superintendent would have been the schedule for driving school over the summer. This was the dowager's first journalism article, in a high school publication better designed, according to Tassoni, than the inter-departmental magazine we produced on a perennial basis. At the time Tramaglini's arrest, a forgettable reference to the flashback of Potter's protagonist in The Singing Detective was made. A childhood actor stands in for Gambion to defecate in a school aquarium, but a more tolerant allusion to the accommodation of such a bizarre eccentricity which is more shameful than menacing is The Vanishing of Pato. On the whole, this two part mystery is Rai's copy of the English formula for putting the pieces together in the traditional whodunit, directed with the fabled provincialism of Italy in mind before helping to cement the United States as the new age global power. In Pato, Nino Frassica has an exchange with a commoner about a villager who eats feces in palm leaves with warm milk. The humor lay in the actors dragging out the details of such a repast.
While public defecation is not a precise parallel with the criminal intersection of penalizing or victimizing chronic afflictions (such as incontinence), runner's trots may not be the sole reason for Tramaglini's furtive expression in his photographic image. Bad table manners convey social hostility towards the infantile freedom of relief.
Self-interest is a rather condemning insulator. The children of celebrities either survive through imitation, like Ivanka Trump, or die in a drug overdose while in a grotesque imitation, like Bobbi Brown. I just remembered my pitch about Bobbi, and would probably have to hold my nose and open a Facebook account to get at my sources. I have no desire to get penalized and banned on the social networking giant, none, whatsoever, but like Ann Coulter, I may have to succumb, at least as a practical matter, but for the life of me can only barely fathom why Peck's son checked himself out. I am starving to death, doomed, spent a life long battle believing what liberals spoon fed me about success and disability, and the obituaries hang little pork chops on a string. Jonathan committed suicide, because of, or despite Father Chisholm's insufferable stridency? In Old Gringo, nearly one of Peck's last supporting roles, the actor mitigates his infallible conviction, since he is portraying Bierce, middlebrow hack, whose legacy mine might one day be reasonably compared to, but it was distasteful, badly done. We're used to the striated laces with which the old lion roars
Though I am not fully ready to take aim at Hollywood and Catholic pageantry, Peck's priggishness is another matter, and as old as Gentleman's Agreement is, I rooted for the realists, thank you very much, though I have never used "kike" as an epithet. I have no idea what it means. For its time, the 47 film was more honest than it had to be, but this was due to the war. Too many Europeans died in that conflict, in addition to the 6 million in the camps. Chisholm was aged, at the end of The Keys to the Kingdom, with its adamant lessons about tolerance and hypocrites, (I had forgotten Vincent Price and he was a breath of fresh air) to look like a Scottish saint. Compare this to his devil may care countenance in 89, against Fonda and Smitts. The elderly, eventually, are drawn to caviler libertarian defiance, even Peck, who probably would have been sworn into office by acclamation, if he had given his handlers the go. It is so much more convenient, merging celebrity and monarchy. The early 20th century Edwardians knew it, or Gambon had some fun with it, if the story of Elizabeth's father has any genealogical accuracy.
"Remarque demonstrates how wars reduce human beings to the level of animals and finally to excrement."-- Dieter Rollfinke, page 99
The reason viewers protested The Singing Detective in 1986 wasn't due to Potter's lechery, as such, so much as that his dramaturgic skill with repression and loss of control hit too close to home. If you really want to see one of the most original musicals on the face of the earth, ignore the Robert Downey Jr film of the same title from 2003. This is radical, and accessible. Dennis has no elitist pretensions whatsoever, and his protagonist, as a child, lets his school know exactly what it can do with the rote drilling of a British working class education.
Whyy showed true courage during its encore airing of the series, and then, in time honored fashion, whisked it away with nary a peep since. Gambon trying to fight off an erection and climax is priceless, and Potter gets to the heart of the underside of medical institutionalization, which is the same world over. Sick and sex are very closely entwined, and Potter's pop culture pizzazz did as much to inspire some overly ambitious narrative long poems of mine as any workshop.
It takes extraordinary courage to admit we're all guilty pigs, curious about what cum tastes like, or fascinated by the coarse rectal hair exposed when we catch mommy having a five pound fuck in the dale. I don't know what I feel about Potter's work critically, strange as that may seem in a post, but the reason for this boils down to logistics. This was a tough subject matter for me in 86, since, having spent most of adolescence on the ward, The Singing Detective packed too hard a punch. Sentiment had to roll with it, as opposed to analyzing, evaluating it-- but one thing it achieves, and perhaps led to the weakening of arts and sciences colleges thereby, is merging of commercial fiction with mature drama, creating something resistant to classification.
I got lazy as an undergraduate and cited James Mitchner in a paper, and the professor in Jerry McGuire gave me an A- and a mild reprimand, and he was absolutely correct within his paradigm as a radical liberal to do so. By the same token, I was not entirely *off*. James Mitchner was a commercial novelist, and popular-- but his sagas were well researched, descriptive, and interested me in very odd things-- the evolution of Yahweh, for instance, within Jewish theology.
I do not know if I am returning to Liberty on the Rocks in July. The usual reasons. My poverty is writing my appearance. I am afraid to break the Jazzy getting into the eatery, but the cripple is pouting she wants a new family and since I've tried everyone else, maybe the anarchists will treat me decently (oh, yes?), but our group leader, who accused me of using his name in print, so his pseudonym is now Black Adder, said that telling Trudy Richardson, as rental agent, that I hated her, was a powerful statement.
In my mind, it isn't. We'll return to that later as this post is long enough for the moment-- but if I am too heavy in my philosophy for the boyz live at the table, I'll knock it out of the park here too. Is my honesty about my betrayal in the fine hands of disability activism, my honesty about my laundry list of hating my fake friends like Josie, bear responsibility for Roof?
Tactically, he was a moron, misapplying violence for an unachievable goal. But the hate crime statue equally reveals itself as nonsensical by progressives attempting to categorize it as an extracurricular exception. Adjudicating a spree killer as a domestic terrorist puts American jurisprudence on par with Vladimir Putin's playing board. My pain as a hate crime victim tearing up in front of my unfortunately homosexual state legislator was legitimate. I consider my negativity generated thereby as balancing the scales.
How far would you go to bite that hand that feeds? Shit on your kitchen table? The question reminds me that as much as I hate musicals, Dennis Potter's highbrow muck was a rare and indelible experience. I have had masturbatory fantasies of Michael Gambon ejaculation like simulations for a long time after a much younger, or more adventurous, WHYY aired the risque vision, for which they took some heat and never aired again. Pretentious wussies. I was going to deploy harder diction, but I'm tired.
Look, people, if most of you think I am a troll, or a portion of you do, to some degree, you're right, but rules about not feeding aren't always a valid proposition. If some of you think I'm obfuscating or confusing, you may have a valid critique. I may carry the burdens of my anti-social behavior with me, but I do not attack a participatory audience merely to provoke. When I respect responsible thinkers, I can mind my manners. Ask him. It isn't that I want to beg for feedback, but if I lose you I can't read your minds to divine that.
