Syndication Block Edits, The Fallow Fields of an Elijah Price Warp

Searching for the shining face of God Jean?-- Burt Lancaster, Scorpio

In the sense that poverty requires patience before gratification is achieved, it took courage for Coronji Calhoun to allow himself to be exposed as the obese kid who gets picked on by everyone, including his mother, in Monster’s Ball, but like the late 20^th century Big Night, one of my favorite Tucci films, Forster intends for Monster’s Ball to be a rather convoluted allegory of the post-civil rights era in the American South. The Amazon app announced that it was free to Prime subscribers the same evening Bounce, the black programming channel—which as often as not airs blockbuster setups with Sylvester Stallone on flimsy pretexts—made Ball available to viewers during the conventional prime time slots we all had to depend on before we were cable subscribers. Your poor dowager had a momentary tug of war. She cannot quite afford a streaming device for her flat screen, but needed her other devices free, thus opted to trust that the syndication edits did not diminish the full effect by any significant degree, as they did with Unbreakable.  As her beleaguered pessimism makes rather self-evident, the dowager has been slowing down to a terrible degree, never envisioning the crack of the powder keg crumpling me in to this extent, and thus, utilizing free broadcast to catch Elijah’s appalling rationale for his genocidal miniatures to Willis’ David Dunn, was what I tuned in for, except that this last muted monologue, the darkest of all megalomania’s expansive graphic excesses, is what Bounce chose to edit, in my precious expending of my energies, exasperating, but not nearly as much as Thornton’s conflicted correction officer, harboring a suppressed appetite for the dynamics of diversity in his sweet tooth for bowls of chocolate ice cream? Both Hank and Leticia have ambivalent relationships with their progeny, Heath Ledger is actually dead, with no real world repairs necessary for a Glock’s trajectory penetrating the furniture. What is Sean Combs here but a misguided, regressive boy hoping to evade a truant’s penalty? As Musgrove, he is the softer underbelly to the brittle ruthlessness Jackson’s Elijah exudes. Forster admirers may disagree, but I do not see reconciliation in the story’s conclusion, not in Halle’s speculative glance as she looks toward the headstones in the yard.

Both Shyamalan’s perspective on graphic novel culture and Forster’s powerful parable are turn of the century predicates, and Jackson’s portrayal of psychological malignancy is one of the greatest theatrical feats of this young century in which I perish, but there are still African stoic majorities who insist on an inflammatory deafness. Though I cannot weigh in on what penalties Weinstein may actually deserve, the culture of silence surrounding Cosby's behavior was broken by blacks themselves. Ta-Neshisi Coates, not known for emulating the once titanic comedian he covered for the Atlantic, is on record believing Cosby is guilty, and yet, this black free press still feels whites were out to punish Cosby. No, to the extent that the prosecutor acted, it was to placate feminine fury.

Long, Tough Week

Kirstie Alley's 04 made for television saga about the Gecks of New Hampshire only receives a two star rating, but it certainly provides me with a ravenous window into the truth about the undertow in American life we don't really talk about. As Shelley Long's replacement on Cheers, Alley was "eh". There was a chemistry between Danson and Long which worked, the intangible quality of pheromones and comedy. Alley represented a shift in direction, conglomerate models swallowing up independent entrepreneurship, but she was a second fiddle, which summarizes her career, if it is not otherwise indicative of the fact that the character she portrays would have used urine as a cleaning agent if she could have turned it to her advantage. On a purely superficial level, Alley deserves credit for showing us ourselves as we are, obese and brutish beneath the surface, her figure gone, her Geck is representative of what we've become, and how we've metastasized government programs. Would the dowager have seen the face of the Matrix Research *consumer* in the real Brenda? Probably not. The majority cases of shrink wrap on my plate screwed up their heads into dysfunctional dependence, or, in my worst cases, ones where I did not even know why I broached the disability work incentives, they weren't lucid, but this woman wasn't insane the way the players in the film, or the Rotten Tomatoes commentators use it to ward off the most abhorrent aspects of broken primate behavior. She was highly organized, knew how to exploit the weak, manipulate children for profit, a world that became mine the minute I left my father's house, no picnic there, not with my mother (and since I'm conscious of the fact my surviving brother has a substantive footprint, I'll curb that bite). What the Gecks represent is squarely and solely the fault of progressive liberalism, no more, no less, and for once, I did not waste my time viewing and appreciating a mediocre portrayal which tells the truth about the downfall of western values, the loss of constraint, the sleaze in gaming the welfare state. 

I might as well be an impoverished 22 year old graduate living off of boiled pasta rolling up and back North Broad Street as I now roll up and back Market. I try to keep busy, scrounging up what paying markets I can. When I graduated high school, my parents had located a building in Woodlyn with my peers, and I have no reason in my obstinate skull why I turned my parents down, said "no," if we can add this to the poor choice department. I have searched for the building since, never found it, but had I gone there, even if Liberty had been discovered, plausibly, and fucked me over, as it did, the consequences would have been different. I really can't say what was going on in my 19 year old head at the time, but I'm bitter. My only asset is my debt, which is so astronomical as to be nearly pointless. I don't see how I recover, and feel, legitimately, if independent living center corruption had such a disparate impact on my welfare, since that corruption flourishes under federal mandate, the DOE should shave off some of my interest. I'd imagine the executive branch would fall over itself with that line of reasoning.

The Greek title, paralepomenia, means "things omitted," the church fathers on 1Chronicles.

Our Herd Mentality, Incredulous

Some of you really heed Oprah Winfrey, don't you? The same women who find the anger of a homily disabled woman intimidating, flock to a former beauty queen, well past her heyday as she is, because she is a prominent, vivacious television personality who provides so many points of self-recognition. Being a shadow Empress, it seems to spastic, has gone to her head, if her onslaught of Weight Watchers commercials is any indicator. Howard Stern used to have fun with her super-laden domesticity, and The New Republic published a rather deft, nuanced critique of her strange genius, before the rich gay boy who got lucky took over the publication, and I wrote said deft and nuanced contributor when still an active subscriber, paid deft contributor a compliment before subordinating a clause, which I remember, "but she's a television host."

Which for me about sums it up, not denying her talent, even her occasional bouts of self-depreciation, and her vulnerability with her sycophants. But to pass herself off as almost a contemporary transcendentalist has a repulsive quality to it. She is the prototype of the African American matriarchal female who may be able to defy her age, and be wealthy enough not to die of Natalie Cole's health problems, but her affluence can only do so much with biological reality, although it can do wonders for a group dynamic which apparently sees fit to dispense with the ability to think for itself, or still views her as a trend indicator.

There is no such thing as a best body for a woman who tends to be thick. Obesity is what it wants to be in some cases, and she is as much engaging in a game of delusion with her own celebrity as she has accused some of her audience in the past of "playing games" with their health. If she fails with this investment we'll all be better of, sadly stupendous as it is.

Since I find her narcissistic evocations discouraging, I'll close the book, nostrils flayed, and never open it again unless for some reason, she provides proximate cause. 

What Are The Seven Deadly Without Pixar?

The central argument of the 2006 Monster House is moral disapproval of gluttony will come back to bite you on the ass, and that Kathleen Turner is no longer the prospective fuck of the century for Danny DeVito. How astute Zemeckis and Spielberg are about the less than pleasant truths behind the creation of mega mall America is something I am still pondering, in terms of the genre with which they are most comfortable subverting our own look at ourselves. The punk Zee and Bones are the contemporary corruptions, perhaps the conclusions of, the beatnik era. Where else can you go after the cataclysmic failure of the sixties but into a lampoon of American drug culture, and its ethnic counterpart as the residue of identity politics? Why does Nick Cannon's Lester believe the kids initially? Because blacks know a thing or two about paranoia and survival.