Rectifying Chemical Imbalance

"Don't be so sensitive!"-- Robert De Niro, naturally inclined to mimic palsy

Jack Goes Boating is as much about transference as it is a contrast between experience and innocence, in attempting to come to terms with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, his craft, destructive escapism, and the use of a hookah as a biographical antidote. There is resistance toward full commiseration with the absence of his gift, repugnance toward his pudgy and nascent clueless character he portrays here, four odd years ago, but also admiration for the willingness on his part to savage vanity, passing the buck to Ortiz, whose limousine driver is more than the sum of Vega's contempt.

Why do we see the extended capture of an amputee engaged in rehabilitative training at the pool, which clearly serves for an extended metaphor for fleshing outward towards cumulative maturity? Appreciation of the actor doesn't lend itself toward connective sympathy for the liberal arguments embedded in his roles. He upended that by dying like hundreds of junkies before and since, either on a libertarian or material note, depending on the perspective we have toward addiction, and in spastic's view, the naturalist thesis is the prevailing victor. Complex life forms gravitate towards destructive dependence to alleviate negation, which to me seems covalent with our tendency towards being corrupt hypocrites, sans the plight of Pennsylvania's Kathleen Kane.

The Attorney General might hold my equivocal sympathy for her plight somewhat suspect, as well she should, since her review of Corbett's handling of the Jerry Sandusky investigation clearly had a political agenda to it, but the entire sorry fiasco illustrates that one doesn't have theological objections to gay marriage and the equality of sexual orientation as a purely cosmetic, Orwellian denial of bestiality. Is it really a form of political liberalism that led to the discipline of Pennsylvania's judicial employees over pornographic emails, or is Kane a closet authoritarian? If I disagree with her allegiance to Democratic principles, why am I standing by her now?

Because she's right, even if she engaged in some sort of orchestration of the grand jury to play hardball with her perceived enemies. Next week I'll have more time for substantive research to really wade into our modern jeremiad and the urgent need to scale back from regulatory reliance.  

Envy as a nauseous prelude

The care the Belgians took in their production of Maigret was remarkable, when one looks at the copyright. This is a 21st century series that virtually transports the viewer back into the Fifth Republic, a bygone, magisterial age, to steal an excellent adjective from Dana Stevens, who gets paid to turn the lights on when the late Mr. Hoffman juiced himself into the send up of L Ron Hubbard. Ms Stevens found the right word for the era, magisterial-- in the US, it lasted from 52 to 65.

Georges Simenon may be as slithery as an eel to pin down, worth pursuing in his original language, but Bruno Cremer was the best Maigret, and Maigret is the best detection procedural on the face of the earth as adapted for a teleplay. The British can do conspiracy to make the roots of your hair stand on end, with riveting plots, but France simply crucifies when it comes to fidelity, understanding that excellence is derived through attention to detail, the definition of poise to the point of actually being duped into time travel. Maigret is at once an antithesis to the disruptions caused by crippling the body, and at the same time, nearly a brilliant ornamentation of the fusionary aspects between bipedal afterthought and the psychosis of damage hidden in the dark, whether I can chisel an article out of this raw and cooked striving or not, for all his reticence about treating his Parkinson's, Michael Kinsley has vanished from the scene. Whimsy, which carries the voice of his few columns I've seen since he appeared on Charlie Rose trying to control his involuntary spasms, doesn't compensate for his loss of prestige, but he goes down quietly, a gentleman, recognized as a celebrity writer better than most, an astute, perceptive analyst at his peak, none of us dwell on his circumstances, except as a footnote. Slate is a loose jointed progeny, not of Wapo, actually, but of the Time Magazine essayist, which cannot be reproduced on a web page.

Fish, Chips, Tuberculous Hip

"Al Pacino was successful playing Richard the Third because he understood the nature of power." --Jerry McGuire, approximately

In the annals of local color, politics can still provide fonts of amusement, the representatives and constituents colliding like asteroids in the void. I am watching the auteur of the effeminate reconstructions implode Truman Capote, so I am typing slowly, still a student when I viewed his last television appearance--the actual person-- in 1984, obviously in the grip of alcoholic dementia, as is not quite the case with  Dick Cavett. We applaud Hoffman for his talent, and that seared underbelly he captures in relation to the wicked under bite of the homosexual male, one which provides theorists with their relentless apologias, yet if I assert how punishing LGBT interactions have been for me as a disabled woman trying to do the right thing on progressive rails, getting damaged, that is all of freak flag reactionism. In the end, it's all about the scaffold, how we build our towers. Weeping old woman, political aides. If I really do launch myself as a crusader in this twilight of my life, what will it amount to? Cripples will still sit discarded in lobbies, victims created on finer and finer threads of discrimination. Monogamy will still find its way into curiosity shops

Comfort food. Herring, hash browns, diced onion, oysters, olive oil. It took me two days to convince myself to prepare my favorite entree, to swallow my 1200 milligrams of salmon over it, and now I need my shower, to go buy tins of ground offal for my substitute feline children. The condition of my edition of To The Lighthouse is worse than the sweat of indifferent hygiene, however, a problem which seems to plague Jon Avnet's direction of 88 Minutes. The narrative is a world weary affect of an old man who pissed off his brand due to economic necessity. My heart still throbs when I look at Al Pacino on camera, but if you'd like me to strum it simply, I could kick him for being a mule. The opening rape scene is an exercise in graphic lack of tact, Pacino seems to wander around on location waiting for Hades to make up his mind about where the famous Italiano will spend eternity, and yet there is a sleazy subtext that someone like me recognizes, all the triggers that go off in superlative fucking of the mentor, or maintaining chastity in the sexual tension. I grew up with Mario Puzo. But his dramatic conceits which ossified the Sicilian stereotype was a love letter. Al seems determined to make us regret those dried petals in the scrap book, with that ridiculous bouffant. McDonough's first instincts to give up on acting were the correct ones.

I am beginning to learn that no one really knows what they're doing, and thus the exposure of the reporter will always be valid. I intend to keep going; if Google wants to shut me down when I hit hard, that is up to them. It is their service. I may obfuscate my agenda from time to time, but I do believe in my conviction that if I fight back, the next spastic may be spared the wicked corruption and trauma to which I have been subjected. Raising my voice has risks.

I am taking them.