"I see oranges flying across the room."
Tavis Smiley grates on my nerves. The voice, the necessity of hustling through the segment, and chucking aside implosions away from PBS singularity, he is only a few decibels below cable news reactionaries of whom I view very little. But I paused for Robert English, who gave the most succinct capsule analysis of Ukrainian sectarian strife I have yet come across.
I may annoy my unseen overlords at Examiner/Clarity Media, and I did a wee bit of research on my no contract lovable slave driver-- let me put it this way-- I like the work, dislike Clarity's methods, and, if I get a chance, will one day assassinate Nero, in the vain hope that Claude Rains resurrects Caesar, which in translation means aggregation has an evil, sometimes egregious, tilt. But I may annoy Examiner once again and attempt to hone my analysis skills on Ukraine's crisis. Blame George Will; he gave me the idea to worry about semi-autonomous regions. Slowly moving onto my throne of institutional elder (I can hear Tavis ping Quincy: "What is going on with this dowager woman? I have access to the Pope and she infringes on the hospitality of the sisters man, hiding behind that pity.") I actually remember this man calling for a free Ukraine.
How the world has evolved since Watergate, but, by the same token, the developed world is in a post-ideological cataclysm. Not that I wish to defend Stalinism, but what is a Ukrainian national identity? neo-Nazism?
Say American. Say English. Say Russian, French, Italian, even Canadian, and we get a rough picture of pansy ass loggers getting back at their shared border neighbors with Wolverine. But the Crimea? What I know of the Crimean War I distilled from watching Trevor Howard get the Empire's hands dirty.
Clarity actually owns The Weekly Standard, and it would doubtlessly baffle Examiner's manager, if she actually exists and I persist in tracking down a live body, if I ask her for a name before I submit my portfolio, all of picturesque humility. I respect Will Self. Let him know that through the food chain.
Showing posts with label tavis smiley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tavis smiley. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Freelancer Autonomic
"You were there," Tavis Smiley, asserting an obvious statement of fact timorously.
Breakfast? Risotto, eighty percent consumed, anxiety attack abated, last mug of espresso cooling on my scarred heels. Google doesn't seemed too concerned about outbursts or homicidal impulses, as they, Google, keep mailing me nice suggestions, and hey, Google, if you want a hissy fit, all I want is to re-monetize my account and don't know how babe, and my stingy viewers aren't going to download me to kindle so I can buy myself a new beret. Every militant cripple has to be out for herself, but I'd like the beret before my journey, fraught with peril, commences. I wonder how I can do this, with my extensive knowledge production of what homelessness entails. How can I beat those odds?
It hasn't happened, yet, but I've had my fill of this landlord, meanwhile, thinking-- have to not give up. I did earn three thousand, so I must be able to earn more, and wish I could post more details about my ideas, but that would be foolhardy, turning my tumblers for you on the dialectical tensions between the industry and the ethics of the death toll.
Night of the Living Dead still has the power to make us cross our legs in a warding off reflex. At first, the opening seems to signal to the audience that we are entering into a send up of typical bourgeoisie pretensions, loosening up Judith O'Dea, somewhat suggestively. Romero is leading us by the nose, as if to say, I can set the blonde up for a cherry pop too, duh. Then it veers off, unexpectedly, in to becoming a post-apocalyptic dare on miscegenation, which still had a certain fearful fascination for those in the innocent wonders of childhood, and then it becomes an odious indictment of caste tensions, and cleverly reverses expectations, to remind us why the Southern mindset in the twentieth century was so horrible, so worthy of guilt, necessitating tolerance for Smiley's pretensions, Tavis closing his eyes to sway to the guitar strumming of the loose-skinned folksinger, a white witness to the times, "when Martin was killed." A bit bold on the part of Tavis, to do that on a set studded with floodlights, a kind of obstinate bubble, a testament of faith that one day the progressive level playing field will be victorious.
No Tavis. You'll never see that dream realized, because difference can never be equalized without creating a new class oppression, and the very fact that I am past the half century mark, unable to separate myself from government control of my destiny, is a glaring defacement at your altar. Duane Jones did have a nice piece ass, but I was just a kid.
Breakfast? Risotto, eighty percent consumed, anxiety attack abated, last mug of espresso cooling on my scarred heels. Google doesn't seemed too concerned about outbursts or homicidal impulses, as they, Google, keep mailing me nice suggestions, and hey, Google, if you want a hissy fit, all I want is to re-monetize my account and don't know how babe, and my stingy viewers aren't going to download me to kindle so I can buy myself a new beret. Every militant cripple has to be out for herself, but I'd like the beret before my journey, fraught with peril, commences. I wonder how I can do this, with my extensive knowledge production of what homelessness entails. How can I beat those odds?
It hasn't happened, yet, but I've had my fill of this landlord, meanwhile, thinking-- have to not give up. I did earn three thousand, so I must be able to earn more, and wish I could post more details about my ideas, but that would be foolhardy, turning my tumblers for you on the dialectical tensions between the industry and the ethics of the death toll.
Night of the Living Dead still has the power to make us cross our legs in a warding off reflex. At first, the opening seems to signal to the audience that we are entering into a send up of typical bourgeoisie pretensions, loosening up Judith O'Dea, somewhat suggestively. Romero is leading us by the nose, as if to say, I can set the blonde up for a cherry pop too, duh. Then it veers off, unexpectedly, in to becoming a post-apocalyptic dare on miscegenation, which still had a certain fearful fascination for those in the innocent wonders of childhood, and then it becomes an odious indictment of caste tensions, and cleverly reverses expectations, to remind us why the Southern mindset in the twentieth century was so horrible, so worthy of guilt, necessitating tolerance for Smiley's pretensions, Tavis closing his eyes to sway to the guitar strumming of the loose-skinned folksinger, a white witness to the times, "when Martin was killed." A bit bold on the part of Tavis, to do that on a set studded with floodlights, a kind of obstinate bubble, a testament of faith that one day the progressive level playing field will be victorious.
No Tavis. You'll never see that dream realized, because difference can never be equalized without creating a new class oppression, and the very fact that I am past the half century mark, unable to separate myself from government control of my destiny, is a glaring defacement at your altar. Duane Jones did have a nice piece ass, but I was just a kid.
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