Who did Wired write this article for? My nephew, Nicholas must be between thirteen and fifteen now; I cannot recall his birthday, but what Angela Watercutter does is remind me, equally, that some of you don't know what intake centers like Liberty represent, and my audience doesn't realize that my emotional pain resides in three dimensional space, a segregated space, one that in fact doesn't offer resources according to the definition of the term.
Am I sorry that Laurel Hester died in such piteously graphic detail? Yes, in the sense that hospitals are sad, rigidly controlled environments. Should the partner have received the pension? If we take the larger view, these estate issues become problematic, at least in terms of state civil services. I get shit from no one, essentially, and even if I could lasso a media flagship contract, the big brands are in trouble. You see Time Warner touting a contract in my direction?
This is where the disability center left me, and they should be shuttered because of it, and putting all my energy into it will not change a thing about state public welfare systems being the real big short, and so, in terms of homosexual estate benefits, it is an issue, especially as the more indigent I become, and more suicidal due to it (not quite precise,as it is more an overwhelming despondency: aging, drowning under water) the more it costs those paying into the public maintenance budget. If Hester's pension was corporate, that is private sector, but police benefits are civil. I do not believe the Scotus decision puts this issue to rest, but the movie being adapted from the documentary is too narrow cast. We're not talking about the tragic panorama of Anthony and Cleopatra, with sweeping breadth and scope. Just two lesbians, one sick, one not, in a soft tech agenda article that feels gutted, essentially nothing but a pat on the back for the killing fields of progressive majorities.
Showing posts with label things you can tell just by looking at her. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things you can tell just by looking at her. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Narrow Casting
"I have no money to give you." -- bluntly
I have my state in error in the Darren Wilson case mentioned in my most recent post, and in my own peculiar way of back drafting an old newspaper man like Kurtis, I need to do some research, but what pisses me off, capital case aside, is that defense lawyers behave as if they're ordained, and on a crusade to prevent extermination, refusing to look reality in the eye, and see dissembling manipulation for what it is.
This was an old case, early nineties, no new juice in it unless I find something, but the whole episode seems to predicate the true moral erosion of progressive justification: taking responsibility. It angers me. The attorney on one end of the sea saw battling mission creep, and an overgrown blunderbuss of a prisoner on the other, his demeanor oozing with "pity the poor home boy masking his own shame for being odious." It makes my skin crawl, not that my own errors in judgment are any more salient.
Karina telephoned, surprising me. Spastic presupposed she blocked my number. Spastic presupposed Karina read the blog, and took offense, even if the stereotypical hair net of the dim witted blonde fits. She is a stupid woman-girl, fishing for money I no longer have, hardly able to keep her own schedule, characteristic of the detritus hired by public welfare.
My own Cameron Diaz? Karina lacks the mastery of the actress for timing and cues, but I offered the woman the consumer model position, again. "I'm out in the country, looking for a place to live." She must be desperate, soliciting me after all these months. In a chastened civility, I asked after the mother, whose terminal cancer is now, evidently, "cured". Uh huh.
I have my state in error in the Darren Wilson case mentioned in my most recent post, and in my own peculiar way of back drafting an old newspaper man like Kurtis, I need to do some research, but what pisses me off, capital case aside, is that defense lawyers behave as if they're ordained, and on a crusade to prevent extermination, refusing to look reality in the eye, and see dissembling manipulation for what it is.
This was an old case, early nineties, no new juice in it unless I find something, but the whole episode seems to predicate the true moral erosion of progressive justification: taking responsibility. It angers me. The attorney on one end of the sea saw battling mission creep, and an overgrown blunderbuss of a prisoner on the other, his demeanor oozing with "pity the poor home boy masking his own shame for being odious." It makes my skin crawl, not that my own errors in judgment are any more salient.
Karina telephoned, surprising me. Spastic presupposed she blocked my number. Spastic presupposed Karina read the blog, and took offense, even if the stereotypical hair net of the dim witted blonde fits. She is a stupid woman-girl, fishing for money I no longer have, hardly able to keep her own schedule, characteristic of the detritus hired by public welfare.
My own Cameron Diaz? Karina lacks the mastery of the actress for timing and cues, but I offered the woman the consumer model position, again. "I'm out in the country, looking for a place to live." She must be desperate, soliciting me after all these months. In a chastened civility, I asked after the mother, whose terminal cancer is now, evidently, "cured". Uh huh.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Sleepy Hollow
I have absolutely nothing to post, and logged on to actually research Nigeria for my diary entry, savage desolation of which, unseen except by my hard drive, Blogger would not disrupt my account, but not the savage desolation of which you might imagine. Not that he would answer me, (oh geez, this is him now) but I'd quaff John by his ears, today, for spending so much time with me when we were underclassmen. I'd go back in time and lunge at him, beating his sinewy Italian chest, saying "why? why torment me if you didn't want me?" and he'd punch a mirror, drop acid perhaps. I don't even know what the idiom means, dropping acid, and my rental agent is using government agents to corral me in a cage, or black authoritarians, whatever, I'm Kundera's Stalinist joke, a one spastic circus, who hopped in the shower before the news, as usual, and nothing happened, and if I had not called the guard earlier in the month, and had lain there, waited, wriggled, experimented and with strenuous effort picked myself up, I would not now be in this most dynamic challenge, as an obstinate -- what? A Roseanne?
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
A Pulled Brisket's Soft Malignancy
"Que paso aqui?"-- Once Upon A Time in Mexico, the main villain
Rodrigo Garcia suggests things about the possibilities and limits of reconciliation in his first film that necessarily hearken back to the themes of his internationally recognized father, absent the lineage issues which occur in the familial intervals which drive One Hundred Years of Solitude. Childhood is merely a suggested anxiety in Things, as opposed to a reward: Kathy Baker's Rose hovers as an overly protective mother of an adolescent right on the edge, still a boy merely toying with manhood, which in turn draws her to the infantile allure of the dwarf Albert, a character of exotic element and due process; in "Love Waits for Kathy" he is simply a file archivist. In the Rose segment he is an intrigue, one who offers the possibility of fulfillment as might be found in Alice In Wonderland, however awkward the comic aspects come across from the cutting floor. The near miss collision, once Baker offers the attractive man toy a ride, is a slap in the face to the viewing audience, an obvious contrivance which comes off as one, an allusion to the risk of hard sex conjoined to the frailty of impairment? Perhaps this is a stretch, but Albert accepts the teacher and nascent author's voyeurism, just as the detective accepts the camaraderie of dating a medical examiner in the field.
Physicians, particularly surgeons, do not care for ailing loved ones as Close does in the Keener narrative, and its weakness isn't quite her fault. The veteran actress projects the longing of the professional woman who lacks on cue, but the emptiness within the doctor's domestic interior, prior to Calista Flockhart's entrance, is too soft, a dripping poached egg, much as the flashback to lesbian petting lacks the courage of conviction in "Goodnight Lilly, Goodnight Christine". If the morality police want to draw inferences about the indulgence of sexual pleasure and impending loss, the blame can be laid at Rodrigo's doorstep. If there is nothing wrong with homosexual orientation, even conscientious directors like Garcia have a hard time selling sexual equality to an (as yet) heterosexually predominant movie goer. Two pretend dykes with no voluptuousness saying goodbye, how sweet, while the suicide victim who opens and concludes the film walks by, an incidental character, perhaps a prospect for Flockhart in the absence of Lilly, but for the fact that women are experts at insulation, a theme which saturates this entire project, from Holly Hunter's discordant violence to her womb, to Diaz'es penetrating monologue, closing the film with a bittersweet irony encapsulating the failure of the post boomer world to at least find some sort of contentment within the middle brow striving to have what we want: an abortion, two blind women girls engaged in thrust and parry, a police officer simply doing a routine investigation. Where is the pleasure of bringing and rearing life in the world? Marquez had it in his novel, which, despite energy, skill, and its Nobel Prize, rolled off the back of this blogger as mostly about style, affect, more an apologia for the insistence of metaphysical mystery than a saga with memorable substance.
The best that can be said of the son: the rise of women has no more solved the problems of liberalism than the male patriarchy which handed over the reigns; it might be argued, however, that Garcia sets the stage for matriarchal novelists like Lionel Shriver, who fragments domestication, also with the suggestive absence of childhood, through her female protagonists.
Rodrigo Garcia suggests things about the possibilities and limits of reconciliation in his first film that necessarily hearken back to the themes of his internationally recognized father, absent the lineage issues which occur in the familial intervals which drive One Hundred Years of Solitude. Childhood is merely a suggested anxiety in Things, as opposed to a reward: Kathy Baker's Rose hovers as an overly protective mother of an adolescent right on the edge, still a boy merely toying with manhood, which in turn draws her to the infantile allure of the dwarf Albert, a character of exotic element and due process; in "Love Waits for Kathy" he is simply a file archivist. In the Rose segment he is an intrigue, one who offers the possibility of fulfillment as might be found in Alice In Wonderland, however awkward the comic aspects come across from the cutting floor. The near miss collision, once Baker offers the attractive man toy a ride, is a slap in the face to the viewing audience, an obvious contrivance which comes off as one, an allusion to the risk of hard sex conjoined to the frailty of impairment? Perhaps this is a stretch, but Albert accepts the teacher and nascent author's voyeurism, just as the detective accepts the camaraderie of dating a medical examiner in the field.
Physicians, particularly surgeons, do not care for ailing loved ones as Close does in the Keener narrative, and its weakness isn't quite her fault. The veteran actress projects the longing of the professional woman who lacks on cue, but the emptiness within the doctor's domestic interior, prior to Calista Flockhart's entrance, is too soft, a dripping poached egg, much as the flashback to lesbian petting lacks the courage of conviction in "Goodnight Lilly, Goodnight Christine". If the morality police want to draw inferences about the indulgence of sexual pleasure and impending loss, the blame can be laid at Rodrigo's doorstep. If there is nothing wrong with homosexual orientation, even conscientious directors like Garcia have a hard time selling sexual equality to an (as yet) heterosexually predominant movie goer. Two pretend dykes with no voluptuousness saying goodbye, how sweet, while the suicide victim who opens and concludes the film walks by, an incidental character, perhaps a prospect for Flockhart in the absence of Lilly, but for the fact that women are experts at insulation, a theme which saturates this entire project, from Holly Hunter's discordant violence to her womb, to Diaz'es penetrating monologue, closing the film with a bittersweet irony encapsulating the failure of the post boomer world to at least find some sort of contentment within the middle brow striving to have what we want: an abortion, two blind women girls engaged in thrust and parry, a police officer simply doing a routine investigation. Where is the pleasure of bringing and rearing life in the world? Marquez had it in his novel, which, despite energy, skill, and its Nobel Prize, rolled off the back of this blogger as mostly about style, affect, more an apologia for the insistence of metaphysical mystery than a saga with memorable substance.
The best that can be said of the son: the rise of women has no more solved the problems of liberalism than the male patriarchy which handed over the reigns; it might be argued, however, that Garcia sets the stage for matriarchal novelists like Lionel Shriver, who fragments domestication, also with the suggestive absence of childhood, through her female protagonists.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)