Basketball & Rules on a Sim Card Transfer

There's always some reason to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day. --Sara McLachlan

Let me open this post by saying that Samson and David are rather favored exemplars of what it takes to be steadfastly devout until the frailty of human need breaks the most heroic aspects of our nature, even in being a warrior for the certitude of exceptionalism. In our otherwise silent alliance in the many months the editor of Modern Catholic has remained my follower, Rebecca Angell may grasp this and admonish me with the inquiry, "You understand the radicalism Christ brought to the Hebrews, don't you?" Yes, but it's easier when Yahweh let's you slaughter a thousand Philistine's with the jawbone of a jackass. I have a novella trapped in WordPerfect 7 which I've almost sold tied around this very principle of martyrdom's Old Testament militancy, and I am more inclined to believe in Samson as a Nazarene than I am in Jesus as the feminine handmaiden to the Father. Blaspheme? Not quite, merely a stipulation that I need Samson as a Herculean figure, David as the King of Kings, before I can swallow the petulance of the Incarnate with his demands toward selflessness, and maybe, in my attempt to find a new trustworthy intimacy with women in my peer range, I need this new found submergence, new to me, sucked into a cousin's pain worse than mine. It interests me that a woman can be married, have at least one granddaughter, more dogs than I have cats, and be in such profound pain because her husband, my cousin by blood, is an impotent prick. "I can only imagine the things you write about me." Billy said this to me years ago, not realizing I find him rather colorless, emasculated as he is by his dying mother, and I now serve as a buoy to his wife while mutant fissures pulsate my body in ways never anticipated before the 15th of last month. Pam values her privacy, and I've already written enough, in both alarm and irritation, to disservice what her trust expects, as she too curls like a vine reaching out to my nursing aide.

On the basis of what this quixotic fellow has tossed at me, I'm assuming, brusquely, if I want him, then I can take him: he refuses to fully kiss me because then he'll have to take me, so he claims, while I look at my oblong face, incredulous-- but this isn't my point. I'm engaged in a serious battle with myself about winning him, as he claims I have, merely asking me to wait, or fearful my attachment will become irrevocable-- (I am already there, thank you)-- but is this what I really want, an untutored lion, for who's sake I'm studying the rules of the court? I had him literally on top of me Tuesday. It wouldn't have taken much, and yet, I released him, every day, another flavor, another stroke of his fingers, nearly intolerable, unable to engage in the usual stimulus to ease these frustrations, I'd rather he not use foreplay merely to ease my suffering, find him too sweet to remain infuriated, while the game goes on despite my bobby pins, ready to anesthetize the fluttering wings of the moths. I want to know that it's real, not Memorex, hoping I won't have to kill him with a strangulation of silk before he sorts it out himself.

Orwell in Dubai

Italy is a peninsula that acquires the shape of a boot.

In his 2003 physique, Tim Robbins looks churlish naked. Perhaps he is supposed to look that way as Code 46 draws to a close, with Samantha Morton showing Deborah Winger how it's done if you you want to challenge ethnic types. There is a bit of Sheltering Sky to this speculative venture, one which doesn't add any additional spice with ad hoc contraceptives. Other than that, Winterbottom and Boyce paint a depressingly accurate portrait of our future, regardless of what we believe about the ability of neurologists to manipulate our minds.

There is also an aura of fatalism about European/American individualism invariability giving way to Asia's sheer mass. Was this intentional? The film ends with Morton's ironic glance of knowing the pleasures of defiance, enough to suicide by or take comfort in. In the past, Tom Reid and I would have talked about it for awhile; it's the type of film which would have interested him. I no longer have college friends, and but for digital props, it was as forceful as The Man from Earth, virtually free of anything but good acting and Tony Todd engaging in cream puff antics better suited to Forest Whitaker having a mood swing. There is depression, and there is the downer of an accurate portrait of where our societies are headed.

Tony Todd's Pacification, Gently

Well, my new hire just triggered my ringtone, but I did not swipe to take the call. I'm broke, and can care less. Maybe she is wondering if I fired her. That doesn't matter, but I just disconnected with her anyway, in droll and dilatory fashion, disgruntled with my inanity and self pity, not that I'm incapable of taking the scarred humanity of my own ego out of the picture, or discussing the masturbation on a piece of liver, which was, in its time, an original evasion from the threat of being rendered pornographic, debating whether or not to make that easy for you, to what I allude. If emancipation is one of the salutary values of story telling, then the man from earth is a brazen exhibition in that vein, proving that much can be done with simple monastic values of good dialogue, one in which Tony Todd juxtaposes urban horror and demonic vengeance in the face of torture with that of testosterone mitigation in the ensemble surrounding David Lee Smith. It was an interesting role, a contention that black men have softer sentiments, streaking their faces just like the rest of us, specious and overwhelmed, dried saline sticky on the outermost layer of our epidermis. Jerome Bixby had an integral authenticity in his art. And this is how it should be, triumphant and transcendent. One way or another, I am determined to achieve vindication.