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.

Electra Glide Psychopathy

"That is why you use sex as an act of self-hatred."-- Vincent D'Onofrio, Anti-thesis

In Cold Blood, now a notorious hallmark, was adapted to the screen in 67 ; Electra Glide appears six years later, and despite the filmography I cannot recall any of Blake's leads other than Baretta, and of the series itself I remember nothing except that the actor had a personable brawn and the interaction with the cockatoo was enterprising, a good fit for the me decade, and after that there was the bizarre murder of trophy girl Bonny Lee Bakley, which I do not think is quite comparable to the OJ Simpson trial. 

Did Capote do this country any real favors with his true crime anatomy? Did the industry do Blake any favors in turn? My only evaluation between the drama and the scandal is that Blake's incoherence might serve as a warning that has since gotten lost in the shuffle, spree killing and police containment going to the poor guy's head.

Electra Glide, like much of the new wave films and their imitators, is a bit of a pose, and yet, its malevolent undercurrents remain authentic, worth paying attention to in the long term. The dark side of freedom being simply nothing less to lose is that good men and women who still have vested  interests can get wiped out in the cross fire. I am still not sure who killed Frank, whether Blake as the moderate was right, or Bush as the string em up cowboy who smelled the dark side of the hippie dealer, or Ryan as the old guard, humiliated by the disillusion of the liberalism posited in a third rate solo by Riley, but the last scene is effective at annihilating emotional defenses