"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.
Showing posts with label very bad things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label very bad things. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
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.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
La Stanza di Angelo
"Go ahead and cash it." Fathers with federal reserve notes
If quintessential American archetypes can be likened to grammatical correspondences, Peter Berg gets the declension right in his 98 dark comedy Very Bad Things, mostly due to Slater and Diaz pulling weight on the rest of the ensemble. There is a little bit of Fargo here in the mix, without the far north accent, but it is a good steal, leaving the narrative unharmed through its imitative exaggeration. Americans tend to be less methodical, more reactive, in yet another end of century send up flaunting emotionalism back at us, in a satirical expose with amusing veracity, kidding ourselves about a little negligent homicide and multiple murder sprees which follow, with Favreau just clueless enough to make the ending seem like a legitimate consequence.
Laughing at the consequence of crippling effects, piled on as an insurmountable internment, is just fine. The activists code it among themselves, a coping mechanism.
If quintessential American archetypes can be likened to grammatical correspondences, Peter Berg gets the declension right in his 98 dark comedy Very Bad Things, mostly due to Slater and Diaz pulling weight on the rest of the ensemble. There is a little bit of Fargo here in the mix, without the far north accent, but it is a good steal, leaving the narrative unharmed through its imitative exaggeration. Americans tend to be less methodical, more reactive, in yet another end of century send up flaunting emotionalism back at us, in a satirical expose with amusing veracity, kidding ourselves about a little negligent homicide and multiple murder sprees which follow, with Favreau just clueless enough to make the ending seem like a legitimate consequence.
Laughing at the consequence of crippling effects, piled on as an insurmountable internment, is just fine. The activists code it among themselves, a coping mechanism.
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