"I'd take that into consideration Mr. Bailey, if this was a democracy."-- William Shatner, now a wily spokesman for CPAC cleaners
Even before I started this account, I'd track certain actors, particularly if they expired of cirrhosis of the liver before their time, attempting to gain insight. Peter Fonda was not one of them. Like Michael Douglas after him, Fonda was a pretty face with a shag haircut, engaging in a valiant, dismissive struggle in Futureworld, where Yul Brynner manages to be a better robot in this fraying and cosmetic liberal decade which does indeed seem to have ended in 1978, than Brent Spiner manages to be an android in the Clinton era, and no, this is not a swipe at Data's endearing naivety, only a suspicion that a machine with consciousness may really not wind up in an ontological category which humans would necessarily find favorable, and Brynner perhaps captured just a little better the malevolence of circuits and diodes simulating a gunfighter whose liberty was a facade, an entrapment, and an evil which could be defined as such exactly because it lacked dynamic of the soul. I have no need to reiterate admiration brushed off in my more energetic archives, (nothing if not energetic), about Ulee's Gold. I remember the drug addiction led to the punk show of force upon which Fonda's character prevailed. Certainly not every nuance of this quiet film's local color, and it was a better film for its self-depreciation, but Fonda never fixated me, not like Cassavetes, and did Gena Rowlands consider their match lucky, fortuitous? Or did John's alcoholism rate him as just another more incisive greaseball, as all Italians are? His performance in Rosemary's Baby on those crutches only offers up mitigating hints. Nonetheless, even if I never sought these answers in Fonda's demeanor, his passing Friday morning elicited a mournful, instinctive yowl. Something felled, it clangs in my head in my desperation to get out from under the thumb of the sterile black psychosis unto which I continue to weaken, in every withered African frame the cry of Kurtz, "the horror, the horror!"
This scoring pain Medium's generation shall never understand, as I was busy last week buying into their paywall. Before I kill myself, or decide to try to, some of my posts here may become more ambitious columns there, as if agony actually transmutes.
Showing posts with label yul brynner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yul brynner. Show all posts
Monday, August 19, 2019
Friday, August 11, 2017
Yul Brynner Rides The Hearse
We know it hurts.-- Subprimal's editors
No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation?
If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.
No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation?
If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Bronchial Nitrates
"Like all eighties kids, I was so busy being told how special I was I didn't get that went for everybody else."-- a lift from @TBlackford3
The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.
I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.
The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.
I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.
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