My Personal Portrait: A Literary Medley, Part III

My Personal Portrait: A Literary Medley, Part III
October 08, 2008 02:00 PM EDT
views: 1691 | comments: 26
Dear Mr. Obama:

That was a very slick performance, last night, against an equally slick con
artist.  I'm almost tempted to conclude, based on the latter observation,
that McCain had left all the DIRTY WORK to Palin.  But, then, even as
effectively as he'd tried, that MEANNESS OF SPIRIT in him, along with, just
for openers, so many DISMALLY PREDICTABLE "DEREGULATIONS" to follow, or
rather continue, could "hardly" be suppressed!  Is this good?--or bad?
Well, under "normal" circumstances, THAT ALONE would PROBABLY be YOUR
UNDOING.  However, under current ECONOMIC conditions, his kind have already
done so much of the work for you that you don't even have to be an FDR in
order to PROBABLY WIN!

While it's "almost" INHERENTLY the most SELF-DEFEATING IMPERATIVE, "at
least" ULTIMATELY, and just as PSEUDO-COLLECTIVELY, let-alone
PSEUDO-INDIVIDUALLY, that only your kind of "DIPLOMACY" is PERSONALLY
capable, EVEN potentially at all, regardless of how "IMPROBABLY," of
achieving what you call "The American Dream," this still fails to alter THE
PLAIN AND SIMPLE FACT that MANY OTHERS (or, "perhaps," NOT THAT MANY, BUT
ONLY BECAUSE THERE AREN'T THAT MANY!) are NOT treated as "GRACEFULLY" as you
were, particularly under the most "FORMALLY ACADEMIC" of circumstances,
PRECISELY BECAUSE of SINCERELY EMBODYING every CHRISTIANLY IDEALISTIC
QUALITY my TYPICAL SLANDERERS insist ONLY I LACK.

It was not "so much" my "intellect," but rather my CHARACTER and INTEGRITY,
they RUTHLESSLY ATTACKED, just as they ALONE were NO LESS RUTHLESSLY
TAUNTING ME TO MY FACE AND SLANDEROUSLY BACKBITING ME THE ENTIRE TIME!  What kind of America is it, then?--The one which ENCOURAGED you to ACTUALIZE your
GREATEST POTENTIAL?--Or the one which SIMPLY WANTED ME TO GO AWAY AND DIE
SOMEPLACE, and had the LEVERAGE to SEE TO IT, in a manner which renders
every AMERICAN IDEAL, every "CIVIL RIGHT," on a LEVEL PLAYING FIELD, the
kind you claim to value, TOTALLY INAPPLICABLE TO ME!  Again, WHICH America
IS--AMERICA?  If there's anything I CERTAINLY FEAR, even MORE than I
DOUBTFULLY WISH that, AT BEST, it is YOU who's the RELATIVE EXCEPTION, it's
that YOU'RE--JUST PART OF--THE RULE--AFTER-ALL!!!

But, then, back to "statistics" per se:  if nothing else, let's imagine the
heads of an organization, say, of one-hundred people, treating NINETY-EIGHT
or EVEN NINETY-NINE of them at least "as if" they were, JUST FOR OPENERS,
HUMAN; while, in the case of the OTHER TWO, or EVEN ONE, the ATTITUDE is
that of TREATING THEM LIKE ANIMALS!--I'LL SAY, AGAIN, PRECISELY,
UNACCIDENTIALLY, FOR WHAT THEIR "WELL-TENURED" ZOOKEEPERS RESENTFULLY,
MEAN-SPIRITEDLY, SPITEFULLY KNOW AMOUNTS TO THE FACT THAT PRECISELY THE
OPPOSITE IS QUITE EXTRAORDINARILY THE CASE!  You might call the treatment of
the majority, here, quite "impressive," but ALL it REQUIRES is ONE
UNACCIDENTALLY LONG-TERM EXCEPTION, WHO'S BEEN DELIBERATELY, CYNICALLY
IGNORED, FOR YEARS, IN HIS REGULARLY-DELIVERED PETITIONS (AT LEAST TO BE
THERE, TO DEFEND HIS SIDE, WHILE THEY'RE SLANDERING HIM EVEN MORE, BEHIND
HIS BACK, IF EVEN TO ANY " OBJECTIVELY NEUTRAL INVESTIGATORS" WHO "MIGHT"
IMPROBABLY HAVE BOTHERED AT LEAST "CLANDESTINELY" LOOKING INTO THE MATTER AT ALL!!!), TO APODICTICALLY PROVE THE WHOLE DAMN THING A THEATRICALLY
ABOMINABLE SHAM!!!

In the Spirit of Elijah,
Richard O'Donnell

My Personal Portrait:  A Literary Medley, Part III


     Favorite Movies: Many of them are listed in my published article, on
this web site, under the tag of education, entitled Idols of the Theater.
I'll refrain, as stated before, from bogging down most, with quite the list
of music, or books, that is to be found, more familiarly as well as
exhaustively, in the films, and television episodes, below.  But I did want
to point out, for now, that I'm nevertheless not necessarily finished with
these other sections, either; for, despite my greater, more decisively, even
redeemably personal identification with Martin, as well as with Bruce, I
still embody more than enough, at least temperamentally, if not morally, of
the Seth Brundle who'd sired the former, as well as of the David Banner
who'd sired the latter; to where, in the words of still another, whom Martin
had misguidedly loved as a father, I'm no less "erratically" capable of at
least a few additionally but stiffly wholesome surprises!--Entirely free of,
charge!--That is, until you finally receive the bill!  Go ahead and laugh,
at least until it inevitably and imminently comes time to discover just how
expensive-an-entertainer I really am!  In this spiritually wretched though
materialistically "glittering" wasteland, even the most "religiously"
unaccountable "authority" presumes, any way one turns, to try and get
something for nothing, from you, by promising you something for nothing in
return!  Then, it has the cynically unmitigated audacity to try searing your
very conscience even more, if it can't get to even whatever meager
pocketbook you have, by accusing you of being "faithlessly defeatist," and,
thus, "unrepentantly damned," even in this world; just because you have at
least the sense, if not the decency as well, to know there's simply got to
be a catch!
     Unlike the most thoroughly positive influences, such as those briefly
listed above; the more "negative" ones are actually not nearly as
simplistically easy to classify, save to those who even quite sincerely yet
erroneously believed they were doing the lion's share of the damage.  My
father had been the chief accuser in this respect, due primarily to a
morbidly pathological aversion against anything "morbid," which his mother
had thoroughly instilled into him!  The biggest, most wasteful tragedy of
all, however, was the extent to which the actual causes of my later problems
had been so disingenuously as well as ignorantly "exonerated," in deference
to the brutally inordinate demonization, so intimately related, in fact, to
these other, more actual causes, of such unjustly, shallowly victimized
scapegoats. The first, and, for me, most significant such instance, from
between even a few other, almost equally impressive seconds, is Lon Chaney,
Jr., as The Wolf Man!  Even Henry Hull, as much as I identified with him,
and with the equally profound symbolism he so archetypally embodied, in
Werewolf of London, must nevertheless take a closely second seat to Larry
Talbot; particularly given the kind of man he was, on a strictly personal
level, even subsequent to such a long and painful process of overcoming the
sort of youthfully innocent though rudely and dangerously impetuous folly
which once had me so much more transitionally situated on his equally losing
side of the same Tragically Eternal Triangle only the Henry Hull in me must
continue about as helplessly, involuntarily to endure. There were a few
films which did so violently traumatize me that I'll not give any the
"satisfaction," let-alone the outright ammunition, of specifically naming
them here.  Yet, there is one I shall specifically mention, for one thing,
in that it was so far from being the very worst of the lot. In fact, Steven
Spielberg hit it right on the mark, in one of his interviews; as he
expressed his amazement at watching a preacher being reduced to ashes, in
the original version of War of the Worlds, while holding up a Cross and a
Bible, in one of the most moving expressions of faith he'd ever so
shatteringly witnessed.  Yet, it was the superbly moving narration of Sir
Cedric Hardwicke, particularly at the very end, which helped cushion the
blow of this most formidably theological level of shock, by placing it
within a more widely, plausibly, and meaningfully digestible perspective.
Parenthetically, while I'm sorry to have to say it, even one as otherwise
magnificently creative as Spielberg needn't have bothered at all with his
own particular remake of this one.  There was only one original, here,
alongside other such uniquely intriguing productions as The Day the Earth
Stood Still, Forbidden Planet, and The Angry Red Planet, as well as Planet
of Blood, and even Ray Milland, as Dr. James Xavier, The Man With the X-Ray
Eyes.  But Amistad, on the other hand, is one of Spielberg's most
meaningfully well-crafted achievements, right up there with Tamango; as a
preview of how many Americans, who shall soon have been "fortunate enough"
to survive the upcoming "Panic In Year Zero!" at all, are likewise going to
be "privileged," this time, and also undoubtedly much more
"non-discriminatorily" speaking, to "see the world," in an even more clearly
theological perspective than mentioned immediately above!--Or, at least the
many areas currently not so characteristically or commonly open to them,
even as the most prestigiously if not exclusively presumptuous "tourists" in
the world!  It will be reminiscent of the manner in which human sardines had
once been packaged and shipped, while also overseen by taskmasters who make
even Charles Laughton's Captain Bligh, from Mutiny on the Bounty, appear
merely about as "Christianly" overcomable, and even as "Christianly" left to
fight another day, as even he was, himself, much too "sentimentally kind"
for the job most imminently at hand; but, this time, minus also even the
most cheaply, "Christianly" rhetorical pretenses of "freedom" and "dignity"
on behalf of the governed, let-alone virtually any opportunity to escape!--I
Thessalonians 5:1-8!--Lest the prospective escapee be someone even more
vainly akin to, say, the absurdly mythical Indiana Jones, in contrast with
his still very formidably real adversaries in the series!
     The Time Machine, with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, was another good
original, too, even if it did so very charmingly and seductively serve to
conceal at least as much as anything else!  While its remake had certain
modernly-streamlined innovations to offer, there's still nothing to equal
this classically cinematic work of art; even though Mr. Pem (along with, for
that matter, Malcolm McDowell) did improve immensely upon the H.G. Wells
invention, if not exactly his intention, with an ability to travel
simultaneously through both time and space, while avoiding so many of young
George's potentially fatal hazards along the way.  I again touch upon Mr.
Pem, very briefly below, and yet quite a bit more informatively in the
process, with relation to his much more accurately-representational
improvement, in spirit, and even in letter, upon the original "fictional"
character; including an intense "loathing of red tape," and of "laughter at
his expense," coupled with a bitterly vindictive scorn which desires no less
to destroy than to dominate.  The real character here, whom only Malcolm
McDowell's version clearly identifies, most ironically because
misrepresentationally, with a non-alias, had even once expressed the
fiercest urge, along the lines of the creatively, ingeniously, though
dogmatically, Cartesianly, one-dimensionally rigid, as well as empirically,
blockheadedly, "atomically factual" Hobbesian, and even, according to Mr.
LaRouche, the M.A.D.ly, genocidally sinister, but, yet, for, all that, the
so "innocently," of evil, that is, effeminately, "humanistically"
Christ-mocking (Jesus, if He existed at all, was "supposedly" a "hypocrite,"
you see, while preaching "love" and "forgiveness," and yet "vindictively,"
"hatefully," and, of course, "self-contradictorily" threatening snakes and
vipers such as the Pharisees with Everlasting Hell, for insisting they had
no sin, in which case "their sin remained," John 9:39-41!--Although, of
course, even the most rigidly sterile logician, in Russell, is not
correspondingly contradicting himself, by Judging Christ, simply because
Christ Judges, per se, even while much less self-contradictorily doing so on
the basis of categorically condemning judgments--there go those damned
judgments again!--on "Principle!"  Indeed, if there's anything worse than
the way even the "atheistic humanists" claim to themselves "not" to "judge,"
it's the even more sinisterly, "wholesomely" cunning camouflage, along, here
as well, with their no less typically "theistic" enemies, of how fervently,
"selflessly," they "love," at least to the extent that, as Nietzsche says,
it's "Well Paid" in the process!  Russell would have blown a gasket, about
the way Karl Jaspers almost so much more coherently did, just trying to
absorb all the strictly abstract paradoxes here, although Nietzsche had
taken them entirely through the fire!) "Lord" Bertrand Russell (to whom
Nietzsche, quite symbolically, and thus no less revealingly, still owes a
"good one," if only for that vulgarly falsifying crack below the belt about
his whip; just as Nietzsche had really been making a corresponding
reference, but contrary to the spirit and attitude of Russell, to the very
predominance of fundamentally, subliminally, scapegoatingly, thus
all-the-more-justifiably self-loathing snakes and vipers, of how they
"morally" judge, and why, let-alone, again, of how they "love," even their
"friends," no doubt; until he could no longer bear to discern the
difference, a trait which he more "Buddhistically" albeit just as
falsifyingly attributes to Jesus, even while gagging on his own much more
acutely receptive sense of smell, its detection of a venomously
blood-curdling Resentment, which really only desires, "if" anything, to get
just as--uneven--again!--Whether in the name of "justice" or "love,"
"theism" or "atheism," lying, even when they tell the truth, or telling the
truth, but not as self-flatteringly as Scarface meant, even when they lie!),
to "Spit right in God's Face," but in a manner only the fictional Mr. Pem
could possibly appreciate!--Just as I only wish it were possible for me to
say I don't empathize with exactly such a sentiment!--Although, in all
honesty, I can't!--For essentially the same reason I still feel as
unbearably tempted as ever, just as Lulu did, to wish it were actually
possible to trade-in EVEN our One True, Living God for a real Godfather to
fight our battles for us, with much more immediately palpable offers of the
kind all of them would clearly understand, and none of them could refuse!
This is the same part of me which still, more frighteningly than ever, finds
it "at least" phenomenally if not noumenally impossible not to lament, for
instance, that Dr. Richard Kimble, in the episode entitled "The Evil Men
Do," had actually, and quite successfully, prevented Arthur Brame (James
Daly) from returning a favor, thus "morally" binding his own hands behind
his back, in preparation for the noose!  But, then, even Dana Andrews, as,
Paul Driscoll, in Serling's hour-long "No Time Like the Past," couldn't
quite measure up to Mr. Pem's amazing versatility; rather than having
received a few poignant lessons of his own, with even the most deeply
theological implications, and with which even the many different science
fiction accounts continue to more "secularly" as well as speculatively and
inconsistently struggle; for one thing, as to the actual limits of science
itself, even if time, per se, is not necessarily the final barrier to be
encountered here, or scripts as slapstically ludicrous as those of James,
Darren and Robert Colbert, in The Time Tunnel!  Russell Johnson, "The,
Professor," but, this time, as Peter Corrigan, in Serling's episode entitled
"Back There," had also been subjected to much the same experience as Dana
Andrews, albeit much more unexpectedly and inexplicably; just as he'd
received an entirely different lesson, via the medium of time travel, in
Serling's "Execution."  In fact, let's go from the Moral to the
Metaphysical, with relation to the last story above, by using it as a
springboard toward the most briefly fruitful thought-experiment.  Did Joe
Caswell (Albert Salmi) originally die by the hangman's noose, and then trade
places with the twentieth-century man in the story, once that point in time
had been reached?--Or, was it always the case that Caswell had been whipped
into the twentieth century at the last minute, while trading places with the
twentieth-century man?  In the former case, we have a fundamentally Linear
process of Space-Time, but with a "loop" woven into it; while, in the latter
case, if the future had always determined the past, so that it had never
happened in any other way, then the entire process of Space-Time is, itself,
necessarily something at least as applicably "analogizable" as a Circle.
Theoretically, the only way to test such a notion is by going far enough,
say, into the future, to where it begins "doubling back" on the past, albeit
in a configuration which would actually have, "In-Itself," no "Beginning"
and no "Ending."  What is normally or conventionally called the direction of
cause and effect would move in a given way, until whatever one chooses to
call the "last cause" finally produces the "first effect," in an Infinitely
Circular Continuum of Perpetual Motion which Nietzsche actually did aspire
to attempting to somehow demonstrate to be true, to an even more objectively
factual reinforcing of the applicability of the intended axiological
usefulness, either way, of his concept of the Eternal Recurrence.  Watts
would have, and, for that matter, actually did describe such a process as,
again, "the future causing the past," which would be synonymous, here, with
"the past causing the future."  Moreover, while it would perhaps be too
"dualistically anthropomorphic" to call this a "Deterministic" process, it
would still have to be a structurally inalterable one, to speak more
"neutrally," and, again, even quite "analogically," but with nothing
"outside" this series of metaphysically, circularly endless compossibles
over-against which to contrast its structure; in a way which at least quite
paradoxically leaves open, and perhaps just as inherently insoluble by
nature, the question of whether it can even be described, "literally" and
"accurately," as something which is, "in-itself," given to any kind of
"structure," by necessary definition, over-against any other, save in the
strictly abstract or hypothetical alone.  The "punchline," here, is that,
were one to make it through the time barrier at all, via an employment of
calculations as scientifically plausible as supposedly existed in
"Execution," above, rather than as scientifically implausible as portrayed
in "Back There," above, for the purpose of conducting the
immediately-foregoing experiment; he'd be about as justifiably confident,
for essentially the same reason he'd been able to make it that far at all,
as Christopher Columbus had been, of eventually coming "Full-Circle," even
if he'd turned out, instead, to be in error (in which case, theoretically,
he could continue on indefinitely, but without being able to know whether
he'd merely failed to travel quite far enough); just as, again, I'd refrain,
along with Watts, from the presumption of calling it a "Circle" anything but
analogically, along with every other thereby inherently relative concept,
none of which must be necessarily applicable to "The Whole."
     Again, however, as for the exquisitely classical works of art which
Chaney and Karloff so movingly succeeded at animating; all subsequent
attempts to duplicate them, as sensationalistically, even technologically
enhanced as they may otherwise quite impressively be, are nevertheless
nothing better than the most cheaply superficial, almost pointlessly
superfluous imitations, in contrast with the deeply symbolic quality of form
as well as substance reflected in these originally cinematic masterpieces!
In fact, nobody could have more cogently expressed the essence of what I
mean here, in just a few short lines, than did Claude Rains, in part one of
the original Wolf Man series; despite even the kind of lengthy elaboration
upon his words which could be no less vividly included, but which any truly
perceptive viewing of the film itself should render equally unnecessary,
right up to his own Symbolically Climactic Reckoning with the Fundamental
Reality of every Black and White as well.  Maleva, the Gypsy woman (Maria
Ouspenskaya), also very thoughtfully floored that priest who was trying to
give her a sermon on the spirit in which a funeral should be conducted, even
if he'd been at least internally consistent enough to have been speaking on
behalf of those allegedly "Without Hope" as well,  but particularly in the
case of the most typically, "Christianly Saved!"  We're looking at pure
symbolism here, including an explicit introduction of the element of
individual immortality per se, in the first sequel, Frankenstein Meets the
Wolf Man, and the most refined form of Cinematic Impressionism overall;
rather than anything so modernly and "plausibly realistic" in form as to
warrant an "explanation" as to how, even though Chaney had not been quite as
"rationally reflective" as Henry Hull, subsequent to his initial or any
subsequent transformation, he'd nevertheless managed, as my brother, James,
pointed out, to put his shirt back on, button it, and neatly tuck it in,
before going out on the prowl!  Yet, as "realism" steadily encroached,
nevertheless, one was finally able to encounter, in the third sequel, at
least a way for Chaney to provide all the proof he'd sought, from the very
beginning, in his desperate pleas just to be believed; when, at the opening
of that particular segment, he'd been confined to a jail cell, for the very
purpose of awaiting the advent of the next full moon.   Indeed, what was the
actual healing potential of that which others had finally made a more
concertedly well-focused attempt to see, but which had been hidden in plain
sight at least as undiscerningly on their part?  Most relevantly here, his
"cure," at the end, appeared to have been quite temporary, ever since he'd
thereafter again most symbolically and revealingly reared his ravenously
prowling head--in America!  Of course, this particular series had begun
markedly deteriorating, uncoincidentally and symbolically enough, as World
War II was correspondingly beginning to turn; although, for one of the more
modernly, admirably "realistic" updates, including a more dynamically
imaginative blurring of the distinction between waking and sleeping (as only
Serling's "Person or Persons Unknown" would have equally enthralled Rene
Descartes, in addition to having dismally vindicated his most serious doubts
about a perennial majority who continue moving about in "human" form!), as
well as between man and wolf in the process, An American Werewolf in London
will suffice; just as its sequel, An American Werewolf in Paris, enhances
the same "realistically" vivid special effects even more, in conjunction
with a clique of werewolves out to "cleanse" the world, while finding
Americans in particular to be of such exceptionally "good taste" in this
respect!  Indeed, no more unrelatedly, get ready soon, for one can only
"suppose" Rome is next on the agenda! But the Frankenstein series,
nevertheless, had been capable of holding its own, with the greatest amount
of durability, untill Karloff himself finally drew the line.  I certainly
know how he felt, at the end of Bride of Frankenstein, which is why I can
just as deeply relate to the total "flip-flop," from his brief encounter
with the blind old man in the middle of this same first sequel, all the way
through the second sequel, Son of Frankenstein, and an entirely different
kind of friend, in Ygor (Bela Lugosi), even to help Lon Chaney with his turn
at carrying the torch!  Had he only realized, on time, the extent to which
he was being betrayed, as fiercely as he'd forced Stalin, in turn, to the
selfsame realization, as well as the extent to which his "Blitzkrieg" would
fail at inspiring still another counter-reversal of "heart," from beneath
all the theatrically, hypocritically "diplomatic" hype designed for more
commonly, squeamishly "moral" consumption; then Dunkirk might have turned
out differently, along with the entire course of the war, including a
possible postponement of the Russian Front!  But, then, of course, FDR, the
proverbial "Fly in the Ointment," had been too Populistically strong, as a
result of the Great Depression. even for Wall Street; although not nearly as
"moral" as he was clever, save merely to the extent, in the popular "mind,"
that he had won the war abroad, thanks also to the Lion's Share of credit as
well as self-sacrifice the Russian people actually deserved; just as he
might not have done nearly as well at home, minus the Tragically Ironic debt
about as "inadvertently" denied to Hitler, as well as to the conveniently
preventable excuse of Pearl Harbor he allegedly allowed to happen!  Such a
significant pioneer of the current "War on Drugs," by now tearing the entire
fabric of this society apart, also helped to render 1937 a year that shall
"Live In Infamy!"  Yet, for all that, FDR did have at least the very best of
intentions, enough to pave the way to hell, nevertheless, one last time,
while operating within the scope of the most unfortunately unavoidable
limitations; even to the point of aspiring to correct an originally fatal
error, by replacing the criminal brain in the monster with a good one, which
lasted about as long.  But Ygor and Dr. Bohmer (Lionel Atwill) had other
ideas, as well as intentions, just as the monster has been swaying more and
more blindly and lopsidedly to the Right ever since, and is about at The
Very Edge by now.  But it's Dracula, the one hiding so distractively behind
the Cross, who is about to attempt that final transplant, before another
equally real American wolf man so decisively succeeds at commanding all his
attention; whereas, after the last war's end, about the only remaining
residue to be found was in Abbott and Costello Meet Glenn Strange; albeit,
still, in conjunction with some powerfully impressive performances, and even
the most creatively well-crafted scripts; such as still another, featuring
Whit Bissell, alongside Michael Landon, in I Was a Teenage Werewolf.  This
one, in particular, was packed with the most deeply-penetrating,
powerfully-explosive symbolism, even to the extent of having been
far-too-wastefully beyond the capacity of any general audience to
greatly-enough appreciate.  How to Make a Monster, starring the Lionel
Atwill clone, Robert H. Harris, wasn't too bad, either; although not nearly
as chilling as Sandra Harrison and Louise Lewis, in Blood of Dracula, which,
along with I Was a Teenage Werewolf, plays upon the same general theme at
least as effectively unfolded, a year earlier than these two, in The
Werewolf, with Steven Ritch; or, for that matter, with nearly the refinement
of Eric Fleming and Michael Pate, in Curse of the Undead!  But there are
others as well, which prove at least as impressive, in addition to uniquely
original concepts such as The 4-D Man and The Blob, in an Arctic which is
RAPIDLY THAWING!
     For instance, to cite but a very few more, from among the movies upon
which I have not hitherto touched, even in the form of the most relevantly
well-positioned cameos; let's try, say, Roger Corman's more Poe-tically
moving works of art (although, where the greatest, most classically
cinematic renditions of Poe are concerned, one of my very favorites has
always been Tales of Terror; and, even more specifically, the second segment
in this trilogy, entitled, like unto still another great classic before it,
The Black Cat, with Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, and Joyce Jamison. As for
that other great classic, I'm referring to the one with Karloff and Bela
Lugosi; not the one with Broderick Crawford, who should perhaps also have
Died Yesterday!--Although, of course, there was Gregorio and His Angel,
which proved valuably moving enough to warrant a most meaningfully tolerable
rebirth!); or Circus of Horrors, with Anton Diffring; as well as Horrors of
the Black Museum, with Michael Gough (and, for that matter, Konga would have
been absolutely nothing without him, either!  Of course, he was no Robert
Armstrong, as there was only one of him, too!--But, still, even more
impressive, in his own ever-movingly, aristocratically well-polished
intensity!  Moreover, he was even there to give Christopher Lee such a
post-humorously helping hand, in Dr. Terror's House of Horrors!  About the
most perfectly comparable kind of temperament and breeding to be found in
the "weaker" gender can be seen with Miss Tallulah Bankhead, in Die, Die,
My, Darling; a similarity roughly comparable to, say, Anthony Quinn, as
Zorba the Greek, VERSUS Melina Mercouri, as Ilya, in Never on Sunday!); just
as I'd almost forgotten, along with so many others which I shall continue to
"forget," The Brain From Planet Arous, with John Agar. And I'd almost
forgotten to mention still another, which can hardly be avoided, in any much
more commonly, vulgarly arbitrary way, given its own uniquely, dynamically
impressive charm; namely, I Was a Teenage Frankenstein, starring Whit
Bissell; who perhaps, after-all, served to embody the only kind of strength
even Lois Lane was actually capable of respecting!  From among all such
films of its type, particularly with respect to the time when they were so
abundantly as well as simultaneously "on a roll," I'll have to rank this one
as being the most uniquely resonant, and, correspondingly, the most
wastefully underrated and neglected, in every sense, including an extremely
well-crafted script which deserves so much more critically evaluative
scrutiny than it shall be receiving here.  And, if that's not enough, then,
to help seal even my fate here, given even Superman's need of a replacement,
but particularly with relation to still another Lois Lane who was likewise
quite symbolically the very one in need Clark Kent's pair of glasses (this
constituting, most intentionally, a "hard saying," especially for the sake
of anybody who believes he's already got it pegged!--Or, rather, skewered!);
then let's take it just a single step further, in the form of Oliver Frank,
as portrayed by Donald Murphy, and his determination to transform her so
much more completely into his own image!
     Even more, Vice Squad, with Wings Hauser, is something no "sugar pimp,"
in, particular, let-alone the supposed "head," of any typically modern
household, can really afford to miss; for essentially the same reason Ramrod
had been just as appropriately cast, as the most tragically necessary gift,
to just about every insufferably "liberated" primadonna today; including the
most "Christianly Conservative" performances of all, minus even anybody at
home to assist at interpreting I Timothy 2:11-15!  Of course, Ramrod had
been incalculably more off the mark, with Princess (Season Hubley; the
rarest kind of royalty indeed, and not merely for a member of the world's
oldest profession!), than Frankie Fane (Stephen Boyd) had been, with Kay
Bergdahl (Elke Sommer; and, again, here's real class, but with so much more
to match!), in The Oscar; when he answered Kay's scathing comment, about
everything she hated, with the at least equally true rebuke, "You mean,
everything you love!"  In this sense, even Ricky Ricardo comes through more
refreshingly than most; just as Ward Cleaver, and James Anderson, to cite
but two of the more meaningfully symbolic examples, were even more
anachronistically inspiring, along, for that matter, with their wives; even
if, as one "nerd" so "cleverly" as well as "revengefully" expressed it,
Ward, in particular, had, at times, been "a bit hard on the Beaver!"
Indeed, even Donna Reed might also have come through, just like that "wild
cat," Lauren Bacall, in Key Largo; given only the "right" kinds of
circumstances, those so much less "wholesomely provincial," to help bring
out still more of the very best in their kind!  At any rate, they were
certainly to be included, right alongside all the rest of The Real
McCoys!--At least until they had been offered even the most irresistibly
true-to-life scripts, such as Walter Brennan's, in The Oscar, or Richard
Crenna's, with his even more craftily well-disciplined "heart-to-hearts,"
particularly concerning the kind of attitude which fails to sit very well
with a badge! Indeed, even that last line, with Rambo whining away, like one
his kind otherwise sadistically get off at castigating as nothing but
"wimps," about how nobody would "let us win," provided more than enough
"damage control" to "vindicate" the entire film, minus the need of even a
single sequel!  Perhaps even most would actually have to ask what I mean by
"damage control" here.  Well, for one thing, Rambo's complaint about not
even being able to get a job parking cars, let-alone just walk into a
restaurant with a little dignity, and receive at least a bit of peace and
quiet, from the "Law," particularly while trying to legally mind his own
business, is much more profoundly, realistically worthy of honest
consideration!  Perhaps he'd managed to "move on," unlike literally millions
whom I read are still quite homelessly, aimlessly, and woundedly wandering
the streets; but, as far as I'm concerned, the only real war is right here,
at "home," and always was, even for so many tragically-misguided vets who
nevertheless deserve a much better deal!
     However, it must be said that even Ramrod's approach is far superior to
that of either, for instance, Walter Huston, to Joan Crawford, or Jose
Ferrer, to Rita Hayworth, in Somerset Maughan's Rain!  And this is not even
to address my most tenderly sympathetic regards concerning the kind of
psychological shipwreck Mr. Davidson was, or the painful difficulty he had
enduring his own "moral" breakdown, which led to such a supremely terminal
expression of the same cowardly self-indulgence by which he'd "lived."  But
even the kind of characteristically, religiously "stable" upbringing which
had eventually led so much of the West to Protestantism, then "Secularism,"
and even "Neo" Paganism, and the deeply, violently unnatural conflicts
internally engendered, would be much less decisively-hopeless and
blindingly-crippling-a-match for the kind of nevertheless far-too-genuinely
moral albeit virtually congenital victim of the same not even to recognize,
on time, in a more honestly, even cathartically self-examining way,
let-alone freely permit to result in the callously destructive victimization
of others, while damaging the very image of Christ even more devastatingly
in the process, as a mere means of sustaining his own "selflessly,
sensitively moral" self-image!  And what about that Warden, from The
Shawshank Redemption!  Now there was someone who knew how to inspire
converts!  Chester Morris, from Unchained, ran Chino quite a bit better,
except when it came to the standard schoolboy dilemma, at least for the
innocently involuntary parties involved, which he'd so crudely, prudishly
imposed, in "graduate school" as well, like the philistinistically,
typically, stiffly mediocre type he therefore nevertheless was, of blaming
and penalizing all the convicts equally, "democratically!"  Nevertheless,
his new idea is to be held in the highest esteem, as Steve Davitt (Elroy
"Crazylegs" Hirsch) just as voluntarily as involuntarily came to the more
nobly and honorably self-denying point of realizing in the end.  Also,
Stuart Whitman, as the "Principal Keeper," in Convicts Four, is, quite
unrealistically, among the very best, although there are still far-too-many
who are capable of appreciating only the likes of his predecessor, as
portrayed by Broderick Crawford.  Most relevantly here, consider the
destruction of Dooley (Mickey Rooney), at the hands of "Preacher" (Don
Taylor), at the end of The Bold and the Brave!  One would have to scrape the
very bottom of the barrel to find, if possible, any worse, such as Bud
Corliss (Robert Wagner), in A Kiss Before Dying!  There was an equally
gruesome remake of this one, too, by the same title, with Matt Dillon;
although the plots are considerably varied, but not in any of the more
urgently consequential of ways, contrary to the various contours with which
I am nevertheless just as painfully compelled to identify!  This story,
along with the crime of Montgomery Clift, so similar in motivation as well
that even Perry Mason was salivating after his head, in A Place In the Sun,
also serves as a scathing testimonial to the terrible hardship and shame of
being hopelessly poor, and the kind of terror so ruthlessly engendered, even
of becoming let-alone remaining that way; in a System where the lack of any
"Social Safety Net" is regarded as, among other, less "unfortunately
necessary" things, the only adequately-motivating impetus, and money is the
only thing universally, selfishly, victimizingly, idolatrously venerated;
along with particularly a more commonly "successful" determination to avoid
such a selfishly, negatively personal outcome at virtually any cost to
others, but in ways so much more "honestly respectful," and even quite
"legally" as well as "morally" so, than in A Kiss Before Dying!  Indeed,
judging from the way all so very "wholesomely" and "honorably" compete, even
for money they don't need, and "hopefully" didn't even have to earn; it
shouldn't take a rocket scientist to perceive what they'll all be doing to
one-another, when there's nothing over which to fight but that last, stale
crust of bread (Galatians 5:14-16) (James 4:1-3)!  Yet, perhaps even Mr.
Corliss is not totally the lowest, either, after-all; despite even his own
sinisterly artistic skill, at acting at not acting at acting, but out of
nothing save a strictly external form of necessity in his thus relatively
exceptional kind of case; coupled with, if anything, an even more "genuinely
tender regret," for that matter, about what "must" be, than with most who
"must" also disguise the sheer horror of their real motivations as well as
actions especially from themselves!  In fact, Robert Wagner also portrayed
an even more tragically moving victim of the same kind of problem, in The
Mountain.  His elder brother, played by Spencer Tracy, might have prevented
him from perpetrating the ultimate crime in the process; yet, it's totally
disheartening, particularly after having lived in the midst of his kind of
"moralist," to witness how little empathy, or even sympathy, rather than the
kind of suspiciously inordinate contempt, he'd had to spare for his little
brother's inner conflict, in contrast with the "overflowing humanity" he'd
seen fit to pour out on behalf of the latter's prospective victim.  Marlon
Brando, too, can be seen, in The Young Lions, expressing the same sense of
dismay displayed by Wagner; as he recounts the humiliation of being forced
to beg, for hand-outs, from tourists, in his own country, following the
total devastation of the First World War.  One even has to hand it, in a
most tragically qualified way, to Ben Harper (Peter Graves), in The Night of
the Hunter, for that moving sermon he'd given to Robert Mitchum, in their
jail cell, about the life-and-death value of money, for which he'd gladly
sacrificed his own life, on behalf of what he'd deemed the welfare of his
wife and children.  Moreover, thanks to the perennially insufferable
predominance of Job's kind of "friends," I can almost appreciate even Bud
Corliss's, let-alone Ramrod's, strongest instinctual inclinations to avoid
getting closer to being any kind of "Christian" than to the Notorious Infamy
of the Black Plague itself; which had arrived, in the form of the Second
Typal Opening of the Fourth Seal (Revelation 6:7-8), to help in cleansingly
away an even more terrible disease!  Also, for all I at least quite rarely
realize anybody is actually capable of knowing, contrary even to the many
who otherwise quite captivatedly couldn't get enough of him; that alone
might even turn out to merit Ramrod's ultimate redemption, perhaps far ahead
of most of theirs, too!
     However, even despite the extent to which I've likewise been unable to
avoid sharing in their sentiment, another of my own incalculably more worthy
preferences is that of Clark Gable, in Band of Angels, which I preferred so
much more to Gone With the Wind!  Yvonne De Carlo also very far outshined
the likes of Vivien Leigh, as someone much more worthy of his efforts,
particularly at the very end; along with Sidney Poitier, of course, even as
he likewise appeared in certain other, equally ever-moving accomplishments,
such as To Sir, With Love, A Patch of Blue, and The Defiant Ones!  Indeed,
even for a Baptist, he managed to hold his own extremely well, with nothing
short of the most frightfully Oscar-deserving nun of the bunch, in Lilies of
the Field; although, in her place, I would have had to recommend that
certain other, much more popularly "viable" possibilities, such as Jane
Fonda or Liz Taylor (who rather needed a first-rate pro to direct, such as
George Peppard, as Jonas Cord, Jr., from The Carpetbaggers, although I won't
go quite as far as to say instead of a Martin Balsam to produce!), at least
follow the lead, of George C. Scott and Marlon Brando, but for entirely
different reasons, perhaps even much better as well as entirely antithetical
ones as well, in much more graciously declining the offer!  But even Mr.
Poitier outdid his own initial Oscar-winning performance, as good as that
was, when he made A Raisin In the Sun, along with mama, of course, and the
way she'd finally put that sister of his in place, at the very end!  And,
while it's getting harder and harder, perhaps he'd done even better than
that, now that Edge of the City comes to mind!  Even Michael Sarrazin didn't
do quite as well, despite the deeply-moving friendship he'd struck up with
The Flim-Flam Man!--Although his girl was one very fortunate lady,
too!--But, still, not quite as fortunate as Sidney had been, and vice-versa,
where that's concerned, in Edge of the City!  I only wish it were possible
to rejoice quite as much for the sake of his dear, sweet wife, in that one;
but, then, the grief with which she'd finally been left is too overwhelming,
even for me!  Take it from Axel Nordmann (John Cassavetes), for I feel about
as totally at the end of my rope, minus only the kind of shove he'd "needed"
to push him over the very edge!  If there are any others I've neglected,
they certainly couldn't be any better than this, unless I'm really slipping,
instead, even if not quite as severely as Max Von Sydow, under the
unbearably heavy weight of His Cross!  Either way, I cannot afford to be
careless, for even an instant; since, if nothing else (and what could
possibly by nature be worse?), Charlie isn't at all hard to find! To the
contrary, I've never been able to get away from him, either!  Again, though,
as for Liz Taylor, she did quite thoroughly make up for everything, totally
redeeming herself, thanks to perhaps the only appearance in her career which
had been so exquisitely well-executed as to have failed to reveal any trace
of a mere "performance," thus compelling me, particularly in her case, to
strongly suspect she had not been "merely acting" at all.  And that's quite
a compliment, considering the impressively high quality of the character
she'd no less superlatively brought to life in The Sandpiper, augmented by a
superbly-reinforcing theme song, in "The Shadow of Your Smile."  I liked it
even better than Children of a Lesser God, and that's going some, indeed,
virtually the very Distance!  About the only remotely comparable instance I
can honestly cite, in the case of Jane Fonda, is one of which she's no
longer particularly proud, also since she undoubtedly recalls, vividly
enough, one of the lessons left to her by her father, rather than from Hanoi
(perhaps the most ruthlessly, savagely carpet-bombed city on earth, since
"men" and "governments" had begun imperialistically taking to the skies!),
or even from her brother's starring role in Fighting Mad, about what can
finally happen to those who Never Give an Inch; just as, for that matter,
one sees an abundance of disturbing evidence to support the charge of a most
disingenuously opportunistic "publicity stunt" as the actual motive here; as
she had begun wavering in her "convictions," under public pressure, in
exactly the same way Jerry Falwell did, after having told the truth,
subsequent to 9/11, that America's rabidly militant homosexual agenda is
likewise hardly doing anything to endear the country to its Creator--or,
for, that matter, to Osama bin Laden, either!  But, then, there's no doubt
whatsoever whom these "tenderly humanistic" militants would prefer to see
win, even as they continue to bad-mouth the very Bush by whom they
nevertheless feel so arrogantly and smugly well-protected, despite the fact
that he's also the very one "bringin' 'em on" in the process!  Moreover, it
was probably the "anti-homosexual advocate," Bush himself, who'd told
Falwell, and Pat Robertson, too, to "cool it," as such was threatening to
detract from the goal of inciting the maximum hatred against Osama bin
Laden, and the demand for revenge; which, after-all, would tend very
strongly to militate against any religious invitation that America rather
examine itself more honestly, as well as the many reasons it is so
understandably despised in the world!  But "don't ask, don't tell" is really
the only viable solution, as even the deviants ought to know, save for the
extent to which they are militantly, presumptuously among the small minority
over the centuries who've not had to worry about being witch-hunded down,
regardless of where they might have "discreetly" attempted to "mind their
own business!"  At least even an "altruistic" hedonist such as President
Clinton was able to get that right, but only since it just happened to be
the most personally, opportunistically convenient, if not the only such
option open to him in the process!  And, of course, there's no doubt as to
which position he would have greatly preferred, just as perhaps all that's
needed to "validate" even the most ruthlessly homicidal tendencies, in his
kind of eyes, is to prove even they are "strictly genetic" in origin, as
with Rhoda Penmark (Patty McCormack), from out of The Bad Seed!  Yet, even
he appears to have no regard for pot smokers today who really are just
trying to "otherwise" legally (and not unscripturally, either) MIND THEIR
OWN BUSINESS, anywhere but in a typical penthouse suite, but especially in a
poor black neighborhood of citizens as supposedly "free and equal" as any
poor white youth who rather predominantly prefer a powder of the same color
to crack.  Even a real medical need for grass may not be the most ideal
thing, speaking in terms of the need itself, that is, rather than the grass;
but it certainly constitutes a vast improvement, for just one great big kind
of instance, over the massive doses of Thorazine they'd needlessly and
callously forced me to take, even with accompanying effects which still
another medication is likewise much more capable of helping to
psychoactively control!
     And, while I'm not so certain, either, about Jane's brother, Peter,
particularly given the many other, more questionable kinds of roles which he
plays at least as convincingly; I can at least say, of myself, along with
Captain America, that I never wanted to be anybody else, either; even
despite the fact that so very few, particularly rather than exceptionally of
the most "successfully" unsatisfiable sort, actually share the same
sentiment, while not a single one from among all the rest would even
remotely consider swapping places with me, either!  Moreover, I'd wager
EVERYTHING that MOST of THEM would fail to last any longer than did
Archibald Beechcroft (Shelley Berman), in Serling's "The Mind and the
Matter," contrary to how very well I'd be able to get along with myself
(Matthew 7:12-14)!  Greg and I went together, to see Easy Rider, in
celebration of a trek we were both about to make, and started upon, the very
next day, on foot, to Miami.  No drug deals, no bikes, no conspicuously
fancy attire, or a sports car, like Buz Murdock and Tod Stiles, just thumbs
up, coupled with an idealistically blind faith in the God of Freedom.  It
was at exactly the same time of year, too, back in 1970, and we made it with
hardly a snag; but there were a few dangerously close calls, including a
perhaps wisely aborted temptation to become distracted by the Mardi Gras,
and "Mississippi Roy!" Moreover, the longest ride we had, from Flagstaff,
all the way to East St. Louis, along Route 66, with a musician in an old,
beaten-down station wagon, by the name of Al, had been briefly interrupted,
for what nevertheless seemed an eternity, somewhere in Arizona, due to a
broken tail light. The smell of grass was still freshly and heavily in the
air, and the paraphernalia was still sitting in plain sight on the dash;
just as Al had remained equally, inconspicuously calm about the heroin he
had stashed in his suitcase, even despite his awareness, while they were
actually searching the interior, of having been detained in a state which
stood one of the greatest chances of making him a lifer!  And, of course, I
seriously doubt, as virtually anybody would, that those cops were just
trying to be "nice guys," or that they were totally blind, any more than
there'd even been an attempt to bribe them.  I'll leave you to narrow down
the enormous possibilities still remaining from here!  But it wasn't until
much later, in fact, way past Key Largo, that we'd had to concern ourselves
in any serious way about "reaching the Paris Line."  Greg had left us by
then, however, so that only Ratso Rizzo and The Walrus remained, subsequent
to our rendezvous with them in Miami.  We were some "Smooth Operators,"
intent upon "Goin' Up, the Country," but it only turned out feeling more
like Otis Redding, "Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay, Wastin' Time," right
back here in L.A.!  To speak a bit more penetratingly, however, as the "odd
one out," who was, "somewhat" sarcastically, re-named The Professor, it had
always been, in spirit, and continues to be, a perpetually "Rainy Night In
Georgia" to me, from beneath the superficial veener of so much "joy, fun,
and seasons in the, sun!"  After I'd returned to Los Angeles, about one year
later, I'd received a little Yamaha, as a gift from my father; which, in
turn, had not been long before the many reasons, including a "Christian
Congregation" especially, I now wish I could rather have been Fated to hit
the road again on it instead.  But, then, unlike the one owned by Jim
Bronson (Michael Parks), my bike hadn't been nearly as durable, nor had it
come at quite as tragically-expensive-a-price!  Had I only followed Ben
Gazzara's lead, and RUN FOR MY LIFE, it might at least have been possible to
avoid being "Born Again," that is, AGAIN, very much after the fashion of
Ross Martin, in The Colossus of New York!  In general, I'll even dare
"thank" the Typical American Woman, even "in advance," for the extent to
which I need not even tell her, any more than she does me, to--Stay Away
From Me!  As B. B. King said, The Thrill Was Gone, Long, Long Ago!--Although
only Lulu was able to help me realize that, contrary to the view of all
these miserable whores, the problem had never been with me at all!  Greg
found out, the hard way, as I did, about Colombian women, too; just as the
obscenely candid observation of Scarface, about their males, too (which, of
course, both genders had glaringly confirmed even more, shortly thereafter,
including, of course, that monstrously grotesque creature, "Marta!"), had
come as no great surprise to Lulu, who'd explained to me that Colombians are
uniquely accounted among the gutter trash of Latin America, in the view of
virtually every other Latin, from one end of their continent to the
other!--And, by now, quite relevantly, unaccidentally, "about" the only
allies America, or, that is, less impudently, presumptuously, the United
States (as overly-self-complimentary as even this title is, at least in any
of the right ways!) has left!  The Bible warns, of course, about the fallacy
of this kind of generalizing (Acts 10:28), but only to the extent that one
presumes to conclude as much, before the fact, even about every individual
who is part of such a group, as though personal moral freedom were not
involved, in a manner which inherently allows for the possibility of
exceptions.  However, the fact that most, if not virtually all, within any
given kind of grouping, may happen to be abjectly depraved, in a most
uniquely and unmistakably glaring way, thanks to whatever combination of
factors, even in addition to individual moral freedom per se, is likewise
acknowledged, by the Holy Spirit Himself, through the Apostle Paul, in Titus
1:12-13; just as, of course, even more generally, the entire human race,
save for One Man who ever lived (Hebrews 1), along with, but thanks only to
Him (John 3:16), a hitherto relatively few exceptions (Romans 8), by now,
even among professing "Christians" (II Thessalonians 2), is Biblically
declared to be nothing but filth (Acts 3:10-23)!  Indeed, for that matter,
even a species from right out of Star Trek's "The Man Trap" comes so much
closer to being the proverbial salt of whatever planet that was!  And, who
knows, but that, if "evolution" is biologically true, after-all, an even
more virulent Species, of the "gentler," more "controllable" gender (at
least, as Michael Madsen said, for those who, such as Ben Kingsley, "Don't
get out very much!"), may yet end up giving Alfred Molina the most
superlatively euphoric ride for his life, speaking of last meals truly fit
even for a typical rat who has yet to re-emerge--in--the third sequel?
     Such "charming" creatures, who currently comprise the norm, even of the
"male" gender, are becoming, if possible, by now, even more insufferably and
dangerously insipid by the day; particularly as politicians, or judges, as
well as no less erroneously supposed teachers, let-alone "ministers!"  I
can't even count the far-too-many I've characteristically encountered, of
the "gentler" gender, again, on both "opposing" sides of the spectrum, who
instinctively, bloodcurdlingly, or at least "subliminally," that is,
"morally," desire my kind of proverbial head on a platter; just because they
can sense, immediately upon contact, that I am among the kind who genuinely
have no real inclination, even from beneath the most "wholesomely,"
shallowly self-deceptive of merely "well-civilized" appearances, at least
not initially, or for the kind of sake they would quite degenerately prefer,
to rape and beat any of them half to death; in a way which brings to mind,
say, Telly Savalas, as Archer Maggott, from The Dirty Dozen, or Robert
Mitchum, as the "Reverend" Harry Powell, from The Night of the Hunter
(forget it, Dr. Kildare!), or even, again, Robert Mitchum, as Max Cady, from
Cape Fear (again, forget it, De Niro! You were also good, as usual, but not
quite as much here!). Even the relatively diminishing quantity as well as
quality of house-flies who yet remain, insist upon exclusively enjoying most
of the options, but minus any of the more traditionally equalizing
handicaps; despite the extent to which, for instance, even they fail to
appear nearly as appropriate, in pants, as many of their counterparts would,
in skirts!--Although I don't mean, I'm almost sorry I can't mean, the most
anciently, Paganly Roman ones, either! But don't worry, for, if you think
"Happy Daze" are here again, to stay, you haven't seen anything--yet!
     Only a man can still be burdened with the shame of being poor,
regardless of whose fault it actually is; atop all the hardships, per se,
which particularly the finest of women are likewise being compelled to bear;
if only there were any left to speak of, even of them as well, contrary to
how clearly Ray Charles heard it, from his own chorus, about as
humiliatingly "below the belt" as did Frankie Fane:  "Hit the road, Jack,
and don't ya come back no mo, no mo!"--In which case, Something Wicked This
Way--Might Not Have Ever Come, not even in one's wildest
Dreamscapes!--Including, for that matter, the kind of Firestarter even
Mordecai Jones, particularly from behind the wheel, let-alone General George
S. Patton, the closest thing, since, to a real "Rough Rider" who needed to
be stopped, dead in his tracks, could really benefit from by now!  Samantha
Stevens might appear as nothing less than a dream-come-true, but I wouldn't
want to bet upon any such prospect for real; especially with the kind of
mother, among so many others, who had also been included into the picture;
not to mention, most technically and "incidentally" of all, that the concept
of a "good" witch is anything but the most "harmlessly amusing"
contradiction in terms (I Corinthians 10:19-22)!  About the only thing which
helped "redeem" even Endora a bit more, on the big screen, despite the fact
that it was one of the most pointlessly ill-crafted of movies I've ever
encountered (next to, for just another typically contemporary instance,
Charlie's Angels!), was the fact that Will Farrell himself therefore blended
in most appropriately with it!  On the other hand, Barbara Eden constituted
a vast improvement, as Larry Hagman's "slave," over the kind of strictly
"respectable" stiff whom Tony Randall, above, should rather have compelled
his "slave" to permanently transform, right alongside her father, as well as
an entire courtroom of no less typically pompous "assets!"
     Of course, speaking even of the most typically unredeemable trash
(Matthew 7:15-29; 10:32-33) (Luke 13:3, 5) (Romans 8:9) I John 5:12), I
realize even the most "exceptionally refined" from among it are not in the
least bit placated or consoled thereby, let-alone amused!  It's no wonder
Jesus warned about the virtually universal unworthiness of throwing stones
"too capriciously" even at the very worst!  But, then, speaking, again, of
"exceptions," perhaps to likewise the most impressively generalizable rules
of all, even Omar Suarez (F. Murray Abraham), from Scarface, above, had a
point, about "F'ing peasants," just as that beast of a border guard really
called it right, when he sneered, "That S. of a B., Castro, is S_ittin' all
over us!"  And what a bit of Poetically Just Irony on the part of President
Castro, as the very alleged "criminal" who rather runs the alleged "asylum"
of Cuba; as if, for that matter, anybody save his fiercest accusers had been
the very ones to unprecedentedly usher in the concept of a violently just
revolution, which they now no less conveniently, hypocritically oppose, as a
matter of the selfsame "Principle!"  Tony really wasn't much of a gentleman,
either, atop his equally questionable taste in women; for about the same
reason one of Frank's more serious errors, minus even the brains, let-alone
the balls, to back up either his word or his orders, had been those two
turkeys who bunglingly missed their target, and just about nothing else, in
the Babylon Club, including poor "Ricky Ricardo!"  Tony himself was,
after-all, likewise a "pig, who don't fly straight," instead of right into
the "peek-a-boo" of Seidelbaum; even if one can at least have to admit he'd
given Manny (Steven Bauer) fair warning along the way, not to mention the
nobly self-sacrificial cause for which he finally had no choice but to go
out in a proverbial blaze of glory, along with the even more redeemably
because strictly accidental feature of his lack of any real consideration,
before the fact, as to how terminally high the cost to himself would be in
the process.  Hell, those two kids and their mother may be his own
"First-Class Ticket to the Resurrection" at that!  One of his gravest
oversights, however, was that he'd failed to take the infamous Alejandro
Sosa (Paul Shenar) quite seriously enough, either, or, no less relevantly
here, Frank, for that matter, despite the fair warning he'd received from
both!  Even for an "F'ing Little Monkey," he climbed remarkably high,
especially on his own supply, while leaving his greed to be totally
underestimated by the other guy; like some "Great Big You-Know-What," just
waiting to get "You-Know-What'd" at that; but, in conformity with an even
firmer rule, which states, "First the money, then the girl!"--Or, in the
words of Captain America, "We blew it, Billy!"
     Favorite TV Programs: The Twilight Zone (even the new ones), Night
Gallery, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Fugitive (although Roy Huggins, the
producer, turned out to have been the most scathingly "unaccountable" kind
of disappointment; along with, for that matter, David Janssen himself! Mr.
Huggins, in at least one interview, had left my ears about as unbelievably
stretched as those of Kimble himself; save for the extent to which I'd
nevertheless succeeded at hearing, rather than taking at all seriously,
nothing but the mouth of a jack-ass, although anything but Balaam's, so
very, at "best," deliberately, disingenuously braying!--Although I, on the
other hand, AM Balaam's--Amerika!); and, of course, Star Trek, but the
original episodes; just as about the most inspiring movement, of The Next
Generation, is to be heard in the opening Theme Song itself; which almost
compares, in Sheer Magnitude, to the International Anthem; although, if
possible, the former is almost as absurdly wasted as the latter; that is,
even despite the fact that Captain Picard, who specifically has plenty of
class, along with Ryker and the others, isn't quite that disappointing,
personally, at filling in for his predecessor; while even the magnificent
versatility of Harrison Ford would have to be stretched, out of all
reasonably viable proportion, before he could ever pass himself off as a
clone of President Bill Clinton, in Air Force One!
     About the most "positive" thing I can accurately as well as honestly
say concerning Bill and Hillary is that even Tammy Wynette would have been
too good for him, while even the most brutally-abusive "macho" would have
been too good for her! Moreover, Deputy Fuhrer Melakon (Skip "Tomorrow, the
World!" Homeier), in Star Trek's "Patterns of Force," should have been
nearly as "fortunate" as Gore (and his running mate, Lieberman, if even this
tells most anything, even yet, speaking of a prospective "Deputy Fuhrer!"),
particularly with a "boss" who never even had to "inhale," let-alone
mainline! As president, though, the other side of Dr. Roy Clinton, in Gore,
from an episode of The Outer Limits entitled "Expanding Human," would really
have had a chance to emerge, in furthering the "Non-Dogmatic," and even
quite "Non-Infallible," let-alone "Non-God-Playing" or "Naturally
Self-Balancing" Mechanisms of "Globalization," or "Free Trade," engineered
by a "Post-Industrial" America, but with a "Transcendentally, Objectively
Neutral" State, and Military, merely to "insure" that Brute Physical Force
and Thuggery were never employed against the will of anybody not already
unscrupulously engaged in the same! One could only wish Gore would seek an
even more perfect environment, by really hitching a ride, like Sevrin, with
Captain Kirk, on "The Way to Eden," where the fruit is particularly
appropriate! More plausibly, though, while Slick Willie still undoubtedly
believes it was his tail "Wagging the Dog," it was quite probably the other
way around, right down to a facilitation of the misinterpretation just
mentioned! Such "cooperation" on Clinton's part was perhaps the only reason
he hadn't been convicted in the Senate! And, characteristically enough, it
is scarcely if ever on the basis of the officially-stated charges that such
kinds of political prosecutions are ever actually sought, as virtually
everybody in Congress would thereby also undoubtedly be in the dock as well,
particularly in a case such as Clinton's impeachment! Rather, the actual
reasons are just as characteristically so criminally and collusively bogus
themselves as to require whatever conveniently camouflaging excuses are
utilized in the process! While Gore is gloating, now, like the brutally
cynical war-hawk he's always been, too, at the humiliation of his rival, as
though he were no less "morally" than "pragmatically" immune to all the
terrible repercussions which swallow up millions of more innocently ordinary
victims every day; those such as Hillary, who voted for a clearly illegal as
well as immorally-motivated war, while claiming they "didn't know" what they
undoubtedly did know, and would have had no excuse for not having known,
with relation to Bush's real intentions (of, again, among other things,
contemptuously spurning all formally legal barriers as well), lack even the
sense, let-alone decency, to at least appear to be hiding their heads in
embarrassment, if not outright shame, while daring to solicit even a single
vote--from either side!--Since, after-all, one of their favorite terms,
"Triangulation," is just a euphemism for Waffling! Indeed, Hillary and her
kind had been quite suspiciously gung-ho, in favor of a war they themselves
tend to regard as "optional," when, to be more accurate, Vietnam was
optional, while this one was much more vitally imperative to the continued
and parasitically undeserved economic viability of America as a nation, even
before it had begun, "at least" short of the kinds of radically fundamental
changes in the way America "does business" from which Americans shall be
very sorry they'd refused to learn, on time, at the feet of Lyndon H.
LaRouche! Just your presumptuously snot-nosed, childishly spoiled-rotten
contempt, as a "culture," of bacteria, that is, for his German Middelstand
Doctrine (which Watts also regularly touches upon, in the form of his
reminders, as well, that money is not wealth, and fails even to represent
anything but the disgusting impoverishment, from within as well, of those
who work, but only when they have to, and then only for the money, while
producing characteristically mediocre products in the process; instead of
the money taking care of itself, as a result of one's intrinsic love of his
craft, and the top-quality products which characteristically stem from
that!), is symbolically more than enough to explain what is by now totally
taking you all so pseudo-collectively and thus no less
pseudo-individualistically down, on a scale even Dick "Deficits Don't
Matter, Reagan Proved It" Cheney isn't going to be able to fix! Yet, even
Bush and Cheney are as hypocritically albeit "conveniently" right as
anything else about her kind, who cynically, opportunistically,
victimizingly play politics, like the selfishly cold-blooded chameleons they
are, over the bodies of as many dead soldiers, as well as their even more
helplessly innocent casualties, as it takes; just as, to be sure, most
Americans had systematically though "unwittingly," and quite "conveniently"
or "innocently" so, bought, long, long ago, into the very politics which
generate such wars, with no complaints, as long as nothing but the gravy
train lasted! Although they want to blame Bush and Cheney alone now, as
those who had "dragged them in," even they can soundly argue that nobody is
to blame for each and every individual having complied, save each and every
individual having complied, with scarcely anyone qualifying to "cast the
first stone!" And now that the Iraq War hasn't been nearly the kind of
"success story" even Hillary had politically gambled upon, she's just as
ready as Bush and Cheney to bet so much more, at the risk of what she
"thinks" to be only somebody else's expense, either way, that monstrously
attacking Iran will prove capable of retrieving all the current losses, and
preventing the otherwise virtually inevitable forfeiture of Iraq to Iran,
while adding the nice, hefty profit originally intended to this particular
tally! Extending this unscrupulously imperialistic "War on Terror" to Iran,
and beyond, had always been their intention, in either case; but
particularly now that more "good money" is required, in a determination to
"recoup" the losses as well! The "Stoical" Bushes, "verses" the "Epicurean"
or "Altruistically" Hedonistic Clintons, both symbolically nothing but
unscrupulous Spartans and Cretians, or rather typical Americans at "heart,"
are given to only the quite marginally, "morally" indecisive "difference"
that, while the former believe in "negotiating when necessary, and attacking
when possible," the latter are more "Liberally, Progressively,
Humanitarianly" inclined toward "negotiating when possible, and attacking
when necessary." Corollarily, if the former are, in a sense, merely a bit
more transparently "honest" than the latter, in this particular respect, at
least even the latter must be given the "credit" of being correspondingly a
bit more transparently "honest" than those who rave to themselves about
being so much more "virtuously" or "patriotically" and thus alone
"marginally" to the "Left," even of them; despite the very symbolically,
dismally, decisively revealing fact that, to even this "Democratically
Anti-Corporate" bunch, selfishly, even victimizingly "winning," rather than
how "scrupulously" the "game" is "played," is still the only thing that
"idealistically" counts. While they currently rave about the Constitutional
"Separation of Powers" being violated by the Chief Executive, as if that
were at all the issue to them, rather than manipulating, just as do the
Republicans, a rhetorically malleable document with "objectively
unambiguous" interpretations that suit their own ends; they would be singing
exactly the opposite tune, along with their Republican "opponents," were it
the Chief Executive attempting to execute their overall agenda instead.
Right or wrong, the only actual name of the game, on either side, is to win,
but minus either the courage or moral decency to admit, even and especially
to themselves, that even many of the ends, on both sides, are at least as
abominably disingenuous as the means of attaining them, just as even the
more laudable objectives are not necessarily motivated for any reasons
nearly as praiseworthy.  Where the sole imperative of victory in Iraq is
concerned, Hillary just had some catching up to do, with these "Altruistic"
or "Quid-Pro-Quo" Hedonists, these "Liberally Progressive Humanitarians,"
what Nietzsche called, in answer to Mill's actually very Sacred (at least if
not exclusively to many who are, by Mill's kind of definition,
characteristically even if not especially therefore nothing but "children"
and "savages!") formula, these Pig "Philosophers," or "Philosophers"
Satisfied, with their "Enlightened" Self-Interest (And, as they've made
"perfectly" clear to me, for the past thirty-plus years, God help anybody
they "think" they don't need, beginning with the Lord Himself, not to
mention all those war casualties and starving children they claim to
themselves to "care about" so much, but only as Grist for their Mills, for
their own neurological contradiction in terms!); who merely realized, even
before March, 2003, that the Iraq War had been hopelessly unwinnable.
     And, yet, of course, in precisely the opposite sense of that mentioned
immediately above, even the Clintons, let-alone those to their "Left," are
also so much more transparently "honest" than the Bushes; but only in that,
while the Bushes likewise say they subscribe to the latter of the two
formulas, as they must, only the Clintons mean it, so much more, when they
say the same thing; but, for what essentially amounts to the same reason, or
to achieve the most selfishly, victimizingly, cynically perverted objective,
that the Bushes alone are also quite denotatively lying here. One cannot but
be "impressively overwhelmed," for just one recently great big instance, by
the "good-will diplomacy," or "warfare dictatorially concealed," which had
been specifically designed in an "attempt" to "prevent," rather than render
desirably and "covertly" inevitable, that savagely imperialistic bombardment
of Yugoslavia, the last Communist Stronghold, back in 1999, on behalf of
Germany and the Vatican, or, that is, the "Holy" or "Christian" Roman
Empire! These characters can be "tricky," though, from beneath all their
"Democratically Civilized" Rhetoric; as illustrated, by Walker, the Texas
Ranger, when he'd taken over, in the interrogation of a "suspect," from
another cop; at which point, the "suspect" looked at Walker, and cynically
sneered, "I suppose you're the 'good cop.'" Walker's answer was,
"Wrong!--I'm the bad one!" At least the Clintons should have no real
difficulty going a bit easy on me here, particularly considering that
they've apparently forgiven even the Senior Bush for hypocritically calling
the president and his vice a couple of Bozos!--Or, is it only during
presidential campaigning that opponents are permitted, even expected, if not
perhaps even quite "regretfully compelled," especially by the greater bulk
of those they're deceiving, to say just about nothing but what they don't
actually mean, after-all? Even the Bushes, for that matter, should have no
trouble, particularly with Christ Himself as their "favorite philosopher,"
when it comes to granting me the most passionately ever-abundant measures of
forgiveness; not only despite as well as because of the extent to which, as
with the Clintons, there is nothing, really, for them to legitimately need
to forgive, at least not in my case; but, also, because of the magnitude of
their forgiveness even of Clinton and Gore, for actually being the kinds of
Bozos next to whom nobody should be any harder for even another Bozo to
forgive! But Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is quite another issue
entirely! The dirty trick is to deliberately and cynically utilize America's
overwhelmingly decisive leverage, either for war or peace, to create
conditions in the overwhelmingly intimidating context of which Iran would be
nuts if it were not doing everything covertly possible to arm itself to the
teeth, and perhaps even prepare some defensively pre-emptive surprises,
subsequent to which these "negotiators" can quite conveniently reverse
everyone's "understanding" as to the actual sequence of cause and effect
here. As for Castro?--And Kim? For one crucial thing, America, the Great
Goliath, is already "on its way" to "becoming" the kind of Absolute
Dictatorship it hypocritically presumes to deride in them, just for the sake
of continuing to be as unscrupulously and dangerously intimidating to them
as it would even more Dictatorially and Repressively feel while bracing
itself just as Defensively in their places! Castro, for that matter, said it
quite succinctly: It's not your Christianity to which we object, but rather
that you're NOT Christians! Indeed, even "if" none of these
"capitalistically free and equal" scoundrels, or any from among the
shamefully decadent predominance of their insipidly, rancidly,
herd-animalistically revolting subjects (or, pardon me, good, decent,
respectable 'citizens'") agree to "forgive" me here, "at least" I should
have glaringly succeeded, by now, at convincing even the most
characteristically, characterlessly dull-witted from among you that, unlike,
say, Dale Carnegie, or even Dr. Norman Vincent Peale (Don Murray), I could
not give one hell of a damn about the "fine art" of "winning friends and
influencing people," although it does disturb me, beyond anything most could
ever even begin to grasp, to contemplate that I might not turn out to be
ready, quite on time (Luke 21:36) (II Peter 1:1-15) (II Timothy 4:6-8),
after-all, for the First Resurrection to Immortality (Revelation 11:15-19)
(I Thessalonians 4:15-18) (I Corinthians 15:34-58); if only in that I'm not
exactly any Saint Stephen (Acts 7:54-60), either, but would greatly prefer
to have one last crack, like Samson (Victor Mature), at taking down the
entire "'Christian' temple" of Baal, or rather Dagon (Day Gone!), and every
Philistinistically, swinishly mocking degenerate in it, right down with me!
But, then, on the other hand, if Saint Stephen had been filled with the
Spirit, at that final instant, then so, also, had Samson been! Moreover,
don't be "too encouraged" by Stephen's level of compassion, either, as he'd
probably only been extended a more clearly-penetrating glimpse of the kind
of end I wouldn't wish even upon the most evil kind of dog, either (Psalm
73); just as the very last thing I should ever stoop to honestly confessing,
particularly if not exclusively to swine on the level of most of you, is the
extent to which I rather fear ending up like Peter, while hearing that cock
crowing for the third time!  Moreover, please don't misunderstand me as just
another who fails to regard the uniquely symbolic greatness of America's
legacy, for I am in awe of its incalculably marvelous achievements, as well
as grateful for the extent to which they have also blessed so many, myself
included. Yet, pride does come before a fall (Proverbs 16:18) (Deuteronomy,
Chapter Eight), particularly when the very Judicial Backbone of such an
impressively massive edifice is failing to perform its most Uniquely Sacred
Function, to the point where it finally crumbles from its own increasingly
rotten and destructively, dysfunctionally dead weight! It cannot be too
often repeated that America's greatest "strength," GREED, the very
"Christian" momentum behind the Cold War, which it therefore "won," is also
its greatest WEAKNESS! In the end, which is alarmingly imminent by now, your
many virtues are not going to be nearly enough to save you, as a nation,
from the folly of your numerous vices!--Daniel 5:27! Can ANY of you YET
discern the proverbial Handwriting on the Wall?
     Indeed, the fictionally "inconsequential" Harrison Ford is even more
mystifyingly, dangerously insidious than either the Clintons, or their
unnamed "senior partner" in the Chronicles, Bush; in that he still
perpetuates so many of the same systematically-interrelated myths, but while
putting a more "manly" endorsement upon them; one from which even a "real"
president is also well-calculated to benefit, "at least" by way of the most
"subliminally subtle" kind of "free association." In actuality, only Gary
Oldman had anything substantially thought-provoking to offer, contrary
particularly to all the president's disingenuously hypocritical hype about
"Peace without Justice," and the theatrically accompanying "tears" in his
eyes; just as, for that matter, it's a most notoriously clever trick of
Satan, to "neutralize" many of the most "inconveniently" essential kinds of
truths, which definitely abound from out of the mouth of Oldman; that is, to
"discredit" such truths, at least in the popular "mind," by placing them so
very squarely in the mouth of "Satan" himself; so that, with the help of
Schwarzenegger as well, they become nothing but "True Lies!" On the other
hand, however, we can "know" what a "truly great man" Harrison Ford is! Just
ask one of the most "objectively, movingly credible" of all sources, namely,
that "maturely" air-headed bimbo who played his daughter in the film, as
well as his wife and his Vice! Yet, perhaps the most Tragically Comical
Irony of all is that Satan is going to be at his unprecedented best, by the
time, shortly to arrive, when he's thoroughly used up America, and is ready
to spit it out; in his need to have someone to blame for his dirty work, as
well as in his need to be able to blame America in particular; while no less
conveniently being able and even needing to tell almost nothing but the
truth, as the "Savior" from it all, but certainly not by nature because it
is the truth!
     Indeed, about the only fictionally theatrical image of a "president,"
which succeeds at "virtuously outshining" even his, is that of an E.G.
Marshall, in Superman II, along with the "touchingly selfless" motives which
alone could have ever moved him to kneel! Whenever such creatures really do
suddenly find themselves with nothing more "substantial" upon which to fall
back, they instinctively assume such a defensively, hypocritically,
sickeningly, "solemnly pious" posture, more rather than less than they
characteristically do, and while even more "seriously," hysterically,
theatrically falling for it themselves! Moreover, General Zod was about the
only figure who did very smoothly blend into this particular film, but in a
manner I'd thereby have to characterize as being complimentary as well;
precisely due to his own, almost equally understandable irritation with the
entire scenario involved! And, again, as for "presidents," even Jack
Nicholson, in Mars Attacks!, as I briefly touch upon, once again, further
down below, succeeds at being the more burlesquely "believable" in stature;
even to the extent that about all I can personally identify with is the more
"wholesomely," vigorously mocking sense of humor displayed by My Favorite
Martians themselves, who so perceptively had him pegged, right alongside the
all-too-dismally-familiar as well as refreshingly diminishing image of Rod
Steiger! You've really got to hand it to Steiger, however; for, if nothing
else, he was totally right, all-along; as anyone of his type should be among
the first to know, as well as thank! But, then, again, his boss, short of
having mastered the skills of a President Thomas J. Whitmore (Bill Pullman),
from Independence Day (Could McCain ever really come through like that,
let-alone Obama?  Even Randy Quaid had a better chance of hopping the
Midnight Express, which still proved an extremely more realistically sober
impossibility!), rather had, again, nothing left, upon which to fall back,
particularly in the mirror, but what Frankie Fane (Stephen Boyd), from The
Oscar, cynically, "almost" understandably, and even quite refreshingly
referred to, particularly in his rebuke of Kappy's (Milton Berle) lying
disingenuousness, even as to the extent of what he'd claimed to have been
totally "unable" to do, in a Bad Faith attempt to hide, even and especially
from himself, the fact of what he'd so "morally," and, as he'd also piously
loved to sermonize (but in Frankie's defense, or, rather, in his own
bread-and-butter's defense, no doubt), so freely chosen not to want to do,
as the "Sincere Bit," that "heartrendingly selfless concern" with "pure,
absolute idealism!" Or, could it actually be that, rather than having lied
to himself in this sense, he'd been consciously lying, but only to Frankie,
after-all?--Instead of having still more courageously as well as responsibly
admitted, even to Frankie, but in the most "inconveniently" because still
very financially risky as well as morally mandatory way to himself, "the
truth" that he would "never stoop," at any price, to doing his boss any such
"grossly unscrupulous" favors as the one he'd demanded?--And, yet, the very
one he'd ended up doing, quite easily and successfully, that is, to just
about everything but his pride. This particular "moral idealist" could have
used at least some kind of "refresher course" on Kantian as well as Sartrean
moral philosophy, in about the same way Captain Veer (Peter Ustinov), from
Billy Budd, could have learned to better, even perhaps more sincerely as
well as intelligently distinguish the difference, which he systematically,
regularly, and conveniently inverted, on both counts, between an
Intrinsically, Non-Negotiably, Sacredly Categorical Imperative, and a merely
hypothetical one! Moreover, unfortunately enough, for Billy, Captain Veer
had only much more commonly, "well-educatedly" succeeded at mastering the
kind of strictly sophistical rhetoric, which itself didn't even have to be
nearly as good as he'd merely "thought" it was, to which an even more
stubbornly as well as sincerely half-educated hold-out, such as Gunnery
Officer Steven Wyatt (David McCallum), had finally been so fiendishly
seduced into succumbing! I only wish I could have been in his place, to
deliver the most superfluously and thus also quite "confusingly" as well as
meaningfully exhaustive sermon imaginable, in response to Captain Veer's
final, most "desperate" request for a manner of rationally and consistently
extricating himself!  Not only did Veer ignore the Categorical Imperative,
in favor of the perverted hypothetical imperative, the personally
unconscionable convenience, of executing Budd unjustly; but, in the process,
he ignored the Categorical Imperative, time and again, in his refusal even
to synonymously enforce his own military regulations, by having had Claggart
arrested, well on time to prevent the climactically ensuing tragedy,
contrary to the recommendations of his own subordinate officers as well, and
the most brutally, disturbingly unmistakable signs!  And why did he
explicitly so refuse, on at least one occasion?  Because it would not have
been "expedient," if only due to the lamely, even falsely disingenuous
rationalization that nobody was available to take over Claggart's duties, or
given the possible "detriment" to "morale" of as much as enforcing a given
military regulation AT ALL!  And, even then, his "Duty" to a "Sworn Oath,"
taken at least "long enough ago" to have been, if need be, "forgivable,"
albeit nonetheless "binding," must have consoled him immensely, in still
another glaring illustration of the vastly normative extent to which
PATRIOTISM IS THE LAST REFUGE OF A SCOUNDREL, just as Kirk Douglas so
appropriately reminds us, again, in Paths of Glory; even if, again, he
conveniently picked and chose when to ignore particularly his own best
military codes, while even most falsifyingly "enforcing" others, out of the
kind of mere "expediency" he'd quite arguably never even sworn, in letter,
at least, to uphold, rather than NOT to uphold!  Moreover, any "Oath of
Allegiance" UNCONDITIONALLY sworn to a worldly authority, is AUTOMATICALLY a
violation of the Doctrine of Separation of Church and State, something no
such morally responsible entity would ever permit, even at the most
vigorously enthusiastic insistence of any prospective idolater!  And, in the
process, such an oath is also a violation of Acts 5:29, as well as Matthew
22:21!  Ironically enough, however, Kant himself would probably have proven
one of the worst candidates for this particular task, with his tendency to
take the side of Veer in such matters; which speaks, not against the
soundness of his "Purely Practical" theory, but rather of the way he tends
to interpretatively apply it, in conjunction with the lion's share of the
responsibility he must therefore also assume for having helped give the most
understandably cynical opposition such "persuasively plausible" reason to
cast aspersions upon it. Just as his kind are in no wise inclined to
compromise against the side of worldly authority, in their conception of
"Duty," I at least have the greater balance to appreciate both sides of what
I'll nevertheless not be so generous here as to call a bonified "antinomy,"
for the same reason I incline so strongly in favor of the Higher emphasis
(Acts 5:29) his applied "Reason" totally, "unequivocally" neglects.
     Moreover, speaking of young, impressionable children, I also marvel,
but in no flattering way whatsoever, at the emphasis upon blocking various
programs from being viewed!--To protect children?--But from what? From
things no "responsible adult," or generally hypocritical society, would have
any desire to view, either? This is certainly not to discount a most
profoundly legitimate imperative of protecting children, even by screening
out certain kinds of things real adults alone are capable of synthesizing.
Yet, concealing "adult" corruption from them, in the form of a most
otherwise "embarrassingly" shameful double-standard, is definitely not to be
included here! Such rightfully pertains, again, only to the most legitimate
forms of content, which can nevertheless potentially influence children in
detrimental ways; not because there is anything wrong with the content
itself, but rather with the very capacities of children who are not yet
mature enough to interpret and comprehend it in the constructively edifying
way ideally intended. While there certainly is much content which falls
within the proper category here, the problem, most symbolically,
revealingly, is that no formal provision is established, rather than at
least "implicitly" and no less vehemently denied, for acknowledging the
soundness of the very distinction itself; just as, for that matter, the
difference depends, far-too-often, upon the quality of the "adult" viewer
himself, rather than upon even what would otherwise be at least potentially
the very best, objectively, in itself, of content!  Even more, the children
are at least "somewhat implicitly" taught, not that certain "standards"
should be CATEGORICALLY AVOIDED, at ANY age, but rather merely that they are
not yet as "ready" to SIN "RESPONSIBLY" as they therefore feel all-the-more
"FREE" to "self-verifyingly," indeed, "self-evidently," CONCLUDE TO QUITE
THE CONTRARY!  Indeed, overall, this "modernly moral concern" for "the
children," in particular, is "positively" moving, and as HYSTERICALLY,
MURDEROUSLY INDULGED as to clearly suggest that the most normatively,
abominably "adult" offenders are thereby "hopeful" of "compensating" for all
their other sins!  Alfred Hitchcock, however, is such a uniquely gifted
artist, as well as an ingenious master of suspense, as to likewise qualify
for a virtual "G" rating every time, without having to suffer the loss of a
single, otherwise essentially censorable thing, save perhaps the climactic
one in Psycho. Yet, the same can hardly be said for even the "strictly adult
value" of mindlessly pointless spectacles such as Halloween or Friday the
13th; along with the endless television commercials Hitchcock so "tactfully"
derided, while they continue to impose themselves upon everybody, "as
though" the sponsors were doing the average wage slave a great big favor,
instead of fulfilling a legitimate public responsibility, with the means--of
production--which they own! Indeed, the greatly pivotal policy debate, just
after the advent of television (one as monumental, in its questioning as to
who really should own the air waves, as certain others had been, going all
the way back to the beginning of the American Republic, such as whether to
have a Standing Militia, and how to deal with corporate power, an issue
since "legally solved," in 1886), as to whether it should primarily and
decisively serve cultural ends, or commercialistic ones, had obviously been
won by the very elements which not only help "subliminally" instill in young
and impressionable children the swinishly-perverted and dismally-prevailing
view that culture is rightfully and even quite naturally nothing but a mere
means to the end of business, and even "entertainment" of the most
correspondingly, increasingly, mindlessly, cynically mediocre varieties, but
also just as cynically, tastelessly, insipidly, and swinishly butcher every
originally, educationally creative work of art, just to make room for extra
commercial time!--Which ought rather to have a special channel devoted to
nothing else!--Or, is somebody afraid nobody will tune in, perhaps, by now,
even to signals so undetectably refined as to make Videodrome
much-too-melodramatically crude by comparison? Again, though, as for the
content in-between, Elvis, too, is a prime example of someone who simply
helped open the door, likewise to so many others who more characteristically
and grossly overstepped his most tastefully well-balanced forms of artistry,
but for whom it would be much-too-decisively oversimplifying to lay the
blame on him, even if those who wanted his head are about to be, again, but
retrospectively, thus more "understandably," in vogue; just as when, for
that matter, sexual concerns were dominated by such "religiously"
psychological insecurities, self- and mass-hysterically masquerading as
"genuinely moral" obsessions, as to have rendered Elvis symbolically so much
more than merely or just plain "undesirably" inevitable; and, to be sure,
just as the "beautiful" generation is indeed quite "admirably" serving to
"conveniently" as well as over-reactively demonstrate, on the whole, not
only that real standards of any kind are, to them, inherently synonymous
with "hang-ups," but also that the very insecurities being so impotently,
exhibitionistically "transcended" are still as murderously strong as ever,
and incalculably more brazenly, beastially depraved!  Moreover, here's
what's probably a very dirty little secret, perhaps even to most:  Those who
are really "getting off," aren't bragging about or advertising it in the
least, for there's no need!  Like the European Renaissance, of which
America's corresponding "Transition" was a structurally prophetic as well as
culturally cheap imitation, this particular point of "Optimal Resonance" was
a most daringly hopeful experiment, which cinematically arrived right on the
Borderline, with a film such as Where the Boys Are; although hot shot Robert
Conrad tried to cross it a bit too abruptly, crudely, and prematurely, with
an irrepressibly, even intriguingly virile tenacity, in Palm Springs
Weekend; just as even a bikini-clad Sandra Dee couldn't quite manage to
cross over, as Gidget, although I certainly identified with only the most
negative of her later college experiences, in Tammy Tell Me True; and it
would be symbolically unthinkable not to include here Annette Funicello, who
tried, with an even more puritanically-stuffy determination, to keep things
from moving "forward," while remaining just as skimpily-clad; yet, on the
whole, and despite its numerous advantages, a hopelessly futile balancing
act to maintain, a senselessly wasted gift, and an ungratefully squandered
opportunity, leading to all manner of Mischief, both on and off the Big
Screen; particularly given such classically unthinkable counterbalances to
follow, right out there in plain sight, as Brokeback Mountain, or Juno, to
even more heavily offset, if possible, such masterfully, sinisterly
well-crafted extremes, at the other end, as Reefer Madness, Mary Jane, and
High School Confidential, the hysterically, mentally-defective atrophy of
which simply had to be challenged, at virtually any cost, especially with
one such as Jack Webb to help "balance out" the very Fulcrum Itself!  The
particular film just mentioned, by the name of Mischief, although not quite
the quality of, say, Inventing the Abbotts, was at least a most bluntly
educational experience, in both respects, as well as a glaring tribute to
the dismally ineradicable reality of precisely such predominantly human
folly; including the main "hero," and his Griffin Dunne-like nerd of a
friend, about on a qualitative par with almost all the characters in She's
the One; along with, for that matter, an equally, contemporarily, typically
air-headed cast of bimbos, in what still quite amazingly because somewhat
successfully passes as the Morality Play as well as the Art Form, per se, of
Beyond the Valley of the Dolls; in contrast with other, more
"pre-transitional" forms of "art-imitating-life," such as Strangers When We
Meet, with Kirk Douglas and Kim Novak, which make me the most grateful of
all, morally speaking alone, for Hebrews 13:4, thanks to a job I'd never
personally covet, lest I come out, if anything, too leniently in favor of
the main characters.  Not long since, as in the cases of otherwise
First-Rate Morality Plays such as Fatal Attraction, and Play Misty for Me
(although they both GOT OFF better than they deserved--Michael Douglas and
Clint Eastwood, that is--even despite all the trouble it ended up costing
them!); it's as though something, even a most "Transcendentally-Rooted
Intangible," had decisively "pulled the plug" on even the capacity to ape
anything more deeply, humanly resonant, in a "post-transitional" era where
technological enhancements likewise substitute for the kinds of performances
only real personalities coupled with equally meaningful dialogue could
carry; although, for all that, I'll dare confess it's extremely difficult
not to succumb to the extra special charm of even an otherwise typically
ultra-modern Barbie Doll such as Dolly Read, despite even the determination
of the Kirk Douglas, in Detective Story, so very painfully burned into me,
to continue fighting it!  After-all, if nothing else, least of all my own
soberly unpresumptuous lack of an equal measure of charm, she's already
taken, and I already know far-too-unforgettably what it feels like to be on
that particular end of the stick, as well as the kind of Fatalistically
Downhill Path which invariably follows from such a Terrible Shock!  That
aside, this film , like Revenge of the Nerds, or Wild In the Streets,
constitutes a much-too-lasting expression of an Era, "Culturally"
Transitional Whiplash and all, from which I've had an entire lifetime to
learn I'd never want to experience it again, even on the Smallest Screen!
The first Big Screen encounter I'd ever really had, with something so
clearly, glaringly, daringly Over The Line, and which is hardly surpassed
even by current standards, despite its relatively early appearance, back in
1967, was The Born Losers, with Tom Laughlin, as Billy Jack, in all its
meaningfully, perhaps even quite indispensably though nonetheless wastedly
utilized vulgarity, as well as otherwise deeply moving symbolism and social
commentary.  Moreover, one would no less unusually than coherently and even
very decently think that, at the very least, their "Free-Market Mechanisms,"
and that "Invisibly-Self-Regulating Hand," of which they continually,
self-glorifyingly rave, should have long-ago succeed, with such "morally
civilized people," at decisively kicking in, and "spontaneously" filtering
out most, if not virtually all, of the wrong category, here, before any of
it even had a chance to get started! Some actually dare to believe, by now,
even among the good guys, that "democracy," as if any typically potential
little tin-pot dictator among men truly believed in it at all, anyway,
whenever it can be "conveniently" avoided, but only on his own terms, just
doesn't "work," after-all! At least even Bush, and his "Favorite
Philosopher," in particular, both fundamentally and ultimately agree on that
much!  Even Porter (Mel Gibson) said it, in Payback:  Go up, high enough, in
any organization, and you usually come to one man.  That's true of both the
Right and the Wrong, the Winning and the Losing Sides, respectively; just as
there are no other choices, for anybody, but either the one, or the other,
but not both, and not neither (Matthew 6:24).  Indeed, even the
evolutionists shouldn't have any more trouble than the "egalitarianly"
modernized "Christian" actually does about this, when one considers, not
only the greater efficiency of a pyramidal structure of social organization,
but the corresponding likelihood that, in the struggle to crawl up, out of
the muck, the most excellent, in the interpersonal competition for greater
"fitness," will be the most statistically rare, over-against an ever-bulging
middle of mediocrity, which only gets broader and broader toward the base!
But a "Christian" American Empire, which can't decide either way, quite
extremely enough?  Please, give someone here a break, if only of the kind
which is unfortunately though unavoidably so much more rather than less
therapeutically uncomfortable (Revelation 3:15-17)!
     Star Trek was very fine viewing for children in this sense, right down
to the more meaningfully, creatively resonant atmosphere of
"militaristically undemocratic socialism" which served to render the
commercials in-between so much more contrastingly, banally tedious; and save
for the absence of a few counterbalancing reminders of what, again, as
already emphasized above, Plato had to say concerning the dangers of
"analogizing" in the form of Myth, as well as save for the kind of Cleverly
Mystifying Propaganda incorporated into it; even if Gary Oldman himself had
not been present among the Klingons, let-alone Donald Pleasence, from
Fantastic Voyage, in "contrast," even quite symbolically, with an "Under
God," added to the Pledge of Allegiance, at the beginning of the Cold War,
for cheaply, disingenuously, prostitutionally, propagandistically
"Non-Secular" or "Non-Separation" purposes alone, not to mention the stamp
of "In God We Trust" to be found in the most "appropriate" place of
all--namely, on the very face of--your Only True Idol! In fact, if only the
Star Trek motion pictures had been just a bit more faithful, in their
extentions of the series, as Batman: The Movie had been. Not too very bad,
on the whole, including the first movie, and its expansion on the idea
originally unfolded in "The Changeling" episode; except that the "glittering
sensationalism" much too tediously and draggingly overshadowed, in
conjunction with, for instance, a symbolically, revealingly "prettier" head
of hair, on Admiral Kirk, accompanied by a more worn-down spirit, which
really served the most to make even a relatively less pretentious image of
Captain Picard so much more worthy of the opening theme mentioned above;
just as Mr. Spock is about the only one who never seems to change the most,
like unto even an evil counterpart, in "Mirror, Mirror," whom Kirk had
correctly characterized as a man of integrity, in both universes; although
even he failed to hold a candle, next to the inhabitants of the relevantly
intimidated planet themselves; just in case anybody, perhaps virtually
everybody, had failed to notice that particular bit of extremely,
symbolically powerful--carelessness? Incidentally, as for that "prettier"
head of hair, mentioned immediately above? Kirk was much more unbelievably
as well as refreshingly and no less characteristically feisty, even for his
age, and, of course, except for the hair, in that original episode entitled
"The Deadly Years!" It's perhaps unfortunate Admiral Kirk couldn't have gone
back, however, even with his "older" head of hair, just to re-do only a
single line, from "This Side of Paradise," where he finally says, "I
understand now," which just might more convincingly have worked, even minus
any real understanding to reinforce it!--Although, after that, he would have
done well to get back--or rather forward again--quickly!--Just as I would
have hoped he'd arrived not an instant sooner, either! Or, at the very
latest, he would have done well to exit as the spores in him were being
neutralized; just as he could have said the hair itself had been a fringe
benefit of the spores, although preferably a temporary one! On second
thought, however, it seems Admiral Kirk might have gotten a rather early
start, at the very end of the original series; although what he'd apparently
forgotten, during the shooting of "Turnabourt Intruder," was, of all things,
again, the hair, to go with the fingernails! And, again, as for Spock's kind
of durability? It is most symbolically, revealingly, and unflatteringly
true, after-all, that he couldn't quite decide whether or not he was
actually Spock. What I dread the most, however, is the extremely unfortunate
possibility, to put it no less mildly, and maybe even a bit less painfully,
that he'd been correct the first time! Even when he'd decided to change his
mind, I fear it wasn't even in the service of the many, at least not for
their sakes; let-alone of the very few, and to the devil, if necessary, with
how the many-too-many might have turned out to feel! It's undoubtedly the
case that he did feel, himself, like nothing but "an overgrown jackrabbit,
an elf with a hyperactive thyroid!" I wouldn't relish arousing that great
strength of his against me, but I'll risk even the hope-against-hope that
the spores are to blame, after-all; rather than something entirely more
serious, which cannot be so easily neutralized, against his own actual
will--and nothing else!  However, thanks (or perhaps no thanks, at that) to
Danny Kaye, I still have a lovely glossy, from Mr. Spock himself, hanging on
my bedroom wall.  And, for that matter, Captain Kirk himself was even more
candid, with Oprah Winfrey the other afternoon, as he admitted, though more
in the form of a boast than a confession, in answer to one of her questions
concerning his "identity," to "as much as" the fact that Star Trek had
significance to him mainly and decisively if not solely as a mere means to
an end, as the part which made all subsequent "success" so abundantly
possible at all.  More succinctly, there had been a "faint trace" of
"blushing hesitation" as he spoke, but not "so much" out of any concern
about possibly disappointing particularly if not exclusively his more
appreciatively discerning fans in the process, rather than due to still
another "annoying reminder" of exactly how "type-casted" they appear to
insist upon keeping him, as though such amounts to anything short of an
honor.  Perhaps he's played no part he regards as being intrinsically,
timelessly valuable, although I'm not so certain even such a possibility
would fail to prove entirely preferable to whatever such part may actually
exist for him, as with, say, B.J. Hooker!  He and Joan Collins once appeared
to make the most thoroughly and inspiringly believable "item" conceivable,
until Cybill Shepherd and Michelle Phillips finally materialized!  Even Bill
Bixby had the "decency," in an interview, many years back, to disavow, minus
any subsequently opportunistic retractions, or attempts to "cover his
tracks," even the slightest element of personal identification with David
Banner; saying, in no uncertain terms, "That's not me, that's not me at
all!," as though it were David Banner who had everything to be ashamed of
here!  I even read about how George Reeves loathed having had to donn those
tights which comprised his Superman costume, just as the shape of that
design on the front of his t-shirt almost looks like it had been inspired
from out of the inside of a toilet bowl!
     Let's not overlook The Outer Limits, either (even the new ones), The
Rifleman, The Big Valley, Bonanza, Gunsmoke, Walker, Texas Ranger, The
A-Team, Columbo, Matlock, and even Mr. Monk, just as McBride is pretty good,
too. Cheyenne Bodie was an older favorite, too, although his most
magnificent work of art was on the big screen, as Yellowstone Kelly. It was
almost a real downer to see the level to which he had been reduced, in The
Dirty Dozen. Yet, it helped immensely to redeem his image that he'd been
just as impressively upstaged in the process, by the magnificently manly
performance of Lee Marvin, whose overall finesse was particularly at its
finest as he was "apologetically" confronting Robert Ryan about the latter's
"emotionalism." The biggest problem with the film is that it at least should
render America so much more unable to accuse anybody else of War Crimes! As
for Superman, Mr. "Truth, Justice, and the American Way" himself, neither of
the new ones are nearly as good; but I did enjoy Lois and Clark,
nevertheless; and particularly their encounter, from right out of Time After
Time, with H.G. Wells. Even that episode about "Mighty Mouse" was
particularly charming, along with a leading romantic duo who were far
superior to those two leading cartoon caricatures in the movies; just as,
for that matter, Smallville's lead character really appears to have been
very well-cast, even if it is otherwise far-too-soap-operatically
milked-to-the-bone! I even liked his parents, who would correspondingly also
have been much too impressively ill-suited for the movie; alongside only the
young Clark Kent himself, the one who did very briefly appear there; with
those deeply, sadly existential eyes, which leap in single bound across the
infinite chasm between what Soren Kierkegaard described as the ethical (the
dead letter of the Law, if even that accurately, denotatively, untwistedly
much!), and the religious (the actual Substance, or Spirit Itself!), and
which therefore failed to blend in any more inconspicuously than the images
of Glenn Ford or Phyllis Thaxter; contrary also to a ridiculously
overbearing image of Gene Hackman, or a fellow buffoon such as Ned Beatty;
with relation to whom Superman Returns had yielded a much more endurably
palatable cast on the whole, beginning with Superman himself, as dry as even
he was. I understand Robert Redford had originally refused the offer, which
informs me no less about the quality of his own particular taste than did
the numerous roles he was no less hesitant to accept! For that matter, Steve
Reeves would have had a better chance at avoiding the image of an albatross,
even in a slapstickally comical version of James Bond!
     For all the nobly subsequent attempts, there was only one Superman,
even if he had likewise actually failed to be the first!--Or, rather, two
real ones, if you count, as I certainly always have, the one in overalls,
accompanied by his mule, namely, Sylvester J. Superman, the very Salt of the
earth, as portrayed by Chuck Connors!--Or, perhaps, even a third "real"
superman; but one who couldn't quite get his act together, while thus
sounding off, with such rebelliously disgruntled scorn, "I look like
superman, why don't I--sound like superman!" Indeed, given even his most
acutely perceptive anxiety, about catching a slug in the head, just above
his bullet-proof vest, perhaps even half-a-superman would have been enough
to see him through; although probably not, as even these two halves were
themselves more uselessly vulnerable than anything else, especially in the
absence of one-another. After-all, even ducks can fly, right into the sights
of a V.I.P. as persistently mean-spirited as Elmer Fudd, in a way even their
combined strength is incapable of separately withstanding! Gunner Flinch
(Myron Healey), The Bully of Dry Gulch, should have been so lucky, even at
cards!--Although it might not be so wise to gamble everything that the
Sunnis and the Shiites are not actually bluffing, after-all, in an
application of the Stalinist maxim that one should appear strong when he's
weak, but weak when he's strong, and yet still otherwise lacking in the
potential to more transparently deter, in the latter case, even if he much
more rationally wanted as much as needed to do so! Perhaps the two sects
really do hate one-another very religiously to the death, but both these
enemies are just as aware they're common enemies of the most formidably
irrational or at least desperately if not also very over-confidently
determined one of all, which provides a basis for even the most
instrumentally dubious kind of friendship their common enemy shall not be
capable of withstanding, particularly while the latter is being duped into
the "viability" of his current "divide-and-conquer" strategy. In fact, were
it not too late already, and perhaps always by nature had been, if only due
to the freely-chosen as well as popularly-tolerated if not
enthusiastically-supported incorrigibility of those with all the real,
pseudo-individually, thus no less pseudo-collectively decision-making power,
but who will undoubtedly never listen, at least not on time; then the best
of all possible advice, at this point, at least while, as Gore puts it,
"gliding through a skid," might have been provided, not by the real
Superman, but rather from Lois and Clark; for, in that version, Superman
simply turns off the engine. If, on the other hand, some "horseless
carriage" happens to be coming at you, then perhaps do what Walker, the
Texas Ranger, did, by shooting, not at the windshield or the tires, but
rather at the engine; which, among other potentially decisive advantages, is
so much harder to miss. Al Qaeda might as well have written that one! Worse
yet, even the only real Perry White of all had one encounter, in particular,
or so he'd thought, with Great Caesar's Ghost, which was only a
dimly-foreshadowing reflection--of the final one, yet very shortly and
briefly as well as harrowingly to come!--Even with an unstable mixture of
iron and clay which shall prove more than hard enough, in its Truth and
Justice, to grind the "American Way" entirely to powder!--That is, also, as
the Right Wrong triumphs, again, though very briefly, over the Wrong Right;
and all are, once again, being forced to open their eggs from the stupid,
idiotic Big End; in the greatest victory yet, of Law over Justice, until the
Real Gulliver finally and permanently arrives!
      In the meantime, the most uniquely compelling feature about Superman,
next to the fact that he's the only big screen macho hero who could have
"realistically" survived most of what any of them have had to endure, is
that, in him, anything short of a total Kantian, morally speaking, would
have to be eliminated in very short order, almost as swiftly as would be the
case were he such a genuinely uncorruptible Kantian!  In the "matter" of the
angels, the Lord had foreknowingly elected to demonstrate the futility of
creating them imperishably, and then letting them individually, morally
choose; but, therefore, where humans are concerned, there shall be no
imperishably everlasting bodies granted to any individuals, until they've
been prepared and certified first, even as an added act of mercy to those
who choose the wrong way.  Short of that, I'd prefer to take even my very
worst chances alongside Captain Nemo, and it doesn't matter which one, be it
James Mason, or Herbert Lom, save for the extent to which the former is so
much richer in fruitfully thought-provoking dialogue; although it was the
latter who'd apparently had at least enough foresight to throw Kirk Douglas
overboard on time, yet not a moment too soon, either; just as he undoubtedly
would have done precisely the same to me, but for entirely more expanded
reasons; which also just as Tragically include, for that matter, the vast
extent to which I liked Patrick Stewart's version of Nemo as well, which he
somewhat belatedly undertakes with just as much of the same gracefully
smoothe refinement and quiet intensity as in all his other performances. I'd
also consider a trip, From the Earth to the Moon; even though the inevitably
impossible necessity of jumping ship, with both Joseph Cotten and George
Sanders on board, makes that about as out of the question as trying to hitch
a ride with Alice Kramden! Vincent Price, as Master of the World, would be
tempting as well; although I'd probably end up assisting Charles Bronson,
after-all, as much to my great regret as anything else he would thus alone
have been more typically capable of appreciating! Even Khan would be a
no-brainer, but for hardly any reason most would even want to understand,
let-alone prove at all capable; any more than they're able to grasp exactly
why it is I like him so profoundly, contrary to the very "explanations" of
which they're undoubtedly so "certain," even while taking the "diplomatic"
offensive in a manner he'd correctly characterized as warfare concealed! If
only there really were at least a Scotty to beam me up, since Gary Seven
isn't the only one who would love to complete his mission--and leave--just
as quickly as possible! It really is incredible that people can live like
this, in a situation as hopelessly absurd, for any rarely authentic human
being, as Lot trying to "get a life" in Sodom!  Moreover, had I been Flint
(James Daly), from Star Trek's "Requiem for Methuselah," the Star Ship
Enterprise, as well as the entire crew, would have made an exquisitely
PERMANENT ornament upon my mantle!  Short of that, why, hell, give me even
Johnny Rocco (Edward G. Robinson), anytime! If nothing else, at least he's
unabashedly unethical enough even for me to be able to do business with,
contrary to the kind you could never "corruptingly" bribe, even for a bit of
otherwise totally unavailable Justice Itself; just as, at the very least,
even the only other demand involved, of doing exactly what you're told,
couldn't possibly get any more "respectably" worse than it's been, ever
since; rather than so much more "unrespectably" better, again, for at least
a more refreshingly honest call! No wonder Mr. Rocco is so disgruntled, and
even confused, that even a bunch of "Christianly" as well as otherwise very
"Anti-Communistically" Atomized, Selfishly Money-Grubbing, Heart-Throbbingly
"Patriotic" Psychopaths such as yourselves are by now treating him like
nothing but a Dirty Red or something; although, for all that, it's just
about anybody's even most educatedly well-cultivated guess, as to which, if
either, from between Johnny Rocco and Josef Stalin, actually required
lessons, from the other, about the extent to which it's not who votes that
counts, but rather who counts the votes--until they finally come out
"right!"  However, even Johnny Rocco fails to light a candle, next to the
one whom I must regretfully declare to constitute my very first preference
here, namely, again, Edward G. Robinson, as Sol Roth, at his end, in Soylent
Green!  Next to just about only that, even another Coma wouldn't be the
worst way to have a most fundamental problem solved, as well as perhaps the
only seriously philosophical question, to every ounce of the unbearably
heavy Camus in me; particularly given Richard Widmark's most soothing
"bedside manner," along with such "hard decision-making," not to mention
even a level of nausea I may have already long and undetectably surpassed,
to help glide me through the final processing!
     As for Batman, there's been nothing, since, like unto the originally
colorful villains, either, all blended into an extremely well-crafted work
of art; although Jim Carrey was born to take over for Frank Gorshin, just as
Danny DeVito is no Burgess Meredith, either, and Jack Nicholson could have
taken a tip from Cordell Walker, by quitting, while he was truly ahead, with
his first Oscar! This observation holds true, for me, even though Nicholson
had been devoid of a rival as correspondingly colorful as the original to
assume the leading role as well. Kung-Fu (the new ones, too, particularly
with that "extra twinkle" grandson Caine had in his eye!--Although that
"fourth stooge," and certain other subsequently similar stunts, may have
taken things just a bit too commercialistically, tastelessly far, even on
the very flimsiest of otherwise convincingly impressive surfaces; which
almost made the way Walker had taken him down, at the end of Lone Wolf
McQuade, appear even quite pleasantly endurable; although looking at him,
per se, was not thereby made any easier at all, for the same reason I'd
almost preferred even the "fourth stooge" to that most image-shattering
disappointment!) was equally inspiring, along with Highlander (Adrian Paul
had better scripts than Christopher Lambert, too; although what he didn't
have was Sean Connery, or Michael Ironside! What he did have, too, however,
unlike the others, was--Adrian Paul!--Thanks to whom there can really be
"Only One" here!), Forever Knight (the last serious attempt at this type of
thing with any real substance), The Practice, Law & Order (although
Christopher Meloni and Mariska Hargitay, from SVU, go down much more
smoothly, like unto, say, David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, from, The 'X'
Files, or even David Caruso, from CSI: Miami, than do any of either the Law
& Order originals, or Gomer Pyle and his partner, from Criminal Intent),
Mission: Impossible (the new ones, too), and even Voyage to the Bottom of
the Sea.  Of course, in this last case, it was the movie which had come
first, and most impressively on the whole. As for the series, alongside all,
including the movies, but the original Star Trek episodes? Even a typically
mediocre, vulgarly presumptuous specimen of humanity such as Joseph Cotten,
from The Oscar, would have been able to see, objectively enough, if only
he'd just as subjectively, whimsically, and even, to use one of Milton
Berle's more scathingly disingenuous terms, no less "reluctantly" desired;
that, while the show was anything but a total bore, especially thanks to
Henry Jones, as Mr. Pem, as well as, again, the amazing versatility with
which he so much more maneuverably enhanced the original model of The Time
Machine, and even an ironically "betrayed" Benedict Arnold (Barry Atwater),
next also to whom even Roger C. Carmel, as Mr. Mudd, is still only a close
second fiddle, there was still something very "disturbingly" though
"unidentifiably" lacking in the performances on the whole; although Richard
Basehart had to work very hard, still not to quite have succeeded at being
so terribly upstaged by Walter Pidgeon, even despite the transparency of his
need to drag himself along with a convincingly straight face! He seemed much
more sadistically, charmingly at home even in LaStrada, let-alone Hitler, or
as Robespierre, in Reign of Terror; just as I have no doubt he would have
unleashed even The Satan Bug, simply, if nothing else, for the sheer hell of
it, or, that is, just to feel his power, regardless of how self-negatingly
in the process, even by way of the most degenerately "denotative"
definition, before really following through with his commitment to have Mr.
Pem's latest, most sophisticated model destroyed!  One would think that, by
then, even the script writers could have come up with something less
burlesquely unbelievable than that one, particularly in the God-Almighty
Spirit of Science!  He was even quite an atheistically smashing success, and
a man to whom it comes much too easily to me to relate, in The Brothers
Karamazov; which is why I thank, at least as passionately, The Very One who
continues to keep me a prisoner, but by no means against my will, contrary
to my most internally, violently uncontrollable resistance!--Romans 7!
     I also enjoy the History Channel, along with Animal Planet; although
Babylon Five, along with even Mrs. Columbo, commanding her own star ship,
are both, just for openers, much too superfluously out of the question! For
a much better, more "serious" attempt at comedy, there is also what my
brother, James, refers to as the most educational program of all, The
Beverly Hilbillies (since replaced, however, by the even more cleverly
"thought-provoking" South Park; and, yet, for all that, it's the Star Wars
series which shall always represent his most enduring Morality Play);
although, like Mel Gibson, if I happen to run into The Three Stooges, while
I'm switching the channels, I just throw the remote behind me, and kick
back! Topper, too, had been even quite enhanced, in every sense, on T.V.
(even with Robert Sterling holding his own very well, as compared to Cary
Grant, perhaps the most challengingly debonair act to follow!).  I'll have
to hand it to The Beverly Hillbillies movie, too, despite the extent to
which I'd expected to be disappointed; from that opening "California Howdy,"
all the way through to that "Hickory Nut Crunch," and a fine work of poetic
art as well as justice such as Jethro's sister!  And, to be sure, I could
continue listing many more fine shows than I'll bother attempting to
exhaustively catalogue here; save, that is, for Maxwell Smart, one of the
cleverest of them all, with just the right cast, and very good scripts--all
great for just a few simple laughs.  In fact, not only is it vastly superior
in quality to anything Mel Brooks presents on the Big Screen, but it even
outshines the great Austin Powers, arriving at the very Distance of this
type of entertainment by no incredibly or comparably close call at all.
     About the only reason I'm able to say that, on the whole, America's
"Sense of Humor" is virtually the worst thing about it; is that I'm about as
able even to much more convincingly pretend, than the average, modern-day,
merely very Theatrically-Sodomizing Pseudo-Thespian, whose specialty, in
this sense, is rather with the "Comedy," that the kinds of Solemnly,
Classically Greek Pathos so convincingly appearing to shine through,
in-between so many rudely, abrasively, and revealingly discordant
commercials, are anything better than the Cheaply Commercialized
Melodramatics which merit Academy Awards for, if nothing else, not "Breaking
Character" per se, regardless of the numbers of necessary retakes! Indeed,
how needless it should be to have to reiterate that at least the "good guys"
are so much more "likable enough," when they're acting--at not acting, than
when they're not acting--even at not acting! About the only reason these
characters don't blush with embarrassment is because they realize everybody
else knows they're not performing for its own sake, as though it had any
Value-In-Itself to them! It's tragically and revealingly ironic that one so
symbolically representative, as a "Founding Father" of the American cinema,
as Lon Chaney, Sr. (and a truly masterful performance, by James Cagney, in
Man of a Thousand Faces!), in his apparent tendency to identify as
passionately as he did with his roles, would have answered a question, on
precisely this subject, with the reply that it's not what the actor is
feeling that counts, but rather the impression he makes upon his audience.
By the time we get to, say, Kirk Douglas, as Vincent Van Gogh, we've arrived
at the more Modernly, "Greekly" Sodomizing Epitome of everything so
masterfully well-imitative in form or "method," yet no less typically, and,
in this case, about as miraculously devoid of even a single trace of the
Inward Substance Itself! Judging by the glee with which he'd recounted the
story, there's no doubt Kirk Douglas had felt so much more mockingly (of Van
Gogh) "at home" with John Wayne, at the cast party afterward, that what's
really needed, by now, is an equally real Jesse James (Arch Johnson), from
out of still another Serling episode, to engineer an equally real "Showdown
With Rance McGrew" (Larry Blyden)! Mr. Ed was wholesomely amusing enough,
though, along with Soupy Sales, just as even Cannon and Barnaby Jones were
good for a few laughs. More seriously, I disagree with William Conrad, for I
actually regarded Cannon as a very good show, particularly due to him. Yet,
if even George Reeves could only see some of what is happening today,
perhaps he would finally push hard enough to break the time barrier, going
back, as successfully as Christopher did; contrary to the kind of trouble
he'd originally encountered, attempting to go forward, perhaps for
essentially the same reason I find myself in a much more "optimal" position
to realize how much more even he would undoubtedly have preferred the Turks;
or, for that matter, even the jawbone of an ass, in Samson and Delilah,
while trembling at the feet of an indignantly disgruntled George Sanders!
     Of course, even the most "cleverly," mindlessly "a-political" sitcoms,
beginning with that of the great Cuban-American bandleader himself, at least
once had to be a bit more palatably artistic as well, in every organically,
intricately-interrelated respect (which they characteristically were); in
order to be "plausibly" presented at all, even to general audiences which
somewhat more accurately boasted about being not quite so insipidly,
banally, tastelessly, "democratically" classless as those of today, who have
only Married With Children to represent as being merely the most "cleverly"
top-of-the-line!--I'll have to give it at least that much! About the only
other, equally unaccidental category of topics to be so abundantly and about
as equally, monopolizingly "inconspicuous," today, has taken the form of the
police drama; the kind which is intended to much more "seriously" as well as
just plain "entertainingly" continue to "inform." And, as for "edification"
per se, that particular such show, much less euphemistically, "respectably"
characterizable as P.I.G.S., nevertheless much more "honestly" or at least
quite candidly succeeds at filling the bill, even no less unabashedly with
the cameras so glaringly rolling! Indeed, it was the most "cleverly,"
massively hysterical, collusively propagandistic psychological
reaction-deformation Americanly cultivatable, Jack-Ass Webb, "almost"
directly from Sunset Boulevard, who helped, most overshadowingly, to just as
behavioristically cushion the way for that! In fact, never-mind even Frank
Sutton!--For, let's face it (or at least I shall, or rather already long
have!): If even Jack Webb, the D.I., wasn't enough to wake up most of these
Jokers, let-alone the Gomer Pyles, nearly as effectively as he had completed
his frontal lobotomy on Don Dubbins (whose mother had been no Cindy Sheehan,
either; at least not before his own possible demise, as the very last one
she'd had left to offer!); then how much more dismally correct was that
later version of the same, Gny. Sgt. Hartman, from Full Metal Jacket,
already proven to have been, long before the fact; particularly given his
own brutally stated and totally substantial basis for having been anything
but a bigot, at least until he'd made the mistake of pushing the wrong Don's
Buttons a bit too hard!--Or, would it perhaps be more accurate to say,
rather, the wrong Red's Dubbins? I may not be nearly as clever as you're all
undoubtedly sneering I think I'm trying and succeeding at sounding, but I
just call them as I see them, and indeed quite a bit as they are!--Just as
that previous bit alone, about the Virgin Mary, would perhaps have already
been more than enough for me to endure! Jack Webb has dragged so many others
through the muck, too--Tolstoy, Baudelaire, Huxley, Captain Lightning, even
Ginger! Soon, America shall be learning, the hard way, as Edward G. Robinson
finally did, that they are--All My Sons! However, I only wish it were
possible to deservingly extend any real sympathy, by now, to nearly enough
of them, as they inexorably and imminently approach the terrible realization
that what they are fighting for resembles more of a Vulture than an Eagle!
But, then, as Nietzsche said, "What was formerly merely morbid has by now
become indecent! It is indecent to be a 'Christian' Today!"
     Moreover, why did Private Eddie Slovik (Martin Sheen) really "have" to
face a firing squad, even though he was no simple deserter, or the kind of
equally simple coward who would have thought, at least twice, and much more
commonly, about confronting a virtually certain as well as "dishonorable"
death, rather than the mere "chance" of a much more "honorable" one in the
field of battle? Was it to protect the same kind of symbolically,
disingenuously Bad Faith, Sartrean Style, which impels the henchmen
themselves to load only one of the rifles, as though that served to
demonstrate much of anything other than the most "honest" self-doubts of the
executioners themselves? Was Eddie Slovak such a potential threat to
"morale," and even the very direction of the war, that nothing short of his
murder, as a sacrificial victim, would have even as much as pragmatically
let-alone "idealistically" or rather rancorously and vindictively sufficed?
Perhaps only Montgomery Clift could have died even more senselessly,
wastefully, in From Here to Eternity! It's more than enough to make any
sentiently thinking person question the very Essence of everything for which
America had supposedly been fighting!--Or, was that the kind of expectation,
and even imperative, which Americans so easily and hypocritically tend to
impose upon the Germans alone?--Simply for what amounts, at bottom, from
beneath every "piously," sentimentally mystifying rationalization, to the
fact that Germany was not America! Had I been in Slovik's place, with the
knowledge I've by now so painstakingly acquired, after a virtual lifetime,
of what Americans are really all about, I would have been at least as
tempted to follow in his footsteps, for what I discern to have amounted to
the exact same suspicions on his part! Moreover, every prospective soldier
ought first to carefully study, say, All Quiet on the Western Front,
starring Lew Ayres; although, just as this classic has apparently failed
decisively, in achieving its own laudably-intended purpose, there's no
viable reason to assume, therefore, that even a film such as Saving Private
Ryan will prove any more effective! And, of course, Michael J. Fox, from
Casualties of war, has plenty to teach perhaps far-too-many platoons about
the kind of thing which should actually be factored in so much more rather
than less acutely, precisely when it seems to matter the very least;
although I had to endure more than enough years, in your "schools," with
more than enough of their characteristically predominant kind, to know they
had a good head-start, at being a total waste of time, even under the most
unworthily "wholesome" of conditions!  Perhaps even most if not "virtually"
every one of them are, at bottom, and not very far down, after-all, much
more "unrealistically" like John Travolta, in Broken Arrow, but minus
"quite" the "guts," rather than anything remotely resembling the more
"realistic" Christian Slater, even with the "guts!"  But, then, even Caleb
Hooks (Michael Parks), from Walker, Texas Ranger, had more than enough
"courage" and "honor" to realize nothing short of his particular nemesis had
been worthy of taking him down, only much more "chivalrously" than even
Walker might not have been the least bit freely inclined to extend quite as
abundantly in return, just as he would have been one of the few truly worthy
of the right and even the duty not to have so reciprocated in any freely
"chivalrous" manner, as though the man behind the badge, at least, again, in
this case, had anything to "prove," either!  As for the strictly amoral
character of the sense of "courage" and "honor" displayed by Hooks, at least
he knew, unlike most "good guys," that, if possible, they therefore lack
incalculably more, even of it, even than he, and in a manner which perhaps,
in a sense, wouldn't be quite so utterly "laughable," if more or rather
virtually any of them only realized what they were doing, thus just plain
cynically, rather than "piously" and "uncorruptibly" (save for merely
outward show, if even that much, where anything but the "duty" never to
"give even an inch," at least not "per se," is so very "conveniently"
concerned!), going "with" rather than against any and all real concept of
law!  Again, Walker might not have been so generously yet demandingly
chivalrous in the place of Michael Parks, although he was very irresponsibly
flexible with, say, a ruthlessly unscrupulous and superlatively abominable
mercenary as cunning as Philippe Brouchard (Robin Sachs), whom no competent
law enforcement officer would have allowed such an avoidably viable chance
to escape, least of all just to show off the physical prowess of a macho
spirit which only quite theatrically has any basis, though scarcely the
right, even then, to be so invincibly confident about itself, particularly
but by no means exclusively, once again, against such a superlatively
formidable opponent, whom Walker himself had designated perhaps the most
dangerous man he'd ever encountered!  Indeed, how many more senselessly
unnecessary deaths would Walker have had on his hands, had he lost that
final bout?  While I'm loathe to say it openly, I wouldn't have been able to
blame Walker in the least, had he utilized the momentarily decisive drop he
had on his opponent long enough to hope, and even plead, that the latter go
ahead--and make--everybody's day!  But, then, one might have also hoped, no
less in vain, the barroom thrashing he'd received, in Code of Silence, would
have balanced him out a bit, even if it did take at least twenty guys to
overwhelm him, just as he was even more of a bear there than he currently
is!
     Virtually the only fictional cop, next to Columbo and Monk, or even
Sheriff Andy Taylor, whom I can more than at least begin to endure, for the
same reason I superlatively admire his image, as one of the greatest men
after my own heart, is Walker, Texas Ranger!  As one homeless old lady once
told him, he's not a bad sort of guy at all--again, for a cop, but
especially if not exclusively were he at least quite exceptionally for real!
Indeed, only Chuck Norris himself would be capable of disappointing me, as
much, for real, as did David Janssen! And, as Walker should be the first to
know, the bigger and higher they are, the harder, if at all, they would
unavoidably have to fall! And, unfortunately, to use another of his own
favorite expressions, my bet is that he's all talk, just like everybody
else, when the chips are down; that is, other than those his kind are so
abundantly good at collecting, while proverbially laughing all the way to
the bank!--Although, if it would mean anything to him, which, again, I
seriously doubt, that's one bet I'd genuinely love to lose! So much for the
difference between the "pessimism" of which they'd conveniently love to
accuse me, at this point, just because they know, but would scarcely ever
admit to themselves, that I have the very best of reasons; and the kind of
hard-earned realism which has long been brutally beaten into me, almost as
though for the very purpose of their being no less conveniently able to
complete the process of even more maliciously, slanderingly reversing the
correct interpretation of cause and effect, here! And, while I had
previously thought not to try everybody's patience, by invoking Frankie Fane
too very much (for virtually all can just about equally gloat, about the
extent to which they were cheering him in the end, including a best friend
so forgetfully as well as ungratefully weak-minded as to have presumed he'd
needed to remind Frankie about the "good old days!" Yet, to be more
completely fair, he and Kay weren't really laughing all-that-much, just as
Kappy was actually a few Prime Cuts of Fillet above certain of the others!);
I still cannot resist, any longer, whatever's tugging at me to once again
rub him in here, but only as gracefully as possible!--That's right--as
possible, even as much as I cringe at the necessity of having to leave any
of you to be the judges! What he said to Kappy was, "I'm no different from
anybody else in this damn town!" While I elaborate very briefly and
parenthetically, later-on, about how right as well as wrong he was; I'll
only add, here, that there's undoubtedly never been even as much as merely a
greater performance than Breakthrough!--Unless, of course, it's a "real"
cop, such as Walker, reminding his good friends, Alex, and Jimmy, that, "If
it was about nothing but money, then we'd all be doing something else!"
While the "Righteous" continue to rant in unison about what an insufferable
ego-problem Frankie has, they even displayed the supremely presumptuous
megalomania to push for the single greatest movie of all time, not "merely"
one of them, in a decision which supposedly applied, quite "officially," at
least by clear "implication," to everyone! I could only wish, undoubtedly in
vain, that it were possible to extend any of them at least a bit more credit
for having selected one of the very best in the process, but then Orson
Welles was more than enough, all by himself, as Citizen Kane, to have
rendered it far-too-easy for even them not to have missed--the proverbial
broad side of a barn!
     On subsequent reflection, though, perhaps it is an error not to try
including every "good cop" to be found on the tube, since the many-too-many
there would otherwise have to be covered are all quite as antithetically as
"adequately" Non-Fictional as well. I'm not nearly enough of an connoisseur,
even of the few "good ones" I can only feel criminally and mockingly
swindled by the most impressively, to be able to swear to a brief though
thorough listing here. Yet, I will add Steve McGarrett to the lot. Although
Stoney Burke had been much more of a favorite, it's refreshing to see that
his having become even a cop has done so little, despite all its efforts, to
wear away at the hard, shiny, and protective varnish of his humanity.  But
that ridiculously, discordantly synthetic suit, I'm sorry to have to say, is
worse even than a uniform, virtually to the point of "almost" unmaking the
man himself even more completely!  Also, I did relate to James Shigeta much
more thoroughly, in Walk Like a Dragon, even if Jack Lord at least succeeded
at outshining Mel Torme about as much; but not so much as to have been very
overwhelmingly worthy of the greater luck he'd received, even from Gary
Cooper, in Man of the West, before having still pushed even it no more
fatally, foolishly, and presumptuously far than had Mel Torme!  Danny hasn't
changed much, either, with that charmingly, innocently awkward swagger; even
though, going all the way back to The Young Stranger, it was apparently
quite a struggle for him to have finally become, not exactly what he would
be, but basically what he already was. In Spencer's Mountain, he would have
had to try like the Devil to hide it at all, having been still perhaps so
much more innocently, vulnerably wet-behind-the-ears than before.  But,
then, Richard Todd inadvertently, and just as unmeritoriously, helped wise
him up, where the previous film left off, during The Love-Ins; as
undoubtedly the one teacher from whom he'd had the most to learn, thus
setting him even more squarely, immunizedly, upon his currently straight and
narrow course.  He makes just as convincing a cop as he did a medical intern
as well; if only, to state as much again, and again, he could ever really be
found anywhere, as either. About the only "nicer" thing I can honestly as
well as accurately say about a show such as The Mod Squad is that it is so
much more "cleverly," even fiendishly unbelievable, in its attempt to bring
such displays more "humanly" and "palatably" up-to-date. CHiPs was another
such attempt, but on a less "impressive" scale, although it still succeeded
in helping make even Broderick Crawford the more "anachronistically"
preferable! Jack Webb even gave the same thing a try, but his notoriously
unmistakable skills as a director nevertheless shined through, particularly
with a cynically, mockingly vicious goon, or rather "paragon" of the most
"Sacredly, Idealistically Kantian Duty and Character," such as Pete Malloy,
not to be confused with Trent Malloy, who goes down much better, and, thus,
correspondingly, so much more "implausibly."  His friends, Francis and
Sydney, are also a real pair, and about as "intriguing" though "perhaps"
blessedly improbable an "item" as, say, Russell Crowe and Sharon Stone, in
The Quick and the Dead; as she makes it repeatedly and mockingly clear, in
answer to his "Mr. Nice Guy," that he's going to have to demonstrate his
ability to successfully take her on, virtually every time, again, and again,
and again, if he ever hopes to "get anywhere!"  She's a tough cookie all
right, and he ought to be the first to want that settled--first--at least as
devoutly as she insists!--Since, after-all, most others aren't so fortunate,
until they get the wrong answer--too late--and despite even the finest
appearances to the contrary--beginning with Walker himself!--Who still
doesn't quite pack the necessary gear, say, of still another favorite of
mine, such as Robo Cop!--And yet he still thinks he quit while he was ahead,
roped and hogtied to virtually everything it's really "all about,"
after-all!
     But Lucy Ricardo is first on the list, at being symbolically reflective
of a very serious problem; in fact, of nothing less than the disease of an
entire "culture," the kind in which deadly bacteria can so abundantly
proliferate. It's no accident, and just as symbolically instructive, that
she's so accurately regarded as the virtual Queen of Comedy, alongside other
"cultural" icons such as All In the Family, and that "charming" group of
perverts in Married With Children! Unfortunately, I Love Lucy, along with
both of these others, is much too dangerously, stultifyingly, because
seductively clever. Take it straight from the horse's mouth, for I know her
intimately and painfully well! I'm referring to the real Lucy, the one who
can never quite transcend the self-image of a Bag Lady, the same one very
brutally beaten into her from the youngest and tenderest age, regardless of
the amount of money available to help give it a boost! At any rate, she's
certainly given me a run for my money; although, contrary to the real Desi,
Jr., while I've never been spoiled, I have been, as the bumper sticker goes,
taken well care of! That, to be sure, both can and does mean many different
kinds of things! Mommie Dearest, as so harrowingly performed, by one of the
greatest of all Leading Ladies, serves as a most glaring illustration, as to
the Other Side of what I mean; given the kind of bitterly relentless
self-determination to survive, one so thoroughly successful as to therefore
remain just as hopelessly incapable of seeing how very long ago something
much more vitally imperative had to be no less internally than externally
murdered in the process!, And, while the story is not yet ended, even a
force as "wholesomely restraining" as Fred has made an early-enough exit to
where about the only kind of metamorphosis thus far appearing, if possible,
even more disturbingly, to take on any sort of shape, is that to be found
between Baby Jane and Blanche! Not only is she likewise one-hundred percent
Italian, but she's also something as ultimately incompatible as a mixture of
Water and Oil, in a manner even the most miraculously Satanic kind of talent
is only capable of maintaining in the most blisteringly, violently
well-counterfeited form of suspension at best; for, you see, the real Lucy,
unlike her counterpart, who, much more simplistically, after-all, casts no
kind of reflection at all in the mirror, is every bit the Real Christian,
nevertheless, as she is a Real Roman Catholic!--And either the one, or the
other, inevitably has to yield!--Or, as Richard Basehart expressed it, in
the greatest dramatization of Hitler ever made, "One is either a German or a
Christian! You can't be both!" Of course, "Germans," here, do make
incalculably better Roman Catholics, but particularly as of late; at least
until they start losing world wars, and the chameleon of a "Damsel" over
whom the sides are contending, is reluctantly compelled to choose the one
She'd hoped would lose! On the whole, here's the most uniquely if not
exclusively "Christian" prototype of an entire gender, including, at least
by now, most "males," which is so very accurately, dismally characterized,
by Nomad, in Star Trek's "The Changeling," as "a mass of conflicting and
unsettling impulses!" Yet, for all that, I Really Do Love Lucy; but not
merely because I'm being formally commanded in the Decalogue to do so, even
though "that" doesn't hurt, either, at least not "that" much; nearly the way
it no less adequately would have to, all by itself! Bob Hope just as
symbolically stands out here, too; particularly in that the real Lucy had
never been so perfectly matched, even with somebody who could have rather
controlled her nearly as well as Ricky, Sr.! Jack Benny, however, is quite
another matter entirely, with that charmingly irresistable swagger which
made it so much more easy for even Mary Herself to swoon, particularly as
just another one of them, nevertheless.
     Yet, nothing more glaringly, shamefully serves to illustrate my
meaning, here, about the nature of bacteria as such, not even a ding-bat
such as Lucy, with her vicariously, "modestly" on-screen idolizing of
herself, than did Rich Little, the other night, right next to President
Bush, while he was imiting President Reagan, along with certain others in
his place who'd been no less "conveniently" able, in their "solemn
responsibility" to so many millions, to mass-hysterically as well as
self-righteously rationalize the most otherwise unthinkable forms of
systematically, savagely self-indulgent victimization into the "highest,"
most "selflessly-painstaking" versions of "Duty!" Oh, Mr. Little was very
good, and the "jokes" were extremely clever as well, unless you're really on
the dirty end of that stick he was so "innocently" mocking, in a war between
the rich and the poor, which he delighted at emphasizing that the latter
were so miserably losing! Yes, Mr. Reagan did have his own favorite "jokes,"
too!--For instance, there was that one about those who know how to "hear
opportunity knocking," contrary to those who only know how to "knock
opportunity" instead; and who thus "rightfully deserve" to be told "let 'em
eat cheese," about as "gracefully" as Marie Antoinette had been willing to
toss them a few extra crumbs of "cake!" Perhaps his best "joke" of all,
however, was that one about the lottery they were having, in the Soviet
Union, where the winner received a million dollars, in the form of one
dollar per year, for a million years! What I really despise about both these
clowns, though, is that neither had been thoughtfully considerate enough to
take it all the way; by coming up with at least a few really good ones for
Henry Fonda and John Carradine, in The Grapes of Wrath; or something,
anything, to help ease the pain which grips my soul like a vice, as I watch
Burgess Meredith and Lon Chaney, in the closing scenes Of Mice and Men!  Liz
and Dick, in The Comedians, are good for a real "laugh," too!  Yet, nobody
even thought to pass around a tin cup, on behalf of the numerous images of
children, in the Third and Fourth Worlds, who are shown on television, late
at night, with nothing but skin and bones barely holding their frail little
bodies together! Even Mrs. Kroc's outfit, which once fired me for having
refused to throw leftover food in the garbage out back, every night for
about two months, knows how to pick her charities!--In this case, one which
has only to reply, to anyone who genuinely need ask, by saying, in effect,
that, as a "charity," and a "Christianly" wealthy one at that, an important
reason for which we are now about to reveal, it is NOT in existence to GIVE
donations, but rather to RECEIVE them! But, then, after-all, as Rich said,
it's important, most of all, in the midst of so much Tragedy, that we find a
way to simply keep on laughing! And yet Reagan had the hypocritically
cynical temerity to call poor little Grenada a virus, just to, among other
things, scapegoatingly distract attention from the way his own tail-end had
been kicked, in, as well as out of, Lebanon! One can only imagine the kind
of courage he never would have had, even to more honestly as well as
chivalrously confront an "Evil Empire" closer to his own size! And, of
course, while the trick, of retaining Republican support, even from those
who are neither "haves" nor "have-mores," has undoubtedly had some
"positive" results; it was Jerry Falwell who helped provide the key to the
answer, of exactly how marginally negligible such "positive" results, in
themselves, really are; when he "inspired" the Democrats, which even the
most radical among them ought to know, at least as hypocritically enough,
with their own even more craftily well-phrased slogan that "The 'Moral
Majority' is--neither!" Thus, the Republicans countered, by needing to
provide even more evidence of this; in the form of the most savagely,
mercenarily raw and tender appeals to even the most economically bankrupt
"patriotism," too! I was going to leave out one of the best "jokes" of all
here, since it's already long been covered, later in the series. But no, it
just may be worth repeating at least twice, after-all. It's where Chief
Engineer Scotty and the boys are verbally sparring with some Klingons, in an
episode of Star Trek entitled "The Trouble With Tribbles." After a
particularly scathing crack about the Enterprise, from one of the Klingons,
Scotty says, more or less, "Don't you think you ought to rephrase that
remark?," at which point, the Klingon answers, "You're right! I didn't mean
to say the Enterprise should be hauling garbage! What I meant was that it
ought to be hauled away--as garbage!"  Indeed, "parenthetically" enough (or
so I could only have wished, at best, in vain!), this particular scene is so
depressingly reminiscent of virtually every day, every year in school, that
it's nothing short of a miracle, even for me, especially for me, that, by
now, I'm not either dead--or still behind bars--for how I could have finally
responded!
     But Don Michael Corleone, The Godfather Himself, had a really "good"
one, too, from right out of the expanded T.V. footage; where he tells his
future "sonny-in-law," who was shamefully blushing, for having inherited the
family fortune, rather than honestly or at least much more "democratically"
worked for it, "Don't apologize for your wealth! This contempt for money is
just a trick of the rich, to keep the poor without it!" And what a sly
little smirk, about the size of Steve Martin's "Grand Canyon," very
conspicuously, cynically contorted his face as he was telling that one, like
so many professional comedians with so much wit they cannot resist the
modesty of laughing at their own jokes! Of course, his remark, shortly
thereafter, about even his participation in the "same hypocrisy," also in
answer to Senator Geary's "kind reflections" concerning his "Family," almost
qualifies as perhaps even the most personally ever-redeeming form of
"Confession!" But, then, perhaps Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas), from Wall
Street, had been "somewhat" more "apologetically honest," after-all, in his
glorification of GREED, and the correspondingly Capitalist-American
"mentality" that "The one who dies with the most toys wins!" What Don
Corleone rather needed was Luana Anders, from Coppola's earlier Dementia 13,
as a wife; one who could have been much more persuasively reasoned with
(although I can easily understand why his first choice had been Apollonia,
who needed not to be "REASONED WITH" at all!), as well as offered a deal she
would never even have considered refusing; but minus her eldest
brother-in-law, Richard, with a nose keen enough to smell the Devil at least
a mile away (I ought to know, as my closer brother made the still very
dangerously costly mistake of having married THE DEVIL HERSELF!--Or, as even
Edward G. Robinson, as Vic Amato, from Hell on Frisco Bay, would have had
the right to say, nothing but a DIRTY-MOUTHED BROAD!), and about as acutely
as Hyder Simpson's hound (unlike Sonny, with his "impeccably perceptive
discernment," in having brought Carlo Rizzi home to join the Family; just as
even Barzini "inadvertently" did the Family a favor, with his involvement in
helping rid It of both; since, for one thing, Sonny, unlike Fredo, would
otherwise not have been very likely to "Step Aside so 'Gently' into that
Good Night!"); rather than any Protestant Fundamentalist, about the only
breed too "civilized" to believe at least their senators and presidents
actually kill people!--Or, pardon me, "have" people killed; for that does
make a great deal of difference, to those who have such difficulty doing
even other things "on their own," such as looking even a beef steak "in the
eye," unless it's already at least medium-rare! More accurately, though, Kay
didn't turn out exactly protestant, after-all, particularly not with the
kind of even more modernly presumptuous exit she'd planned! Indeed, she
still had plenty of good, old-fashioned fight in her, for one so
"Christianly Naive!" Just imagine, then, if Cardinal Richelieu had properly
"converted" and "instructed" her in the much more "timely" fashion he so
emphatically preferred--and even guaranteed! Nevertheless, the last "laugh"
will certainly be hers; for, just as her abortion likewise served to
portend, she couldn't have said it more prophetically as well as
passionately, even if she's looking to entirely the WRONG CHURCH for her
answer:  ALL THIS MUST END!  Nevertheless, while she might have picked the
wrong church, at least her taste in Counterfeits had improved quite
Superlatively, Uniquely, Prototypically; just as, to be sure, if one is
going to go for a Counterfeit, it might as well be The Very Best!
     The tragically and humanly insoluble irony in all this is the extent to
which such irreconcilably conflicting sides, all the way to Castro, could
all be about as right as they are wrong. Even Fredo, in particular, should
have tried my "Family," if he thought he had it bad! Not only did Michael
love and take good care of him, but also could scarcely have been blamed for
Fredo's unwillingness to face the extent of how incompetently weak and
stupid he actually was, so that Michael had finally been unable to give even
Moe Green any kind of plausible rebuttal in the end. In my "Family," there's
a "Godfather" by the name of Michael, too, just as he's also the youngest of
the three, and the only one who's liked. One essential difference is that
this Michael wants it all, entirely for himself alone, minus any trace of
Honor, Integrity, or Equity, just as he's well on his way to getting it. In
my case, there are far-too-many similarities to the Birdman of Alcatraz to
provide much comfort; although I'm also tempted to say there are too few
similarities, considering the extent to which I've been so much more
self-grindingly tolerant to the kind of Dog Puke which so insolently and
provokingly dared confront him to his face. Not unrelatedly, while I'm
merely a "trustee," my own "Thelma Ritter" has joined all the others in
wanting to keep me so "locked into place" that I'm just about equally
tempted, by now, to conclude, as he did, that, "When it's cut, it's cut!"
Were I rather to have become something more akin to a Max Frost, she'd be
fawning all over me just like that equally, childishly air-headed bimbo,
Shelley Winters; although, as it is, I'm regarded as her greatest
disappointment, and she correspondingly enjoys openly, vindictively
displaying the same kind of typically, vulgarly swinish disrespect which is
all she really understands, or cares to value, anyway, and is helping
inspire even the most unworthily, youthfully insolent to emulate at least as
belittlingly well!  While she curses my late father to this day, for various
foibles which are reminiscent of the late Tom Barkley, but to the point of
making him look like the saint, just as I'm not trying to excuse them at
all; the fact still remains that she's as brutally-callous-a-beast as ever,
next to the level of his much more genuinely existential heart and soul,
just as she's about as far as anyone in her position can be, from a Victoria
Barkley, when it comes to having the inner substance herself to know how to
treat her sons like men, even while just as gracefully and sensitively
combining such a talent with the most firmly matriarchal hand!  Moreover, as
far as looking elsewhere for a "better deal" is concerned, forget even about
selling out to Barzini, as I feel much more like Richard Conte, when he
appeared as Max Monetti, in House of Strangers, or Cliff Robertson, as
Josef, in The Big Show; although Lulu would have preferred Nick Rocco, in
Full of Life, about as superlatively as she did young Vito Corleone (Robert
De Niro), and would have Vincent Mancini (Andy Garcia), probably TOO MUCH,
particularly as the true-to-life version of Mary she also was, had she lived
long enough to meet him! In our own perpetually "civil" war, within the
"family," my father had proven to be much more "feisty" in his resistance
than Jim Backus, in Rebel Without a Cause; but that only served to have
detracted, even more, from the kind of "harmony" there otherwise would have
been, particularly given my mother's uncannily Roman Catholic tendency to be
as characteristically, bloodlessly right as she was wrong! Indeed, on second
thought, with relation to an abovestated reflection, perhaps I can't be so
reasonably confident, after-all, that she's the kind of real Christian, as
well, which, if so, would thus inevitably serve to overshadow and neutralize
the Roman Catholic in her, given the extent to which precisely the opposite
appears to be the case, and that despite the fact of how fervently she, of
all people, is helping along the "cheerleading," with relation to me, in
Ezekiel 33:30-33! Of course, by now she can much more easily afford to be so
ever-increasingly, overshadowingly, wastefully wrong, even while still
having enough of what it takes to hold at least what's left of the love
about as blindingly yet endurably intact as she shall hopefully continue to
remain, at least in the latter sense alone, despite also the "lack" of any
"conflict" as to who is really "taking sides against the family!" About the
only family conflict which proved almost as hopelessly virulent, was that of
the "generation gap," between me and my father; from the time I'd dared
begun independently thinking, and questioning anything at all, until the age
of twenty-two, when the Holy Spirit miraculously, unexpectedly stepped in,
to help heal this breach, at both ends; accompanied by a more mutually
well-balanced compromise, which retained the best of both extremes, while
discarding the worst of both. About the most my mother managed to "learn,"
however, as a result of her experience raising me, was how to go, much
"less" detrimentally, to the very opposite extreme, of neglecting the brutal
raping of any "religious values" at all, even the very best, along with the
very worst, into any of my younger siblings. Don't get me wrong, though, for
I love Mikey as much, now, as when he was actually a very good kid, and we
really had, like so many others, back then, something more worthily
describable as a family. The only real friend I have is my other brother,
James, whom I could only wish it were more accurately possible to nickname
Theo, rather than Fredo; which certainly fails to exclude periodic intervals
of contention just as reminiscent of those between Van Gogh and Gauguin as
well, to the point where both James (no less accurately, contentiously
describable as "Dr. McCoy," versus my "Mr. Spock," or Nick Barkley, versus
his elder brother, Jarrod; although, to be even more depressingly accurate,
after-all, while I'm about as temperamentally though much more meaningfully
hotheaded as Sonny, James is basically nothing but a weak, stupid, two-faced
Fredo; and about as prepared, by now, AGAIN, to sell me out, if only for the
sake of thereby being in more tightly with the others, who've apparently
broken him completely!  On second thought, however, perhaps he does deserve
a bit more of a break, given his numerous virtues, and no less
contemptuously, viciously spurned achievements, coupled with the two
Achilles' Heels of his son and daughter, even if, again, and again, they're
"virtually" nothing but her zombies!) and Rita could use a friendly little
lesson similar to the one outlined in Numbers, Chapter Twelve! As for what
happened to Mikey, it's about the same thing as what's happened to most
people, in a society, that is, quite literally, A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD,
where, again, as The Pawnbroker, Sol Nazerman (Rod Steiger), said to his
apprentice, Jesus Ortiz (Jaime Sanchez), "Money is the whole thing!" And,
believe it or not, which, of course, you don't (unless you really are
capable of at least regarding me as being so "'nobly' weak and stupid,"
after-all, if only in my own "delusionally self-transfiguring" eyes!), I
couldn't care less about the money, at least not for its own sake; just as,
for that matter, there's nobody I'd more prefer to obtain it, particularly
by crook, likewise for the very reason that he's not exactly so weak and
stupid himself, after-all, and I'd really loathe to see it go any more
unappreciatively to waste than I trust he's more than industriously
self-serving enough to avoid; that is, at least until his kind have again
reached, and soon, the very threshold of all "civilized" endurance, while
greedily, parasitically continuing to overplay their hands, and the entire
"House of Cards" finally collapses, from beneath the weight of their own
increasingly top-heavy feet.  The saddest part of all is what a good Don he
could have been, in a "family" that desperately needs one, just as no real
family should be without at least a good "peace-time" consigliere, either!
What most of you ridiculous creatures ambitiously, idolatrously, and
cynically venerate, as the very "pinnacle" of everything "civilized," has
never existed, any more or less than it currently does, from beneath the
abstractly mystifying rhetoric of its "democratically humanitarian" and
"morally self-sanctifying" smoke-screen, as anything but an unavoidably
necessary means of harnessing human energy; for the systematically
well-ordered purpose, not of establishing a more constructively fair and
equitable playing field, where all are afforded a real opportunity to
maximize the actualization of their potential, but rather to precisely the
opposite end, of amassing greater and greater wealth and power in the
relatively and increasingly fewer hands which exist above the law, while
most of the rest are beneath it, with nobody in-between! That which commonly
passes, most particularly, uniquely, sacredly, or, therefore, rather quite
blasphemously, in the name of everything legitimately "Judicial," is
virtually nothing but the cheapest kind of politics in disguise!
     Here's a real "Hart-To-Hart" that's "sure" to "endear" me to most of
you Americans, in the capitalistically, alienatedly, conceitedly, and, of
course, no less brutally, cynically, victimizingly atomized presumptuousness
of your assumption that you, and only you, have nothing but "Rights": If we
have to continue these expensively, wastefully silly games at all, anywhere
Between Heaven and Hell, then let's go beyond even a brazenly two-bit
plebeian such as The War Lover as well!  As Lepke (Tony Curtis) would also
have expressed it, let's "Cut the Crap!"  Give me nothing less than The
Mighty Crassus, anytime!--And I don't necessarily mean the real one, unless
he had truly been nearly as Magnificent as the great Sir Laurence Olivier,
even in his no less genuinely revealing than adequately concealing
refinement of taste in women! After-all, she did quite profoundly catch his
eye, even prior to another having finally become so much more of a strictly
internal problem than anything else; although what he did discover, after
the fact, was his inability to solicit sufficient cooperation at thus
demonstrating to himself that the only real obstacle hadn't been anything as
unproblematically simple in its essence as her failure to have seen him
first; and, as Gracchus even more perceptively, as well as no less
vengefully, symbolically discerned, that served to constitute the weakest,
most decisively, unbearably irritating link in the chains which forged his
Weltanschauung. Yet, while I'd rather be facing even a long march, and a
hard fight, than to be the richest citizen of Rome, fat, with food he didn't
work for, and surrounded by slaves; perhaps only the folly, after-all, of
even the most nobly effeminate instincts, could ever contemplate resisting
the most hopelessly overshadowing response of the one who said, "I promise
you a new Rome, a new Italy, and a new Empire! I promise the destruction of
the slave army, and the restoration of Order, throughout all our
territories!"
     Sorry, Spartacus; but, even though you'll finally be the winner, in the
only way it ever could have ended, and as surely as I could never be
anything but your Antoninus, if only in my most fancifully poetic dreams;
even you are almost too outclassed, nevertheless, here, to make it quite as
easy as it could never by nature be, in either case; particularly when one
has had to struggle, as long and hard as I, against nothing but the kinds of
viciously hungry animals who enjoy a fine kill, without even having to be
bribed, let-alone intimidated; to decide which one is actually the more
Immutably For Real, after-all, even with something as Tragically
Unacceptable as the Myth of Slave Brotherhood hanging pivotally in the
balance; but particularly when it comes down to the only viable manner of
commanding any equally authentic form of even the most genuinely meaningful
submission, even from one no less plausibly interpretable as having merely
very selfishly desired, at bottom, that bit of extra time it requires to die
upon a cross; so that, by now, about all I can personally relate to, is the
very instinct which impelled him onward, over-against anyone who tried to
get in his way, when he could no longer endure any more; or even bear to
discern the actual difference involved, in any form that truly mattered!
Even the noblest of all plebeians, the First Senator of the Rabble, finally
had The Law laid down to him, in the most Majestically Irresistible terms:
"Did you truly believe five-hundred years of Rome could be so easily
delivered into the clutches of a mob!"
     Or, if that's not powerful enough, either, to make the necessary
impact, then let's try this: "There, boy, is Rome; the might, the majesty,
the terror of Rome! There is the power that bestrides the known world like a
Colossus. No man can withstand Rome. No nation can withstand her. How much
less--a boy! There is only one way to deal with Rome, Antoninus. You must
serve Her. You must abase yourself before Her. You must grovel at Her feet.
You must--love Her." Unlike most subsequent tyrants, Marcus Licinius Crassus
even had enough Traditionally Enduring Backbone to avoid sacrilegiously
crossing the Rubicon, for its own sake!--As well as, if I may but permit him
to speak so powerfully, again, in a manner it would be
far-too-compromisingly inadequate even to very "liberally" or
"euphemistically" paraphrase, even to what he screamed was the infamy of
Sulla himself! But it was only when nobody short of the great Julius Caesar
himself likewise needed a most scathingly unmistakable reminder, from about
the only teacher who surpassed even the gluttonously hedonistic magnitude of
Gracchus, and a correspondingly overwhelming reflection that "Rome is the
mob," that Crassus really began to speak like a fellow Patrician, with the
clearest, most unmistakable rebuke of all: "No! Rome is an Eternal Thought
in the Mind of God!" Steven Seagal, as Nico Toscani, in Above the Law, was
even more right than he was wrong, but while having "apparently" grasped the
real reasons for neither, when he sarcastically shot back against the
suggestion that America is the Roman Empire!
     Unlike Varinia, even one as tenderly albeit capriciously noble as
Esmeralda herself (Maureen O'Hara), from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, had
fallen for his kind of charm; the kind which hadn't yet "Christianly"
morphed, into even a masterpiece, of equally good taste in women, too, such
as the "Grand Inquisitor" Frollo (Sir Cedric Hardwicke). Of course, that's
quite a far cry from the one into whose embrace she had once again been so
much less reluctantly driven, thanks to Frollo's so fatefully-intervening
yet historically, transitionally, and symbolically instrumental hand. And
this eloquently prolific poet, Gringoire (Edmond O'Brien), despite even the
most unmistakably noble mind and spirit; had, therefore, as well as
nevertheless, only much later, although still not quite yet, even for most,
who only "think" they have any real capacity to appreciate him, to be
demonstrated the greatest, most fatally insidious con artist of the lot!
Even I still swoon at his charm, and so I can, therefore, so much more than
merely imagine, with the little pseudo-collectively dead time yet remaining;
how much just about everybody else is capable, even of believing, let-alone
wishing, in the most profoundly, symbolically erroneous way indeed, that
this world has already long since "overcome" the image of Frollo; or, to
speak synonymously, harrowingly enough, of nothing less than "Mankind"
Himself, as he appeared in Invaders From Mars!--Or, even more seductively
yet, of his own clerically most inspiring brother; assuming, of course, that
anybody yet remains, particularly by now, even to merely quite theatrically
imitate his kind of spiritually exalted stature! Either way, though, at
least a few of us have the very best "excuse" there could possibly ever be,
for long-recognizing, along with Brando, the other, more transparently
candid side of the face of such a One-Eyed Jack! Quasimodo (Charles
Laughton) had to save Esmeralda once, but he's going to have to do the same
again--this time, for keeps!--As the Sorcerer's Apprentice has, only yet, to
really come, face-to-face, with his Greatest Master; just prior to the
latter's final defeat, as well, by an infinitely more formidable kind of
Lion!
     Meanwhile, though, insofar as the most vividly futuristic analogies go;
perhaps another equally literal one, in its own frightfully complementary
way, would be--Mars Attacks!--If that's what it shall finally take, for a
Jack Nicholson who'll correspondingly begin asking, for a change, "Why can't
we all just--get along?" As I've already pointed out, however, Jack managed
to come to the rescue somewhat too late, along with a few other good men as
well; but one, in particular, who was the very first to meet his fate, while
trying to straddle a fence with the most dangerously razor-sharp edge
(Matthew 6:24) (Revelation 3:15-17); in a vainly opportunistic, callously
victimizing ambition to rather get-a-head! Please, just take it from Richie,
now, for that's exactly where it's all quite currently headed, anyway;
particularly given the fact that far-too-many, who should have known better,
and probably even did, are not quite as astute as Harry Belafonte, at
appreciating their own particular history! Odds Against Tomorrow, along with
Island In the Sun, are among his most passionately ever-moving reminders;
even if he perhaps is as complacently, presumptuously, and ungratefully (to
his Masters) rich, and much more so, in fact, with relation to the kinds of
"House Slaves," to phrase even this a bit more "politely," whom he loves to
deride!--as if the "Eternal Justice" of every currently capitalistic "bank
balance" were no less "self-evidently" than, in his kind of case,
"conveniently given!" At least Colin Powell doesn't claim to "care," that
is, "quite as much," or even nearly as "believably," as all the "Danny
Glovers" out there, too, for those so helplessly, less fortunately, and just
as systematically brutalized! But, then, they're "just jealous," anyway, as
surely as the fear of being conveniently tagged with such a charge, and
every bit as disingenuously, even if it "just happens" to be quite probably
true, nevertheless, in most particular cases, is alone more than enough to
keep anybody from uttering a single peep of "strictly personal" protest, or
thoroughly understandable cynicism, in this particular respect! It's
"somewhat" comparable to so many successfully "liberated" females nowadays,
who continue to rancorously whine about their "Civil Rights," as if nothing
but "Justice for all" had any meaning on God's earth to them.  Yet, it
wouldn't surprise me, "that much," anyway, to discover that, say, in
"education" alone, where I've had a certain number of them in charge of
making official decisions which affect my destiny, they're ALMOST as
"equally, democratically" callous, to their own less "fortunate"
counterparts, and as hypocritically contemptuous of their supposed "Civil
Rights," as they've been--EVEN of MINE!  To be sure, they blend in very
"nicely" with the numerous white "male" TYRANTS against whom I've had to
struggle!  It's really what's referred to, in the most formally academic
kind of vernacular, as the age-old "desideratum" of finally winning the
battle to--OPPRESS AFTER ONE'S OWN FASHION--that is, ONE'S OWN SEPARATELY
SENTIENT NERVOUS SYSTEM--for a long-awaited and thus even more VENOMOUSLY
VINDICTIVE change!
     Those such as Belafonte and Glover may be among the very best there
currently are up there, but they've thus far only succeeded at personally
leaping over the problem, while adorning the way with countless "Liberally
Idealistic" Platitudes which do nothing to alter the dismal facts on the
ground beneath them, or to ease the many burdens on the shoulders of those
who likewise currently continue to sustain them, the very ones Belafonte
spoke for, in Odds Against Tomorrow, when he said, "It's THEIR world, and
we're just living in it!"  These "Superstars" can continue feeling some
special right to identify with the many of their kind who are not so
fortunate, but the fact still remains that, unless they can really begin
doing something to FIX it, for the many who need incalculably more help,
they haven't much basis for claiming to OWN it, nearly to the extent that
they're treated as if they did, in a manner which "perhaps" even quite
decisively helps to account for a right to speak as if they did, too, the
actual cause of which they "perhaps" quite "conveniently" manage to assume
as no less "given" than names such as Oprah Win-Free and Rob 'N Leech
continue taking just about as smugly for granted!  Moreover, Michelle
Pfeiffer, in Scarface, had a most "progressively egalitarian
word-to-the-wise," about the enormous disadvantages to one who must "make it
on his own," even if she'd turned out no "nicer," herself, in the process!
In either case, though, have you ever really encountered anyone who can
perform the inherently impossible task, for which so many, and yet so few,
the very same few, are alone given the inordinate credit they enjoy, of
"Pulling himself up by his own bootstraps?"  Sidney Poitier, in particular,
should try keeping in mind and heart that, for one essential thing, there's
simply not enough room, up there, with him, and all the rest of his
"Super-Human" Icons, and their correspondingly, monstrously inflated egos,
for even a small fraction of those who could have done the same jobs at
least as well, and who work just as hard for the most statistically
improbable privilege.  His kind might even more decently and intelligently
as well as modestly consider that, if their current though "somewhat"
unstated assumption is true, that "virtually" all, who try as persistently
and talentedly as they do, shall thereby "make it," on that account alone,
then it must also follow that those who fail to "make it" must be,
themselves, just as culpably and avoidably to blame!  That feeds every
monstrously conceited ego wich "made it" even more, while also relieving
them of any sense of the extent to which others as worthy had only been less
capriciously or circumstantially fortunate, despite the "need" to
correspondingly and unjustly hold them responsible for their own "failures!"
Racism may be diminishing, despite the long way there still is to go,
hopefully without doing a most "blissfully revengeful" flip-flop; but
slavery is a more "Equal Opportunity Employer," a more
hopelessly-ineradicable matter entirely, if only in its more modernly
"euphemistic" or "wage" form, especially insofar as somebody always has to
do the dirty work.