Jet!

Jet 

(whose father apparently WAS as bold as the sergeant major)

Link Wray, Tony Joe White, & Preacher Man-ish Things

When you hear him talk about Jesus

You know they're the best of friends

Speaking of Link Wray . . . . 

I loved his version of "Backwoods Preacher Man" on Beans and Fatback so much--it sounds like an outtake from the Exile on Main Street sessions . . . and since that is one of my Top Ten Favorite Albums, that's meant as high praise--that after the seventh or eighth playing I went looking for some more information.

Found out that it was actually a Tony Joe White song, which of course immediately made sense, and just as immediately put me in the mood for listening to Tony Joe White's version several times.

Oh, yeah. I love Link Wray's version of this song, for sure, but Tony Joe White has just got that  sWAMp grOOve  tHANg going on allatime, you know?

Which, of course, made me go dig out my Hoodoo cd. Yeah, that's it. Right THERE, baby.

I need more Tony Joe White. Spotify, take me away!

Why Are Some Women So Inordinately Proud of Their Tits?

       

Just saw some Instagram pictures of Ariel Winter. They popped up on my "news feed" when I went to check my email. (In other words, I didn't go looking for them.) But I shoe did have a look once they entered my awareness. And I have to admit, those 34Ds are most impressive. And she is not particularly shy about letting you see them. In fact, if you piece together the low cleavage shots from other pictures of her with the serious underboob shots here, I am pretty sure you have The Whole Tit minus only the nipples. 

And that, of course, is very nice. I appreciate tits. I think about them on a fairly regular basis, and I never fail to notice them. I don't define women by them. I don't think a woman is less of a woman if she has little or no tit, and I don't think a woman is more of a woman if she has plenty of or too much tit. I don't think a woman's sexual attractiveness is determined by her tits. And I have had relationships with women across the Tit Size Spectrum.

However, I do not understand why women are so proud of their tits. Or, for that matter, why they are so anxious to show them to the world. Or, even more puzzling, why after making their tits so readily accessible to the world, they often berate men for looking at them. What the fuck? "My eyes are up here!" "Yeah, but your tits are Right There!" (Can't remember what show that was on, but it is pretty fucking funny.) And so I am often irritated by pictures of women who are displaying The Big Tit Smirk. Which is something which seems to go hand in hand with Big Tits. So to speak. Check out Ariel Winter's face in most of her Here Are My Tits pictures, for example. Or pretty much any picture of Scarlett Johansson. 

¡SMIRK!

Now, Ariel is only 19 years old, so maybe she'll grow out of it. But for fuck's sake, girls, REALly?

For fuck's sake.

I Have Never Loved Someone the Way I Love You

One of my favorite albums of all time is All Things Will Unwind by My Brightest Diamond / Shara Worden / Shara Nova. All of the songs are fantastic, with "Be Brave" one of my favorite songs of all time. The last song on the album, "I Have Never Loved Someone the Way I Love You" is right up there, too. It is a song I can't listen to closely all the time, though, because if I do it invariably makes me cry, and that's not always a thing you can do--like when you're driving down the highway or when you're at a birthday party, for instance. 

I got to talk to Shara about this song before I saw her in a concert in Indianapolis a couple of years back, and we talked about babies and love and allathat for ten or fifteen minutes ( ). And yes, those were some of the best minutes of this man's life. In case you didn't guess it, I love Shara. (Like really. Like not a figure of speech.) Well . . . the song is from a mother's point of view, and she's thinking about what will happen to her child after she/mom dies. She tells the child that she will find a way to tell her "you're okay." And it ends with Shara repeating, "You're okay." It is just amazing how that touches my heart.

And not just mine. There's a wonderful video on The You Tub in which Shara performs the song live . . . I think she's in an empty restaurant, something like that . . . and at the end of it she has to wipe her eyes. Also, I sent a copy of the album to my older sister and told her that "I Have Never Loved Someone the Way I Love You" always made me cry if I listened too closely, and she said that it made her cry as well.

Anyway. Turn signal. Don't panic, I know where I'm going.

Joe has been really preoccupied with The Future for awhile now. For some reason, that preoccupation often takes the form of Who Will Be Alive 35 Years From Now. I've tried to give him a general rule . . . like anybody who is 45 years old or older now is probably not going to be alive in 35 years . . . but Joe doesn't cotton to generalities, so we have to take it on a case by case basis. Usually he asks about celebrities, especially wrestling celebrities. And sometimes he'll do "the math" for himself, e.g. "Harrison Ford is 74. I don't think he's going to be around in 35 years." That kind of thing. But most of the time he just asks me. "Will Mark Hamill be alive in 35 years?" "And I'll replay, "I don't think so, Joe." 

Yesterday he asked me if I would be alive in 35 years. 

I told him that I didn't think so, as that would make me 95, and the average man in America doesn't live that long. Then Joe said, "I'm going to miss you when you're gone." 

Oh.

Well, although I'm not what most people would call a religious man, I have no qualms about telling Joe and his sister Jacqueline (who is also autistic) that when I die I will be in Heaven waiting for them, so they don't need to be sad or worry about me. So first I said that to Joe, but then I thought of Shara's song, and I expanded on the explanation. I told him that even after I died that I would be right beside him all the time, even though he wouldn't be able to see me, and that I'd be whispering to him, but I wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear since I'd be so far away in Heaven. I told him that he would never be alone, though, and that if he was ever sad, he could talk to me and I would hear him, and that I would hug him and try to make him feel better. 

I don't know if he believed me or not, but he seemed comforted by the thought. And you know . . . I'm kind of starting to believe it myself. I know this, at any rate: if will power and love will allow me to whisper to my kids after I've died, then I will be whispering to my kids after I've died.

Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough . . . . 

McAlister's Deli: A Paean

"I do not know Why yet I live to say 'This thing’s to do' . . . . ” 

Hamlet

Act IV

Scene iv

Well, I do.

I've been meaning to write about McAlister's Deli for the past seven years or so.

But like many Important Things, it just kept slipping off of the radar. I'd think about it every Friday when I took Joe to work there, but by the time I'd picked him up an hour and a half later the thought was smoke on the horizon.

Which is shameful, really.

Because the people at McAlister's have been really good to my little boy. 

He started going there with his high school special needs class. The kids did menial tasks and got a little bit of work experience and the odd job skill or two, and McAlister's got some free labor, so everybody benefited. After a bit of that, the McAlister folks asked if Joe would want to start working for pay. Just an hour and a half or two hours one day a week, but still. Real money. 

At that was how Joe got his first job. And four years later he's still there, and he still loves it.

Not for the job itself. His main gig is filling little cups with sour cream or dressing. Sometimes he wraps cookies. That's about it. But the people there are so good to him. They treat him like a co-worker. They don't talk to him like he's an idiot or a baby, which many people . . . sometimes even family members . . . do. They ask him about what he's been doing and what he going to do. They answer when he asks them. They thumb wrestle with him. They greet him hello and bid him good-bye. They invite him to the Christmas Party.

And it's not just because I'm there . . . because I'm not there most of the time. I drop him off at the door and I only come in at the very end of his shift. And I know that there are times when they don't even see me.

Plus I've seen how they treat the other special needs folks who work for them. 

I have never seen any employee be anything other than nice. Not even once.

Which says to me that there's decree that has come down from on high . . . at least at the local managerial level . . . that We Are Going to Be Nice to These Guys and Gals. 

It's a beautiful thing.

So if you've got to eat lunch SOMEwhere . . . McAlister's would be a good choice, wouldn't it?

Besides, they make a killer Reuben sandwich.

UPDATE: https://songsofinnocenceampexperience.blogspot.com/2023/06/mcalisters-deli-retracting-paean.html

More News About Fire HD 8 Tablet with Alexa, 8" HD Display, 16 GB, Black - with Special Offers Sold by: Amazon Digital Services LLC $69.99

Well, $89.99 now. It was on sale when I ordered mine.

It's been a couple of weeks since Kindle #5 arrived, and I have to say that I'm really impressed by this little machine.

I've used it every day. I've sent emails and Facebook messages. I've taken pictures and posted them. I've written blog entries. Played music. Read books. Watched shows. Bought stuff. Pretty much everything except porn and paying bills. And not only has this inexpensive little baby performed quite admirably . . . as well as any of my previous Kindles . . . but it's actually proven to be superior in some ways. The keyboard is very responsive to touch, for instance. You don't feel like you have to pound on the poor thing. And it's sooo light. And it actually fits into my pants pocket.

I'm a believer.

I'd have been happy with this thing if I'd paid twice as much for it. Seriously.

The Gospel According to John

"The magic of eating a hair of the dog which bit you in order to cure hydrophobia is as nothing to the magic involved in the belief that those who have privilege and power will remedy the breakdown they have created."

 John Dewey

Слыхали ль вы за рощей глас ночной Певца любви, певца своей печали? Когда поля в час утренний молчали, Свирели звук, унылый и простой, Слыхали ль вы?

I was ready to put down my $21 last night for Eugene Onegin in XD, but (1) it didn't start until 6:30, and the running time was 4 hours, and 10:30 is kind of late for me, (2) last time I went to see an opera at the movie theater there were a bunch of old fucks who were less reverent than I wanted them to be, and (3) I don't really like going to the movies ABMS. (Neither does Eric Carmen.) So I didn't go.

But I really wanted to see that opera. For one thing, it starred  Anna Netrebko, the Super 🔥 Russian gal I saw in La Traviata a few months ago. So I thought I'd see if, perchance, I could stream it on NETFLIX or amazon. But alas, it was not to be.

But during the course of my travails, I happened upon 

 .

And I thought I'd have a look.

And . . . well blow me down. They had Eugene Onegin. Six of them. Two on video and four audio only. And one of the four says that one of the two was saved. Ach, sorry. Suffering from Godotette Syndrome. One of the two was the one which starred the divine Miss Netrebko. 

I checked the price. $14.99 a month. Hmmm. So less than the price of a ticket to one opera at the theater, where the picture was, admittedly, much bigger, and the sound quality higher, but I have excellent hearing and can always sit closer to the tv. And the thought of not having to deal with the irreverent old fucks and being able to pause for a piss or a snack (high fiber, low sugar, of course) . . . sign me up. 

But it got better. For one thing, the catalog is truly immense. According to the website's FAQ section, 

"Met Opera on Demand is the online streaming service that allows users to watch and listen to 550 Met performances over the internet.

"This online streaming catalog includes HD videos (from the Met’s award-winning Live in HD series of worldwide cinema transmissions), classic telecasts (standard-definition videos that were originally broadcast live on television from 1977-2003), and radio broadcast (audio-only) performances dating back to 1935 (from the Met’s long-running series of Saturday matinee radio broadcasts as well as more recent satellite radio broadcasts.)"

Oh, yeah. Mos def sign me up.

But it got better. 'Cause there's a 7 Day Free Trial.

I signed up.

Watched Eugene Onegin with 🔥 Anna Netrebko. Oh, my. That woman is not from Russia, she's from Planet Grrrrrrr. 

I don't think I'm going to be cancelling my subscription at the end of the 7 Day Trial.

And I'll probably never go to the theater for the Opera in HD again. $21? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. 

The Obese Experience: Are You ReallyFat? Or Have You Ever Been ReallyFat? Well, I Have . . . .

It's not a nice word, is it? Defined as "grossly fat or overweight." It conjures up pictures of immense, lumpish men sitting on the beach, looking like grounded dirigibles. It's a word that invites scorn from skinny people.

And it's not a word I'd ever applied to myself . . . until recently. Of course before recently I knew that I needed to lose some fat. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn't see a gross, fat slob. I sucked my gut in a bit and thought that I didn't look all that bad. Nothing that couldn't be dealt with. But on one of my trips to the doctor the weigh in said I was over 270 pounds, and I knew that that couldn't be good. So I looked into it. And found that my "ideal healthy weight" was160 pounds, and the recommended weight range for my height was between 143 and 178 pounds.  As in one hundred pounds less than what I weighed, give or take a bit. And yes, that hurt. And yes, that seemed very dire.

And that is when I ran smack into the dreaded word: according to all of the versions of the ideal body weight calculator that I could find, I was obese. Not overweight. Not even fat. Obese. It was a humbling moment.

I wish I could say that I got right to work on it, but the truth is that I thought about it, obsessed about it, got depressed about it, and then resigned myself to it and forgot about it.

But then I got that stomach flu and threw up for a day and couldn't eat for another, and whilst pondering the emptiness of my stomach and my total lack of hunger, I thought, "Maybe this would be a good time to capitalize on the shrunken state of my stomach."

So ten weeks later I'm 30 pounds lighter, and I am actually starting to feel hopeful. Right now my goal is just to make it to the overweight category, which means 215 pounds. Which is "only" 15 pounds away. Which seems do-able. *

And after that . . . who knows? Just doing the best that I can do right now.



* And seems even more do-able at the moment. I finished my exercises for today (the whole routine now takes 50 minutes), took a shower, and stepped on the scale to get a naked weight. Here's what I saw:

So at least for a moment today * I was only 11.8 pounds away from not being "obese." Believe it or not, the idea of making it to "overweight" is extremely exciting.

* I've been at this weigh-in business long enough to know that hitting a weight one time doesn't make it real. But it's still a good sign, ennit?

Liver

My daughter's Community Living Support (CLS) worker dropped Jacqueline off, and we started chatting about this and that. For some reason I mentioned that when I was a kid, my mom made liver (& onions) for us on a regular basis, and how disgusting I thought that was now. She agreed and said that she'd never eaten it. Then my son's CLS worker came by to pick up Joe (we are a regular CLS Grand Central Station here) and I asked him if he'd ever eaten liver, and he said that he hadn't but that it was on his Bucket List.

And then Joe left with his CLS worker and Jacqueline went to her room to rock out to some Thomas the Tank Engine and Rick James and Jefferson Starship and Cecilia Bartoli (she's a bit eclectic), and I went down into the basement to do my thirty minutes on the stationary bike. I've just started listening to books on tape while I exercise, having discovered that the PLAYAWAY audio books are about as perfect as you can get for this purpose. And I'd just recently acquired Jean M. Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear (I swear that that book followed me around for several months before I finally decided I needed to at least see the movie, and after I did that I thought it was at least interesting enough to warrant seeing what the book was all about), and so I turned that on to pick up where I'd left off yesterday.

Within two minutes, the narrator was telling me that after the cave boys killed the animal . . . can't remember what kind it was . . . that the first thing they did was take out the liver and divvy it up amongst all the hunters, because that was the choicest bit.

Liver.

Well. Yet another coincidence for the book, ennit?

I'm never eating that shit again, though. I don't care how choice the bit is. Liver is fucking disgusting.

Drowning in Cat

Far From the Maddening Women

Just finished watching the 1967 version of Far From the Maddening Crowd, and it was definitely worth doing. Julie Christie, Terence Stamp, Peter Finch, and Alan Bates all did good jobs, and the movie, which was close to three hours long (169 minutes) had no problem holding my attention. 

For one thing, the characters Bathsheba Everdene (Julie Christie) and Frank Troy (Terence Stamp) really pissed me off consistently. Frank just because he was an asshole, and Bathsheba because she was such a consummate bitch. I have to say, too, that Bathsheba's bitchiness was totally familiar to me from my own dealings with women. She just delighted in toying with men and then smashing them to pieces. And the men fall for it every time. She absolutely (and deliberately) ruins William Boldwood (Peter Finch) 's life for no reason whatsoever (other than that she can). And the "happy ending" for Gabriel Oak (Alan Bates) doesn't seem sustainable given what has preceded it. Gabriel should have stuck with his sheep.

Speaking of which, early on in the movie there's that terrible horrible mad dog and sheep moment, at the conclusion of which Gabriel says, "Thank God I am not married!" Granted this is a shortened version of Thomas Hardy's "Thank God I am not married: what would she have done in the poverty now coming upon me!", but the movie's truncated version is better because (1) it's funnier and (2) it implies the submission that men often display in their relationships with women. I've certainly been there. I look back at some of the relationships I've been in and I can only wonder why I put up with so much shit from a fellow human being. If that's what love does to me, then I am more than happy to say farewell and get as far away from it as possible. The love I have for and get from my children is much fuller, healthier, and steadier than any romantic love I've encountered. And I don't have to compromise my values or my pride with them. Hell, the love I get from my cats is of higher quality than what I've gotten from my last five women. Seriously.

Anyway, this movie was so good that it made me want to (1) read the book and (2) watch another version of the movie. I'll probably do the second one first, since I am up to my tits in books that I want to read already, but you never know: when these fixations take hold, sometimes you just have to empty your arms and follow the bouncing ball.

Oh, and did I forget to mention, forget to mention Nicholas Roeg? Yes, I did. He was responsible for the cinematography on this movie, and he did such a lovely job. There are some scenes that are so beautifully composed that they could be paintings. (I'm thinking particularly of the foggy cottage scene after Bathsheba leaves home.) And there are some scenes that are just so perfectly captured, like the drunken cart driver's ride to the churchyard. There's also some hand held camera work which is just perfect for the mood of the scene. Well done, Nick!

Injustice 2 #3

52 panels, most of them Holy Shit Level. If you have any love left in you for superhero comics in general and / or Batman in particular, you really need to start reading Injustice 2. 

Right now. 

You can get the first three issues for 99¢ apiece from Comixology. The only down side is that you'll have to wait a week for #4. And you won't want to, I will guarandamntee you.

And BTW, you don't have to worry about coming into the story late. Just be prepared to see just about everything you know about DC superheroes turned on its head.

Enjoy the ride.

Oh, one more BTW. If you fall in love with this story and want to go back for the early issues, that will work out for you, but when Tom Taylor stops writing it, I'd suggest you bail out, too. The non-Tom Taylor issues were not good at all.

Things That Make Mitch McConnell Happy, Part One

Congressman Madison, age 32, by Charles Willson Peale
[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

" . . . our government ought to secure the permanent interests of the country against innovation. Landholders ought to have a share in the government, to support these invaluable interests, and to balance and check the other. They ought to be so constituted as to protect the minority of the opulent against the majority. The senate, therefore, ought to be this body; and to answer these purposes, they ought to have permanency and stability. Various have been the propositions; but my opinion is, the longer they continue in office, the better will these views be answered."

James Madison

June 26th, 1787

50/50

"A belligerent and unpredictable leader of a country that is a . . . it's just a . . . you know, . . . a rogue . . . a rogue nation."

Christine Romans, CNN

As for this juice . . . this so-called juice . . . / More Songs About Food, Diet, & V8-ish Things

Man . . . this learning new things is a thorough pain in the ass. Just a few days (or so) ago I was all excited about drinking V8 and feeling good about that, enjoying it, getting the extra vegetable hit   . . .  and today I was checking out some shit on fooducate.com, which is quickly becoming an indispensable resource in this Battle of My Bulge, and I saw that V8 was given a grade of B-. Say what? For vegetable juice? How could you possibly fuck up vegetable juice?

Well, this seems to be the way (if you want a recipe for how to fuck up vegetable juice):

Sodium           590mg    26% Daily Need

Added Sugars 8g           33% Daily Need

Mmm-hmm.

Plus the added information that the juice is sometimes stored for as long as a year before it is put into those lovely plastic bottles.

I was disappointed, but hell, there're lots of other juices out there, right? So I started looking . . . and it looks like they're all pretty much shit. I couldn't find any kind of juice that got higher than a grade of B from fooducate. And y'know . . . that's really not good enough for my body these days. Cause it's a temple, y'know. So fuck V8, man. Back to water.

Today Joe Said

So much for that stereotype about autistic people not being empathetic, eh?

Big Breakfast. With Orange Juice. Not Lovin' It.

I have put down my fair share of Big Breakfasts in my time, foe shoe. And I enjoyed every one of them. Bacon and scrambled eggs, biscuit, pancakes and syrup, hash browns. If you ain't mmm mmm goodin' it, I do believe you are either a food saint or a liar. I mean, what's not to like? Okay, maybe not the hash browns, they are some nasty shit, actually. Unless you eat them right away, when they're still pulsing with heat, in which case they are at least alright. But the rest of it? Nothing but net.

And Joe had to go in for some bloodwork this morning, so he had to hold off on breakfast, and he only had a little bit of time before he had to go to work, and so . . . I let him do breakfast at McDonald's. And he really liked it.

I didn't join him . . . though I was sorely tempted, I'll admit. But as he dug in, I looked up at the menu board and saw that they listed the calorie count . . . and . . . .  Oh. Oh, my.

There are 1316 calories in the Big Breakfast (substituting bacon for the sausage) + 150 calories in a small orange juice = 1,466 calories. I'll say it again: 1,466 calories.

For a bit of perspective, my total calorie count for yesterday was 1744 calories. And it was actually one of my heavier caloric intake days. Now, granted, I'm trying to lose fat and am watching my intake very carefully . . . but What The Fuckety Fucking Fuck, man. 1,466 calories for breakfast?

Never again, my friends. Not on my watch.

Never, never, never again.

You're Gonna Carry That Weight a Long Time

This losing weight shit is no fucking fun. I'm coming up on the end of my 9th week now, and if that doesn't sound like a long time, you've probably never had to try very hard to lose weight. The worst part is that it just doesn't seem like you're making any progress at all for long stretches of time. That scale just doesn't seem to budge a micrometer. And then it does. So I've lost 22 pounds in the past 9 weeks, which doesn't seem too bad. And would seem even better if I didn't have a very long way to go. I'm hoping to drop another 38 pounds if possible. It's a little bit daunting, though.

I have found, however, that paying too much attention to what the scale says is an excellent way to kill your motivation and put yourself into a position where you're tempted to say to hell with it or at least to do a little cheating. (Which, in my experience, usually leads to a little more cheating, which then leads to a lot of cheating, which then leads to I didn't want to do it anywaying.) My body, on the other hand, has provided me with some nice feedback from pretty early on.

First I noticed that my rings were starting to fall off of my fingers. Then I noticed that I had more belt sticking out of my buckle than previously, leather just dangling down sexily. And I began to notice that I not only had more energy, and that I not only was looking forward to riding the stationary bike, but that I actually felt good.

I mean good.

Which made me realize that I haven't felt good in a very long time.

So. 22 pounds down. Let's go.

And by the way . . . I just finished up an exercise session and when I got dressed I thought, Man, this belt is dangling down so far that it's kind of vulgar. So I thought I'd see if Joe had an extra belt in his closet.

I found one. It was labelled "36 inches." 

Not quite ready to show my bare stomach yet, though. Bate your breath, girls.

First There is a Mountain: Sean Rowe

"Maybe the mountain in our lives looks more like a molehill from the other side."

"Gas Station Rose"

Sean Rowe

Saw this at Half-Price Books

and liked the cut of its jib. It was a single, and just a few bucks, but I am really trying to leave the impulse buying behind (for it has not served me well). So I fondled it and walked away. 

Came back a week or so later, and it was still there.

But bigger. 

But who was this Sean Rowe fellow? I pictured a skinny little twenty something with a high, reedy voice who sang acoustic songs about girls breaking his heart in coffee houses and coffee houses breaking his heart in girls. So I walked over to the cd section to see if they had heard of this so called Sean Rowe. And as a matter of fact, they had a cd entitled Magic. And it was the same price as that single with the come hither cover, $2.99. I looked at it, checked out the lyrics, thought that they confirmed my guess as to the fellow's composure and style, and was about to put it back and walk away when I noticed the corner of a blue slip of paper peeking out of the cd sleeve:

And you'd have to have a smaller heart than mine to resist that for $2.99, y'know? And while I was at it, I picked up the single, too.

When I got home and got down to it I immediately realized that I had no properly conceptualized Sean Rowe. That voice . . . so deep and resonant. I Googled. 42 years old. Big beard. Looked like a big guy (of course it's hard to tell without a reference point). And he'd been at it for a while--recording since 2004. 

And he was really, really good.

I Googled again. 

That's what I'm talking about.

Thank you, universe.

Only one catch: Thursday is a Kids With Me Night. So I asked them if they wanted to go to the concert. Jacqueline was over easy. Of course, she is a veteran, having gone to see My Brightest Diamond with me twice in Indianapolis. Joe, who is not as adventurous, was reluctant. But he eventually said he would like to go, too.

There's still a fair amount of distance between the cup and the lip, but I am jazzed, man.

You come, too?

If not, check this guy out on his web site (http://www.seanrowe.net) or The You Tub or Spotify or whatever the hell newfangled thing you use to get yer music. I'd suggest starting with "Wrong Side of the Bed." It's a groovy little fucker.

Jacqueline's Bling

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Erin Moran

I just read a little obituary notice on msn.com (http://www.msn.com/en-us/tv/news/‘happy-days’-star-erin-moran-dies-at-56/ar-BBAanqd?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout) for Erin Moran.

The cause of death was listed as unknown, but I don't think it will come as a surprise once it is released.

Erin was 56 years old. The article mentions that she "had fallen on hard times in recent years. She was reportedly kicked out of her trailer park home in Indiana because of her hard-partying ways."

Her body was found in a mobile home park in New Salisbury, which is only 36 minutes from my front door. 

https://www.google.com/maps/place/New+Salisbury,+IN+47161/@38.3182256,-86.0714431,929m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m5!3m4!1s0x8869489feaa8ef75:0xad7da3e8e6ac409a!8m2!3d38.3136764!4d-86.0949722

56 years old.

What a damned shame. 

According to the msn.com story, here is what some of her famous friends had to say about her: 

Henry Winkler (net worth $35 million)  tweeted: “OH Erin…now you will finally have the peace you wanted so badly here on earth. Rest In It serenely now…too soon.”

Ron Howard (net worth $140 million) tweeted, “Such sad sad news. RIP Erin. I’ll always choose to remember you on our show making scenes better, getting laughs and lighting up tv screens.”

Donny Most (net worth $2 million) said in a statement, “I am so incredibly sad to hear about Erin. She was a wonderful, sweet, caring, talented woman. As I write this I can’t really comprehend this right now. A very painful loss. It gives me some comfort to know that she’s with Tom, Al, Pat and Garry.  Rest In Peace, sweet Erin.”

Anson Williams (net worth $1.8 million)  said, “Erin was a person who made everyone around her feel better. She truly cared about others first, a true angel. I will miss her so much, but know that she is in God’s hands. RIP sweet angel.”

There will no doubt be more paeans, accolades, and encomiums from other "friends" in the coming days.

I'm guessing that none of those messages will emanate from mobile home parks.

But it's nice to have friends who care about you, isn't it?

By Popular Press Media Group [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

James Franco Goes Into Battle: In Dubious Battle

So here's the story in numbers: 6.2/10 IMDb, 29% Rotten Tomatoes, 2/4 Roger Ebert. 

Those are not good numbers. And I suspect that the money numbers aren't any better, though I haven't been able to find any data on the box office take.

I did read a few reviews. It was very unpleasant business. I saw In Dubious Battle described as "monotonous," "dull," "dismal," and "heavy footed and stodgy." 

And to that I say: fuck you, motherfuckers.

This was a really good movie. And I was (for the first time) really impressed with James Franco, who directed as well as starred in this film. I don't know why reviewers and audiences gave it (and him) so much shit, but I suspect it's because the motherfuckers are so jaded that the sincerity of this movie went right past them, and since there wasn't much shit blowing up, I guess it didn't hold their attention.

But it will hold yours. It's really good. And Redbox has it, so you can easily get it. (Amazon has it, too, but it costs a bit more there.) 

And btw, along with James Franco, you also get some most excellent co-stars, including Selena Gomez, Robert Duvall, Ed Harris, Bryan Cranston, and one of my Major Heroes, the great Sam Shepard.

And it's based on a John Steinbeck novel. 

What more could you want?

"People just want to know that their lives matter. That they matter."

P.S. Six years later...Budget $15,000,000, Box Office $213,982. Still a great movie, though!

"When you're a liar, a person of low moral fortitude, really any explanation you need to be true can be true. Especially if you're smart enough. You can figure out a way to justify anything." Samuel Witwer

Speaking of fortitude . . . 

I've long been fascinated by The Arctic and The Antarctic. I am not a fan of the cold, but the desolation, the isolation . . . the relentless whiteness . . . those things appeal to me. 

So when I saw a picture of Dennis Quaid, of whom I am quite fond 1 , wearing a heavy duty parka, looking grim, gritty, and determined,  and with The Northern Lights bleeding into the sky behind him, I wanted a piece of that. So I looked for this Fortitude thing. 

And quickly found out that Dennis does not make his appearance until Season Two. But I am not a guy who can start watching a series with its 12th episode, so I started with Season One, Episode One. And literally from the first few seconds I was caught up in the story. I mean, seriously . . . how could you not be. Professor Albus Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) stumbles upon a polar bear gnawing on a man . . . how are you not going to keep watching that? 2

And things just keep getting stranger and more interesting from there.

In fact, in many ways this is the weirdest television show I've ever seen. Which I like, by the way. But as the as show progresses, you think, "Oh, this is a science fiction show." And then you think, "No, it's a horror show, isn't it?" And then you think, "What IS this thing, anyway?" 

Well . . . it's a cop show.

Kind of.

A really weird, interesting, bizarre, compelling cop show.

Ahmo go watch me some Season 2. Hey, Dennis! I'm coming for you, baby!









1  Breaking Away 1979, The Right Stuff 1983, Dreamscape 1984, The Rookie 2002, Vantage Point 2008, G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra 2009, Soul Surfer 2011 . . . that is some most excellent shit. 

2 Speaking of which, caveat emptor: there are some seriously grisly moments in this series. Like internal organs stuff. None of it is gratuitous, and you'll know what's coming with enough warning to avert your eyes, but if you don't, you might well could be sorry. I mean, that shit really looked real, y'know?

Lively Blake

Just saw a story about Blake Lively who, while attending Variety‘s New York Power of Women Luncheon on Friday, was asked a question about the green jumpsuit she was wearing. Lively was there as an honoree because of her advocacy against child pornography, so it is understandable that she deemed such a question inappropriate and responded, "“Are we really doing this? Would you ask a man that?"

I think it is great that Lively is using her power to fight against one of the world's great evils, and I definitely admire her for doing that.

But here's the thing: 

Would a man wear something parallel in nature to this if he were being honored for his work against child pornography?

I am 100% in for treating women as equals, for respecting women, for not differentiating between genders (or, for that matter, "genders") etcetera etcetera etcetera. But you know . . . I see the same thing on the news every day. Women on the news who wear outfits that accentuate their sexuality. And that is more than fine with me: I love cleavage, bare arms, midriffs, whatever. That's why I tune in to OnAN, after all. But you can't have it both ways. If you put yourself out there in a way that accentuates your sexuality, then you should expect people to focus on that. And the truth is that male newscasters don't do that. (Though it might be interesting if they did.) And men accepting awards do not dress in suits which emphasize their décolletage.

Just sayin', sir.

Et tu, CNN?

First Ed Brubaker, then TARGET, now CNN:

Doesn't anybody proofread anymore?

reign [reyn] 

noun
1. the period during which a sovereign occupies the throne.
2. royal rule or authority; sovereignty.
3. dominating power or influence: the reign of law.

verb (used without object)
4. to possess or exercise sovereign power or authority.
5. to hold the position and name of sovereign without exercising the ruling power.
6. to have control, rule, or influence of any kind.
7. to predominate; be prevalent.

(Dictionary.com : http://www.dictionary.com/browse/reign?s=t )

rein
[reyn] 

noun
1. Often, reins. a leather strap, fastened to each end of the bit of a bridle, by which the rider or driver controls a horse or other animal by pulling so as to exert pressure on the bit.
2. any of certain other straps or thongs forming part of a harness, as a checkrein.
3. any means of curbing, controlling, or directing; check; restraint.

(Dictionary.com: http://www.dictionary.com/browse/rein?s=t ) 

If China was working very hard to reign in North Korea, they would probably be in for a rain of nuclear missiles.