17 September 2021
This morning, I am dispensing with looking at my e-mails as this essay forms in my mind. I awoke bright and early with a slew of ideas, insights, and opinions. Those gatling-gun thoughts are the rapid-fire brain-ammo that Dear Husband, at the breakfast table, bravely, and mutely, meets some, though not all, mornings.
I’ve decided to pen my brainwork, right now, without delay — without a word to my spouse.
(“Thank you, dear,” whispers my Wonderful Webmaster.)
It’s an engagement of intellect vs. the hunger game of breakfast, the battle of supremacy between mind and matter!
I do believe that my imaginative mind shall prove victorious, powered by only a cup of Scottish Breakfast tea, 3 Diggie Biscuits, a glass of cranberry juice, and the laser focus of gatling-gun thoughts.
Nope, I am not eating cake!
— For Congress Girl Kardashian, the trauma does not compound; the stupidity does. And her mode of attire is not at all consistent with that of a victim — of anything, except herself and her insatiable desire for attention. The Ass Attention Whore from Brooklyn is giving Camera Hog Schumer a runway run for the DNC money!
— In spite of Panic Newsom’s panic-porn win from recall non-redemption, along with the spite that this petty tinpot tyrant incessantly spews, I, and many millions of other Californians, who really did cast their votes, in person — shall not call this November Turkey-day Thanks-gavin.
Yes, I know, this thin-skinned jackass will hold a grudge, much longer than he can hold a lucid thought. (I am speaking about the California governor here.) His picayune revenge doesn’t matter. By late November, Panic Boy will be crouched, back in his corner, sucking his thumb over whatever calamity he’s caused and blamed on Someone Else. (And I am referring, once again, to the California governor.)
The Snews shall monotonously and moronically continue with Distraction Disasters, such as A State of the U.S. Exercising State’s Rights, or Why The Evidence Is Showing The Price of Gasoline is Still Not Going Down.
Life goes on . . . without Him!
— Dr. G. I have found a Dr. after my own heart, something that’s truly worth chasing!
This week, I had the fine and fun experience of listening to Dr. Gorka’s radio show. The intro music needs work, a lot of work. If he’s going for garish, he’s got it. The audio definitely matches the graphics! It’s an over-produced cell phone ring tone, from the Flip-Phone Era, which is not the syntho-manly sound that draws me into the broadcast. But I am, most likely, not his target audience. I’m no one’s target audience!
What does indeed draw me to don my deluxe open-back headphones is the hilarious and tossed-off advertising voice that Dr. G seems totally unaware of having so supremely mastered. I’ve downloaded his sales-schtick for Clint Eastwood’s Cry Macho, and I cannot stop listening to it!
Yes, Clintwood, as I call him, has, yet again, directed himself to celluloid virility.
My #1 portion of the vocal advertisement is the crème du geste, where Dr. G intones with ominous truth:
“The only road home is through redemption.”
— Old Habits Die Hard. Last night I watched Episode 4, Season 4 of Murder, She Wrote. The plot is improbable, but a body has to turn up, somewhere, dead. The police in this Louisiana murder scene initially conclude that a nun has committed suicide in a convent!
The moral dilemma (quite a red-tape quandary for this Catholic Church Swamp in the Pelican State) is that the local Bishop fully goes along with the classification of this mortal sin, and shocking cause of death — without an autopsy.
This bureaucratic man of the cloth provides perhaps the most realistic aspect to this show. The Bishop needs this thing wrapped up fast, and filed away so as to escape any bad publicity:
NOTHING TO SEE HERE.
The Mother Superior is a rebel, no doubt what Jesuits used to be. She isn’t having any of the Bishop’s malarkey. She adamantly refuses to accept this horrid, unlikely and damnable “cause of death.” The Bishop relents, briefly, only to come up with the preposterous proposal of “temporary insanity” as a work-around solution. Sister non-Suicide could then be buried in consecrated ground to solve this ungodly problem.
We sane Americans might soon be hearing this serving suggestion regarding the State of the Insane Nation.
Mother Superior just about flips her habit over this weaselly wording. Clearly, she and the Bishop do not get along, especially on spiritual matters!
Jessica Fletcher must intervene, along with a Higher Power, to discover the secrets of the convent. She does not have to go undercover though.
The story line and details of this episode are almost like a Government Press Conference or Official Propaganda Release, that lifeboat that sinks instantly upon being frantically launched into the swamp water. The true gem of the show is portrayed by Eileen Brennan, the wife of the mayor of the town. Her character looks like small potatoes, but this veteran actress makes a supreme salad out of this part of seemingly no significance or consequence.
— Friday Night at the Wide-Screen: Tonight, I shall watch an excellent and personally esteemed film, My Man, Godfrey. I am not one of those forgotten Americans anymore!
Carole Lombard is one of my favorite actresses; and she does not disappoint in her portrayal of a screwball blonde who’s smarter than, well, everyone else. William Powell had been her real-life husband before the making of this movie. He was not only a good sport, but a terrific actor. With natural grace, comedic charm and flawless timing, he presents to the audience a timeless leading man.
All of the characters in this 1936 Hollywood flick are as up-to-date today as they were back then. The high-jinx, highbrow hypocrisy, and noble low-lifes in the story are as all-American as you can get, in the long ago and in the here-and-now. That distinctive quality is what makes for a classic.
— Sinking Fast. This past Wednesday, I experienced a sinking fast feeling that was so unlike me that all I could tell Dear Husband was: “I am going to have to get out of it by myself.”
Of course, the next day I wrote 3 essays, and started the text of a Dramatic Reading. Those 10 hours, however, were dragging me under some emotional undertow that seemingly came from out of nowhere. I didn’t fight that force, whatever it was; I went with it, figuring it would require too much energy to counter-act that pull. In reality, I was re-living an entire decade: 2000-2010!
Blasts from the past can, alas, clobber you without warning. I felt like Commander James Ferraday, the Rock Hudson role, in Ice Station Zebra, watching with stunned disbelief, eyes unblinking, the digital readout of the mind-numbing numerical depth to which the sabotaged submarine was sinking, fast.
Confidentially, I believe the fraudulent ship of state is the one that’s sinking-fast. I merely picked up those incoming signals from the dingbats who publicly sneer, “It’s of no concern,” while inwardly, doom invades them, one and all. Rock-in-shock is nothing compared to the shock-and-horror that presently stalk the traitors of this nation.
That sensation of sinking-fast might endure for someone who is frightened and struggling to keep faith, much less grab hold of it, in this land of liberty. For me, that submerging sensibility was the force that set into motion the rebound, a V-shaped recovery, one that remains in motion, soaring above the clouds of fear and doubt.
Any patriot must always bear in mind, and remember:
V is for Victory.