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Cat On My Lap

It's nice to have a cat who likes to sit in your lap, but only occasionally. I don't have a lot of time for a cat to sit in my lap and Mary is absolutey self-determined in her lap sitting, which means that she will never sit in my lap when I feel like she should. There are rare times when I can make the time for her to sit when she wants to. So these times are nice. I have to get my notebook shortly, which means standing and thus the end of this cozy moment.

It seems odd not to address the events as they pass, but I also don't really like recapping when I've got another thing to move on to. The Kitty Club this past weekend was phenomenal -- another sell-out crowd, another amazing cavalcade of talent; and I've got a hunch the next show is going to be a real return to form.

And now, a movie review.

Lakeview Terrace is a truly harrowing spectacle that could only have been properly done in a collaboration between Neil LaBute and Samuel L.Jackson. It's a good-neighbors, good-fences thriller saturated in waters poisoned by despicable men behaving despicably. Being that this is a LaBute suspense thriller with roots in the all-too-real world, it's obvious from the beginning that it's not going to end well; it's merely a question of how badly things will end. Jackson is ferocious in this role; he's Pulp Fiction's Jules without the search for conscience. It's a hand-grenade sort of film, and regardless of what you make of the ending (or the all-too-obvious biblical connections), there is a lot to look gawk at here -- particularly when it comes to the myriad tragedies brought about by violent conflict resolution.

Which reminds me -- while watching Look Back In Anger these terribly quotable lines startled me:

Jimmy Porter: Nigel and Alison, they're what they sound like, sycophantic, phlegmatic and pusillanimous.
Cliff Lewis: Big words.
Jimmy Porter: Shall I tell you what they mean?
Jimmy Porter: No not interested, don't want to know.
Jimmy Porter: Soapy, stodgy and dim.

What struck me about this is that it seems these days, if one desires to insult someone in the popular vernacular, it's not typically done with adjectives. Instead, insults tend to be delivered via nouns, and it seems to me that noun insults seem intended to be permanent demarcations, while adjectival insults seem (at least potentially) temporary. I am beginning to desire some sort of Geneva convention for the slander set, an international insult pact to return to the use of adjectives. I'm thinking that if I dismiss someone as an asshole or a douchebag or a tool, he's doomed. He should take a long walk off a short pier. He should dive into the old bomb shelter and bite the cyanide caplet. If I don't qualify the dismissal, he may never know what it is that makes him such a tool. I, for that matter, may never know what it is that makes him a tool. He'll never change, and I'll always be angry about it; this is permanance, and if there's one thing more boring than eternity, it's permanence.

Most tools may have doomed themselves to said failures, perhaps because they are insufferable, over-opinionated, violent, greedy, vapid, arrogant, envious, deceitful and/or desperate. It seems to me that if I were a tool, I'd at least like to be certain of the kind of tool I was, as a point of pride if not one of concern. These are not good times to inscriminately throw curses around -- have you read Medea lately? There is still a lot of poison in the atmosphere and it might yet be found that vitriolic opinion is an unexamined greenhouse gas.

And with the arrival of the gas, there goes that darn cat off my lap.


Please note that insults via adjectives are still popular among the academic set.

March 2009

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