dammit.
You’d figure that a learning curve as shallow as this one would have been eliminated by natural selection.
Then again … I’m still alive.
Or maybe Darwin was wrong, and the Creationists are right — and God deliberately made stupid animals to test us.
Sigh …
Robocop (2014) was a hell of a lot more cerebral than anyone expected, putting more thought into its script than did the gimmicky (but still quite classic) ultra-violent 1987 original. The new film is high-concept science fiction instead of over-the-top satire, touching on everything from drone deployment overseas to free will to domestic surveillance. The movie even gives a nod to the question of the existence of the soul.
It’s good, but it will never achieve the cult classic status of the original. As much as I liked it, I could have used a few more action scenes. This was a well made movie, but the kid in me wanted just a little more screen time for the ED-209’s, more bot-on-bot slugfests, or even a reappearance from one of the original franchise’s garish, comic book villains.
Still … this was well done. It was sure better than anyone in the fan community thought it would be. I’d recommend it. And, really … can any movie come CLOSE to matching one that casts Red Foreman, the Dad from “That 70’s Show,” as the Big Bad?
“The Disappearance of Little Tommy Drummond”
After a local boy is apparently abducted, hardware store owner Kira Manning reflects that a single incident of violence and loss can change a small town forever.
First published on November 5, 2013, Dead Beats Literary Blog
http://www.deadbeats.eu/post/66085895442/the-disappearance-of-little-tommy-drummond-by-eric
“The Fall of Rome,” by W. H. Auden
The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebretonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar’s double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
Hence his moniker. Here he is, again, in the flesh … or fur. Unable to escape the green vault and its tempting breakfast.
I had to arrange his escape again, this time with a 2X4.
How many times am I going to have to do this?
A preponderance of my blog posts largely concerns animals in the neighborhood; they outnumber the posts on this “writing” blog about my finished projects. This suggests a lot about my productivity.
I couldn’t resist sharing the surprise photo I snatched of MamaCat’s incredibly large brother, about whom I’ve told you people before. There he is — about five feet away from the camera. You kind of can’t grasp his troubling size, because of … perspective. Or physics or something, I don’t know.
My point is — this guy is huge. And scraggly. And he has a feral look in his eyes that might hold the deaths of the unwary, I dunno.
Enough about the “coywolves” that are all over the news (thanks for that link, Len Ornstein); I’m the first to break the news on the new housecat-sabertooth tiger hybrid species.
… because I had to rescue the young masked rascal again.
Again I made a milk-crate ladder, and again I had to coax the hapless breakfast-seeker to escape the dumpster in which he got trapped. But this time, after exiting, he hung around a bit … and gave me that same interspecies-detente look that MamaCat once gave me before she became a permanent companion, along with her TinyCat cadre. It’s that relaxed look an animal gives you that seems to say, “Okay, we’re friends now.”
I need to somehow decline this budding friendship tactfully. Because my building superintendent will tolerate my occasional Cat Advocacy. But I know he’d be less tolerant of Raccoon Rapport.
… even before my second cup of coffee. Because the perils of the backlot dumpster are as follows: it tempts a young masked rascal with delicious fare, THEN OFFERS NO ESCAPE FROM ITS HIGH GREEN VAULT WALLS.
I built a hasty makeshift ladder for the unfortunate snacker out of milk crates that I placed in the green prison, then helpfully pantomimed climbing a ladder. Yes, the neighbors undoubtedly wondered why I was playing charades with a dumpster, but I endeavor to lead a life in which I am unconcerned with the opinions of others.
My friend was gone even before I could return to snap a pic with my cell phone!
Now, more coffee.
For an offbeat weirdo nerdy writer guy who is habitually regaled by redheads, this …. this has all of the cultural importance of the Sistine Chapel.
How could this escape my notice?!
How could so much talent, creativity, boldness and sexiness combine in only one human being?!
Yes, as I am sure you have surmised by now … it is Tori Amos covering Radiohead’s “Creep,” live in New York City, in sensual horn-rimmed nerd glasses, casually extemporizing cuss words, because she jus’ don’ care. And it doesn’t hurt a bit that she vaguely resembles Laura Roslin from Battlestar Galactica.
Here’s the link:
Thanks to Abel Kellam for the share!
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 