Hi, gang. How are you doing? You must think me a remarkably lonely guy to write three posts in one day. I can hear you asking, “Have you no life?” The answer is, “Yes, I don’t” (if you translate directly from Korean; a contradictory answer would be: “No, I do”).
The reason I’m violating my never-write-more-than-one-blog-post rule a second time in one day (!) is because I’m concerned my life may really be winding to a close this time. Of course, the pain in the side of my chest may just be a superficial muscle ache from starting to do push-ups again (now I look like Mae West on steroids), but I’m afraid a heart attack might be just around the corner. I also sometimes get an alarming pulsing in my jugular vein that gives me pause, if not paws. It’s my own darned fault for taking saw palmetto to combat an enlarged prostate gland, along with ibuprofen to address prostatitis, one of the numerous side effects of chronic Lyme disease. The ticker troubles could also be partly Lyme-related, although the lion’s share of the advanced manifestations of encroaching mortality probably come from my shitty diet, which contains a lot of the things that are bad for you, including too much sugar and salt, along with an ungodly–not to say satanic–consumption of fatty meats. (But heck, at least I don’t smoke, unless you include crack.)
So if I croak, it’s for my own good.
Speaking of violations, after writing the last post, I read Dylan Farrow’s reaction to Woody Allen’s response, along with another writer’s rebuttals to some claims Allen had made in his letter, as well as the legal record of the custody battle that followed (okay, I skimmed it; at 33 pages, the sucker was too long for me to read in full). At that point I was convinced that my wife was right and I was wrong, and that Woody is in fact guilty of sexually abusing Ms. Farrow (Dylan, not Mia). He claimed at the end of his letter to the Times that it was the last he had to say of the matter, not that I think he’d be able to convince me to change my mind at this point. It’s both sickening and disappointing that he could do such a thing, and likewise horrid that the shrinks who testified on his behalf would cover it up (sort of like the doctors who advised U. S. prison guards at Gitmo to what extent it was “safe” to torture their charges).
I apologize for slagging Mia Farrow and for doubting Dylan’s word. Word, yo.
Finally, it occurred to me that another, more recent Woody Allen film explores the same theme as Crimes and Misdemeanors, only without the humorous side plot. That movie is Match Point. In it, the main character, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, whose name I’m probably misspelling, gets involved with a woman portrayed by Scarlett Johannesburg, then does her in to keep her from contaminating his spotless reputation.
Hmmm, could there be a pattern here?
Since it’s Sunday, I’d like to leave you with a joke about another dysfunctional family:
After Oedipus made several fruitless attempts to satisfy Jocasta (the first ending in a premature ejaculation, the second starting with a premature penetration, and the third resulting in a member made impotent by too much red wine drunk beforehand), what did she say to her sexually incompetent son?
“You’re a bad motherfucker.”
I’ll keep you posted on all the latest developments. In case I’m not imagining things and I do drop dead over the next couple of days, maybe my friend over at sweettenorbull can let you know what went down, assuming he’s willing to keep things anonymous, mainly in consideration of my soon-to-be widow’s privacy along with that of my family. (My own privacy’s also a factor, not that it makes sense to give a shit about dead people’s rights–focus on the living, yo. That’s what James Wright wrote, homes: “I do not pity the dead; I pity the dying.”
Since we’re all dying, please spare some pity for yourself and everyone you know, including Mr. T.
Cheers, Tears, Beers, and Fears!