Just a brief disclaimer…I had to free up storage space on my computer. Unfortunately that means I had to indiscriminately unsubscribe to a lot sites, as I am reluctant to buy more storage.
And so, if you become aware that I’ve unsubscribed, please know that it is nothing personal. I will continue to follow those that I always do and will resubscribe as I am able. 😊
I’m not a usually a big fan of jam bands, but (and this is a Nicki Minaj, Joe Camel butt of a but) when they’re locked and loaded with the peddle to the floor, like Mr. Wonder said, “your destination is the brightest star.”
Thrumming, humming, keeping pace, don’t get fooled by the super twang. The bridge ain’t out; wait for it, wait.
Keep those wheels a rollin’ cowboy. Hope you feel the same.
Feel the same way…
feel the same way…
feel the same way…
Of course the widow didn’t spend every red cent of her husband’s earnings on building the apartment homes. But she came close.
Naturally, things were tight at first.
So she relied on her son to help stretch the ends. And he did. And that was a great comfort to her.
Not that she doubted him, for he was able and it was expected. But it was the way he did it, nobly, and with aplomb, that she especially appreciated.
Some mothers in her position worried constantly about their sons. Street gangs circled them like unscrupulous men circled her. Headlines blared the terrible things these boys did…and the terrible things that happened to them.
But not her son.
He was as steady as her resolve was hard. Together they made quite the team, her baking pies and taking in laundry, him handy with hammer, nails and paintbrush.
On the occasion when she detected resentment (a click of the tongue, the excessive straightening of a collar or cuff) she let it go.
He loved her. Of this she knew and never waivered.
It was only natural that he wanted her hands to be soft and her mind to be uncluttered. It was only natural for her to trust him. And for him to trust her. When he turned over his earnings, she never inquired; they always exceeded her calculations.
And so when he turned up for dinner one evening in a new shirttail and trousers–with his shoes resoled, no less–she didn’t inquire about that either.
But, from then on, she never bought him another thing. No, not even a present for his birthday. Or Christmas.
She gave him money instead.
There once was a young man born of a wealthy father. The young man wanted to make his father proud, as most young men do. And that was a difficult task.
The father was an industrious type with callousness more prominent than his bushy eyebrows, and disdain more distinct than the amber streak in his coffee-black hair. Strong of will, laconic, he nevertheless constantly reminded his son that he had tough growing up, whereas the son did not.
Then again, everyone had it tough in those days for it was an age of disproportionate wealth inequality. Still the father’s youth was better than most, especially since he had lost his own father to the great flu epidemic.
These details were not lost to the son.
Still, according to the son, the family’s wealth was due to the father’s resourcefulness and work ethic. And that was true–as far as it went.
The father did all sorts of jobs that boys did at the time: delivery boy, curb washer, caddy, newsie. He worked hard by the standards of the day, but so did everyone else. And many, yes, even most, worked harder.
That was because his own father–the young man’s grandfather–left his mother in relative financial stability. Oddly, one rarely heard this caveat from the father and almost never from the son.
One might think this was due to the grandfather’s investment in brothels–and, unquestionably, that revenue stream had something to do with it. But the main reason the father and the son were so tight lipped about their generational wealth was because of the grandfather’s wife, who incidentally–by their standards, anyway–was also the mother and the grandmother.
Once again, one might think this secrecy might coincide with something scandalous. It did not.
At least not in the traditional sense.
The widow had a good head on her rather comely shoulders. Consequently her husband talked to her about his business at times, and when he didn’t, she listened to him talk about it to others. One evening she heard him bragging about some empty lots he had acquired and planned to sell to a builder acquaintance for a hefty profit.
So after the husband died, she waited for the acquaintance show up and he did, with hat in hand, ever so remorseful for her loss, enquiring about the lots, which she expected and subtlety (or so he thought) nudging her toward an affair, which she also expected. Naturally he was quite taken aback when he was rebuffed.
Even more so when he found out why.
She found him uncouth.
Beyond that, according to his banker, her plan was to invest every red cent of her husband’s money into building apartment homes on the lots.
To be continued…
“Woe to him who builds his house by unrighteousness,
and his upper rooms by injustice,
who makes his neighbor serve him for nothing
and does not give him his wages,
who says, ‘I will build myself a great house
with spacious upper rooms,’
who cuts out windows for it,
paneling it with cedar
and painting it with vermilion.
Do you think you are a king
because you compete in cedar?
Did not your father eat and drink
and do justice and righteousness?
Then it was well with him.
He judged the cause of the poor and needy;
then it was well.
Is not this to know me?
declares the Lord.
But you have eyes and heart
only for your dishonest gain,
for shedding innocent blood,
and for practicing oppression and violence.” Jeremiah 22:13-17
Do not attempt Josh Safdie’s cinematic ode to chutzpah if you’re not up to a long trek with Timothee Chalamet portraying the world’s fastest talking, mouth breathing, needle nosed ping-pong prodigy as your guide. Just don’t.
Trust me. You have better things to do than planting you forehead into your palm whilst muttering, “what the…?”
But, if you appreciate the Safdie bothers repertoire–say 2019’s Uncut Gems, a character autopsy of a frenetic, gambling addicted, vajayjay hound who designs diamond bedazzled Furby pendants for professional athletes–well, step right up and don’t be shy, cause you will not believe your eyes.
Though Marty Supreme is undoubtedly–I won’t say weird, necessarily–unconventional–it’s wonderful too, although its grandeur glints from a most unlikely vessel. And whether you appreciate Marty, or hate him…tolerate or berate him…whether you like or loath the film that encapsulates him, may depend on where you’re from–and how invested you are in the notions that pull the whole thing together.
Allow me to explain.
The first time I watched it I was both exhilarated and shellshocked by its kinetic slapstick energy. I appreciated the boldness of its 80s synth pop contrasted with the sweaty, smarminess of its early 50s Lower Eastside setting, even as I questioned it. I certainly didn’t hate Marty Supreme, but I didn’t love it either.
But, halfway through my second viewing, I began to warm to it; this in spite of and because of Marty himself, a character played to the hilt by Timothee Chalamet and loosely based on 1958 World Table Tennis Champion and consummate world class hustler Marty Reisman.
The movie Marty is a live-wire striver, a bean-pole shoe salesman by day and table tennis shark by night. He is brash, infected with braggadocio (and afflicted with bad skin). He is brazen too, impregnating his married friend with benefits (Odessa A’zion) in the backstock of the shoe shop while his customer awaits a larger size.
And his lasciviousness is just getting started.
Not content with just one adulterous affair, he tomahawk serves his way into the bed of an aging but attractive film star (a terrific Gwyneth Paltrow) who is amused by his showmanship and audacity–and a little leery of it too. So potent is Marty’s chicanery–not to mention his talent–that even the starlet’s pompous industrialist husband (Shark Tank’s Kevin O’Leary) is intrigued, though the powerbroker’s interest and patience are dangerously short.
For all his shenanigans, Marty doesn’t have to live so close to the edge. He’s a gifted salesman, his boss tries to strongarm him into a managerial position, but Marty has bigger dreams. The fact that they coalesce around a casual patio game that most people don’t even consider a sport is of little consequence. He will go to any length, suffer any indignity, endanger his own life and the lives of others, so long as that gets him closer to the World Table Tennis Championship.
Still, in all fairness to Marty, there’s more to him than steadfast selfishness, outsized ego and an uncanny libido. Yes, he is resilient. And there’s much to admire in resilience…
Yes, he is confident and there’s much to be said for confidence. There’s a sexiness to him…a humor in the absurdity of him…in his boldness. But it’s not just that.
Then it hit me. Marty Supreme is an avant garde lean into a Capraesque story.
Yes! That’s what it is! A celebration of good ole American ingenuity.
The whole way through it, Marty is beating the odds. He’s giving the finger to all of those who turn their noses up at him, to all those who say “who do you think you are?” (Just like the rest of the world did to the good ole US of A after we saved a lot of Europe from the Nazis.) That’s why the film is set in the early post WWII era when the American dream was coming so tantalizingly close to becoming a reality.
And because it’s an American story, it’s an immigrant story too. Because all Americans (except the native ones) are immigrants. And Marty’s Jewish.
But wait. What about the stereotypes?
The shrewdness? The loudmouthiness? The audacious arrogance?
What about the lewdness?
Josh Safdie leans into it. That’s what.
Consider Marty’s surname: Mauser. Now consider the Jewish lead character’s surname in the Safdie brothers Uncut Gems: Ratner.
You don’t think that’s a coincidence do you?
That’s outrageous! That’s antisemitic!
Yes. But Josh Safdie is Jewish.
Then it’s an exercise in self loathing.
Well, it would be, perhaps, except that the essence of the film lies not within its celebration of ambition and ingenuity; not in its irreverent tribute to Capra, the American underdog and the spectacle of sport. No; not even in the masterful, showstopping performance of its star.
The beauty of Marty Supreme is its culture–not so much a celebration of it, but a testament to it–warts and all. Not of just endurance, but potential. Not just legacy, but of promise.
That’s where the “there’s something more to Marty than…” comes into play. And when it does, Marty aces it.
Moe cradled the receiver between his neck and jaw and glimpsed the folds of hanging skin visible in the mirror over the chest of drawers. The weight loss was helping with the way his clothes fit and he was losing the paunch. His face, though, looked more drawn and haggard.
The phone rang again and again. This time he left a message.
“Hi honey. It’s your dad. I really need to hear your voice. Call me when you get this. Okay baby. Talk to you latter…Bye-bye.”
The tortoiseshell kitten, tucked away in the fold of his arm, squinted up at him with barely visible green eyes. He moved her gently to his chest and hung up the phone.
“I’m going to call you Patch,” he decided, rubbing the bridge between her eyes.
She purred rhythmically against his chest.
Moe fished the remote control from beneath the down pillows he’d bought with the bank job money. He’d bought them and a down comforter…and a pair of Veneti suede loafers he’d been eying at the thrift store. They were still in the shoe box, practically brand new, but a half size too small.
They’d stretch out, he told himself.
He lit a cigarette and ran through the cable channels. He settled on Fox.
It was almost 2 pm. Cops would be on soon.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
She wiped the crumbs of Triscuit with Roquefort crumbles from her mouth. Still the cracker stuck in her throat. She washed it down with a flute of Zinfandel.
“Well, what’d he say?”
“Why do you get those?”
“What?…”
He gagged and spit into the napkin. “Please don’t get these anymore. They’re as dry as the salt flats.”
“Triscuits?” She asked incredulously. “I like them.”
“Then you like cardboard…and that’s your business. But please don’t serve it to me.”
“They’re good for you.”
“Lonna, please! Do I need to do the shopping?…”
“That’ll be the day,” she said and immediately regretted it. “Sorry. I’ll get Ritz or club crackers from now on.”
“They don’t have to be buttery…I like melba toast too.”
She wanted to point out that melba toast was also dry, but thought better of it.
“So what’d he say?”
“Who?…Moe?”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t got in touch with her.”
She opened the refrigerator. “That’s weird isn’t it?”
Jay sighed. “Not really. They’re practically estranged.”
Lonna filled her flute with Zinfandel and offered him another.
“Uhn-uh” he said.
“That’s so sad. I remember she adored him as a little girl.”
He winced as the ever present ache in his temples amplified…Moe had driven her away. He’d watched it with his own eyes.
“Jay?…”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Where?…”
“To Cincinnati. And Lexington.”
“Lonna…”
“That’s it, Jay. I’m going. No negotiation.”
She regarded his knitted brow. A flicker of relief flashed in his eyes.
Her heart sank.
“What about your class?” he asked.
“I’ll handle it.”
He picked at the imaginary lent on his golf shirt.
“Then I assume you’re going to the market soon?”
“And you’d be right.”
“When you do, will you stop by the cigar shoppe for me?”
“Of course,” she said.
The day before yesterday’s date, July 2, 2025, will be a footnote in history if, God willing, we have a history. On this day, hip hop impresario Sean Diddy Combs skated on the most serious charges in his human trafficking and sex racketeering trial.
Mr. Combs was swatted with a conviction of transporting a person across state lines with the intent to commit prostitution, an oldie but a goodie similar to charges that finally nabbed the king of the syndicate, Lucky Luciano, the creator of rock-n-roll Chuck Berry and 1913 heavy weight champion boxer Jack Johnson, an African American who was essentially arrested for having sex with a white woman who also happened to be his fiancé. (In an interesting sidenote, President Trump pardoned Johnson posthumously in 2018, something that President Obama had refused to do because of charges that the boxer physically assaulted his wives.) But back in the day–yes, for Johnson, over a hundred years ago and for Luciano and Berry, we’ll say some eighty odd years, charges stuck–all of them served time as will Sean Combs, pundits say, though he will serve considerably less time than if he was convicted of the more serious crimes.
Apparently Sean Combs was grateful for the outcome because after the verdict was read he motioned to the jury by clasping his hands together as if in prayer. Then, reportedly, he knelt on the floor and put his head in his chair, his lisps moving, again, like he was praying.
But I’m not here to write about Sean Combs, although I’m not unhappy about his prognosis involving the federal penitentiary. In my mind there was no expectation of a slam dunk conviction on the most serious charges.
I’m here to write about the murderer who also had a court appearance on July 2 and finally pled guilty to the killing of Kaylee Goncalves, Ethan Chapin, Xana Kernodle and Madison Mogen. I use the qualifier finally because he had persisted in the formality of innocence in spite of overwhelming evidence of guilt. Apparently his persistence (or that of his lawyers) paid off because the prosecution took the death penalty off the table and negotiated a life with out appeal or parole sentence.
As is so often the case, the murderer–his name is Brian Kohberger– couldn’t stomach the thought of being executed, though he had no such qualms about dispatching his victims in a likewise cold, calculated and methodical manner.
Kohberger didn’t know the college students that he eviscerated with a K-Bar military knife bought months before he hatched the plot–though I don’t really believe that. This is a guy who thinks of murder pretty much 24/7, that and violent sex, which puts him on the garden variety sicko looser spectrum, a fleshed out doppelganger who can’t interact with women, much less sleep with them. Predictably, pathetically, he blames them for his inadequacies (such is the disconnect, it probably never occurs to him to blame himself) especially the young college age women he is sexually attracted to.
It is likely that Kohberger bought the K-Bar knife for the express purpose of killing a pretty girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. At the very least, it was a tangible object used to soup up his fantasies.
And so this aberration, this former fat kid who was bullied and teased, takes his knife and moves to a new town, in a new state, where he hits the local hip vegan eatery. It is important to keep his newly svelte body in tip top condition. There he spies the young woman who becomes his target–and just like that, he tracks her down through social media, stalks her, impotently driving by her place of residence over twenty times.
This sicko is soo smart. He is studying to get his PhD in criminal justice; the irony of it stirs his delusions of grander. Ted Bundy is his hero.
In actuality he is unattractive. His bone structure mimics the contours of a gargoyle.
The young woman who has unknowingly become his prey has six roommates. They live in a party house, on a block of party houses–theirs with one too many room additions, though it is well maintained. The object of Kohberger’s evil intent marks her bedroom window with a giant first initial painted lilac and a decorative cowboy boot, likewise lilac.
One morning, about 4 am, two years ago, Kohberger slips through an unlocked sliding door and makes his way up the steps to the bedroom marked in lilac. He is surprised to find that the young woman he’s been stalking is not alone, she is sharing her bed with her best friend. He stabs them both to death.
Then, as he makes a beeline down the stairs he runs into another young woman who he drags into a bedroom where, as it happens, her boyfriend is sleeping; he stays there sporadically. He stabs them both to death.
Kohberger makes his way out of the house; jumps into his car which is captured on camera as he speeds off, almost crashing in the process. This is not his only mistake; he leaves the sheath of his knife behind with his DNA on it. (There are other mistakes as well…too many to go into.)
It turns out Kohberger is about as smart as he is handsome. Yet he has his fan club–young men who identify and empathize with his festering celibacy. Incels, they are called. Astonishingly, there are women in this club, too, who gush over his booking photographs.
“Oh! He looks so well rested and healthy!”
“Wow! He’s so suave and debonair!”
“He’s a hottie!”
The women of the club are more prone to advocate his innocence whereas the incels revel in his obvious guilt. This conundrum doesn’t bode well for the longevity of the fan club because a house divided cannot stand…and zombies eat each other.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine…
She had always thought her mother’s vanity was cherry. So when she passed, Lonna bought a stool for it. Naturally, she paid for solid cherry. Come to find out, the wood was a less expensive poplar painted with a cherry finish.
Sixty-four, sixty–five, sixty-six…
Then she had to find another poplar one and got stuck with a vanity stool she didn’t need. Ended up selling it in the neighborhood garage sale last spring. Brand new…not a scratch on it…and she got less than ten percent of what she paid for it.
She leaned closer to the mirror and took a hard look. Her hair was the only thing she saw worthy of vanity, though there were little sprigs of gray here and there. Everything else was not bad…nondescript. She grasped the bristles of her pearl handled brush and pulled the hair from them.
Never had she questioned how her life would have been different if she had not met him. She simply couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.
Oh…she’d had other relationships. So had he. When he told her he liked to visit prostitutes…expensive ones…she didn’t bat an eye.
But, when he told her that, he’d made her wait longer than she expected before he demonstrated the absolute fairness their relationship was built on.
“Of course, if you want to see someone else, I wouldn’t object,” he told her.
“Of course,” she’d agreed. “That’s understood.”
She’d watched as the color (what little he had) ran out of his face.
When, in fact, the twenty years they’d been together, she’d only had two affairs. One with a fellow teacher. The other with one of her students…a seventeen year old football player who knew way more about sex than she did.
Of course they were never caught. It was purely physical. They were careful.
Always assuming it was her figure that attracted him (she watched it religiously …jazzercise…restricted calories…plant based diet) she was surprised to find an old photo album with pictures of a wife he’d never told her about.
The old wife? The two of them could have been twins…but not according to figures.
It was a bit of a let down.
When he told her about the cancer, in a moment of weakness, she’d asked...why me, Jay? Why’d you pick me?
“Because I love you,” he’d said.
“Buy why?”
“Because I can trust you,” he’d said.
She laughed. “That’s not very sexy.”
He kissed her lips very gently, very lightly. “That’s where you’re wrong, Lonna. It’s very sexy…”
“Hey, hon. What’re you up to in here?”
Her heart fell to her stomach–and her backside came off the stool like she was riding a wild bull.
“Damn it, Jay! You scared me!”
He stood in the doorway, laughing. “Sorry love!”
Then, suddenly, he stepped back, steadying himself against the door frame.
“Whoa! Whoa Nellie…”
“Jay!?…what’s wrong? You all right?”
“No,” he gulped. “Dizzy…”
She moved lithely toward him without even realizing it.
“Lean on me, Jay,” she gasped, wrapping both arms around his waist. His weight enveloped her as, somehow, she stayed upright. They waddled to the bed.
“Here. Lay down. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“Lonna, no!” He grasped her forearm, his grip hard…painful. “Sit down! Sit with me, please.”
“Jay!…you’re hurting me!”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He let go of her and fell back on the bed.
She pulled off his loafers and grabbed both legs–like his bottom half was a wheelbarrow.
“Help me, Jay! Move with me so I can put your legs on the bed.”
Together they managed to get him perpendicular with the bed, but his feet were hanging off. Lonna moved the night stand and stood above him. Gaining leverage with one knee on the bed, she ran her arms under his armpits and clasped her hands.
“I’m going to count to three and then pull you toward the headboard,” she said. “Can you help?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…one…two…three!”
She pulled and he pushed–flaying frantically, like a fish out of water– scooting his butt backward.
“Okay! Okay!” She put a pillow under his head.
“Don’t call an ambulance,” he pleaded. “Just let me catch my breath.”
The Coen brothers are quite enamored with the droll Texan archetype. West Texan archetype to be exact. Case in point…pretty much the whole cast of No Country for Old Men (2007).
I could go on with these quotes ad nauseum. I’m sure you could too. But this post isn’t about No Country for Old Men. It’s about Blood Simple.
The first time I saw it was 1986. I watched it on HBO; I’d never heard of it.
Normally–back then–I wouldn’t have been so late to the party, but my husband and I were still in the honeymoon phase, which meant that I watched a lot of what he liked. Action movies…Three Stooges…stoner movies…Max Headroom…all well and good (except for The Three Stooges)but not exactly my cup of tea.
He was always game, though, when I put my foot down about something I wanted to see, so we watched Blood Simple together. We loved it…had a lot in common with the couple.
The Blood Simple couple, hitherto known as Ray and Abbie (John Getz and Frances McDormand respectively) are hardcore in love. They’re down for each other.
Ray’s a stereotypical Texas male as viewed through the Coen brothers tantalizing, quasi-satiric lens (and you know what they say about stereotypes) tough, quiet, fundamentally decent…prone to screw ups with the law and otherwise. Abby’s much the same, except she’s talkative.
There’s just one problem. Abbie’s married to a strip club owner. His name is Marty (Dan Hedaya) and though the setting is somewhere in the West Texas geographical area, most likely around the scrublands of Austin’s Hill Country, he wears his East Coast smarminess like a rattlesnake wears scales.
Marty subscribes to the if I can’t have her no one can ethos. To that end he pays Visser, a private detective (M. Emmet Walsh) who he’s already hired to spy on the lovebirds, ten thousand dollars more to kill them.
Pretty standard stuff from neo noir perspective. As detective Frank Durbin said in Naked Gun when a missile was driven into a fireworks superstore, nothing to see here folks.
Things get nastier (keep in mind, they were already rancid when Walsh came on the scene, portraying a character so gamy that flies swarm around him) when Visser double crosses Marty with some doctored photos that make it look like Ray and Abby were murdered in bed together. That’s when it goes from bad to worse.
Again, standard noir material…then it gets really bad.
So that’s about all I’m going to say about the plot on the off chance that I might spoil things for a newbie unacquainted with the Coen brothers cinematic debut. Now I’m going to opine about the nuts and bolts stuff of filmmaking…
Imagine, if you will, that you’ve never seen a Coen brothers film…that you know nothing about Joel and Ethan…and you see this:
Makes an impression doesn’t it?
Now imagine you are a young “know it all film buff” with a couple of film classes in your handbag and theatrical stage experience…that you are from, roughly, the same geographical area that Abbie and Ray are from and boom! Your mind is blown!
To me, this opening scene sequence is perfection–to this day.
Oh, I know it’s not, that it could be done better…that’s the charm and genius of it. It’s so deferential to noir of old, yet so tongue in check–and so close to fly by the seat of your pants perfection that it’s quintessential.
The part where M. Emmet Walsh is narrating…the topography, that’s Midland/Odessa where my husband and I are from. Barry Sonnenfeld (director of The Adams Family, Men in Black franchises) is the film’s cinematographer.
Then when we go into the opening credits sequence with Abbie and Ray in a vehicle and there’s an a switch. Ray’s driving. It’s a night scene.
This sequence is filmed in a garage. The night time effects achieved with relatively simplistic techniques and rudimentary equipment. The interior of the car–a Fiat–chosen for its cramped cabin and hatch back, is partly front lit with and industrial light rigged to the hood. Rain is achieved by a prop woman sitting on top of the vehicle, dousing the windshield with one of those bug exterminator sprayer things. And darkness happens by simply turning off the garage’s interior lights.
The illusion of cars passing Ray and Abbie on the highway is pulled off by Sonnenfeld and the brothers mounting two theatrical lanterns to a dolly, pulling it across the garage under the cover of darkness, filming it again and again as the industrial light is turned off and on.
The brothers rigged a camera set up in the hatchback, which gave them multiple angles and rearview shots. They used a Volvo for the exterior car scenes.
Blood Simple in its entirety is filmed, written and produced, all by the brothers Coen, with such ingenious gravitas that Samuel Fuller would be proud. But, unlike Fuller, Joel is a formally trained and educated filmmaker and his brother Ethan has been at his side making films since they were kids goofing around in the backyard of their childhood Minneapolis home.
Like with the No Country for Old Men quotes, I could go on and on about the ensemble cast, all of them brilliant, McDormand and Walsh in particular. But I won’t. This post has been long enough.
If you haven’t seen Blood Simple, by all means do so. The sooner the better.
As Abbie and Ray would be quick to remind...you never know what is lurking around the corner or just outside the window. You might not get another chance.
All Things Thriller 