Saturday, December 10, 2016

IRT and the promised blood of a sleepy driver.

I say Ice Road Truckers is exploitation in the clinical sense, not meaning that in a derogatory way.  For I too have watched the show before, and would I lump myself in with a basket of deplorables?  The exploitation, the promise of a life on the line, that danger, is the secret sauce of the show.

And Lisa Kelly-at once a heartthrob for guys and a hero for her own sex-a novice bent on proving herself.  I remember her slipping at deploying the landing gear and falling onto the ice.  Fade to black.  Commercial break.  Leaving us to wonder if she was horribly wounded and alone on the ice.  Nevermind the producer and cameraperson standing right beside her watching every moment.

And the type-A, Jack, finding himself sequestered in the world of frozen streams and snow.  The best.  Grating with his bosses.  The very thing that makes him great, that nougat core, trying to destroy him, to cost him a job despite his skill.

Alex.  Lovable Alex waiting to die behind the wheel.  A like-able old hand.  A Canadian teddy bear.

Blood on the ice.  Sangria on the rocks for the corporate executives who use the milling of the drones to douse their wretched possessions in gold.

Will the truck fall into a partially-thawed stream, losing the whole works and possibly slaughtering the driver?  Notice, most often the cameraperson is outside the truck watching the crossing, while remaining carefully out of danger.

Teevee is but a reflection of the populace.  Popular teevee is a completely mental orgasm.

Monday, December 5, 2016

Simple Marie: An Ode

For one's lover to take on the characteristics of her other, while the other is left mindless, ruined.

Aesthetic vampirism, the succubus with a conscience, the frightened gunshy harlot bemoaning the prospect of physical love

Always, in explosions and scrapes that wear away the clothing until only the tantalizing parts are covered, and that a reputable job for a popular artist, to draw the character Rogue in partial dress.

Honest love to evade her, as she gets the final touch of her other and sees his sins.  Always to the see the sins and never to enjoy the experience, to get a puff of something more pleasant than the deepest and darkest of one's soul.

Maybe she projects her own guilt, seeks the equivalent in a partner, to be a more perfect symbiote.

If I'm not happy, then no one is going to be happy.

But one touch of my eudaemonia would send her into drunkenness, as of the eating of chocolate naked on a leather coach.

Here I sound more Epicurean than Stoic, but I have the eudaemonia-the best as prescribed by a doctor.