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My mind is reeling with the knowledge that with the termination of Roe vs. Wade made official, enormous waves of trauma and pain and grief will sweep across the country.

As much as I dislike the act of abortion and as queasy as I feel about abortions at 23 or 24 weeks, the right of women to choose whether to have a baby or not must be absolute. It should not be rescinded. Their bodies, their call.

Today is a black day for women everywhere, and a black day in American history. I’m very, very sorry.

Posted on 12.1.21: “I’ve mentioned before that something happened inside me several months ago, back when Jett and Cait‘s daughter, the recently born Sutton, was growing inside Cait. Suddenly the idea of terminating a fetus’s life was no longer an abstraction. I was especially disturbed by the idea of terminating a fetus at 24 weeks, which suddenly seemed wrong on some primal level. The Roe v. Wade law stipulated 24 weeks because that’s the point at which fetuses become viable, yes, but why so long into the pregnancy? Why not 18 or 20 weeks?”

Jack Nicholson to Rolling Stone in 1984: “I’m very contra my constituency in terms of abortion because I’m positively against it. I don’t have the right to any other view. My only emotion is gratitude, literally, for my life. I’m pro-choice but against abortion because I’m an illegitimate child myself and it would be hypocritical to take any other position.”

“Alito Absolutism Is A Brutal Thing,” posted on 5.14.22:

Bill Maher: “The current abortion divide between the states ‘makes me think about the Civil War…pre-Civil War. Because we seem to be going toward this place in America where we’re gonna be two countries. One where you’re a free woman, and another in which it’s a Dred Scott situation.

“When you look at some of the things that are being proposed in some of these [red] states. I mean, Louisiana says flat-out that [abortion] is homicide. When you drive from L.A. to Nevada…on one side of the border you’re a free person and on the other side you’re a criminal. You can fly across the country and gain and lose your reproductive rights 20 times.”

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…that there are accomplished, seemingly intelligent film obsessives who are actually persuaded that in Alexander Payne’s Election, Matthew Broderick’s high-school teacher is the villain and Reese Witherspoon’s Tracey Flick is…what, driven and misunderstood but essentially a decent soul?

Broderick’s character is a more-or-less moral fellow with weaknesses (extra-marital lust, loathing for Tracey Flick types, not smart enough to destroy that ballot instead of toss it into a waste basket). But Flick is Richard Nixon, for God’s sake. I’ve known screwed-down, hissy-fit Tracey Flick types all my life…’nuff said.

“Determined Little Sociopath,” Posted on 9.20.17: What was it about Election, exactly, that turned so many people off? Alexander Payne‘s brilliant, perfectly shaped black comedy cost $25 million (just shy of $37 million in 2017 dollars) to make, and it only earned a lousy $14.9 million (or nearly $22 million by today’s calculator). Something in this film irritated a large swath of the public, obviously, but what in particular? The reviews couldn’t have been better, but outside of some modest action in the cities Joe and Jane Popcorn just wouldn’t go.

I’ve long suspected that on some deep-seated level Jane didn’t care for the demonizing of Reese Witherspoon‘s Tracy Flick, who always struck me as a female Richard Nixon type — resentful, craven.

The irony, of course, is that Witherspoon will probably never luck into a role as good again. It enabled her to give her very best performance. Certainly her most memorable, in part because she wasn’t “acting” — Tracy Flick is inside Witherspoon as surely as Tom Dunson and Ethan Edwards were inside John Wayne. Tracy Flick was lightning in a bottle, and that stuff doesn’t grow on trees. Criterion’s Election Bluray will pop on 12.12.17.

Posted on 3.21.20, just as Covid-19 was manifesting big-time and pandemic consciousness was generating widespread depression: If it’s all the same Hollywood Elsewhere would like to move to Tahiti for two or three months, just for the privilege of walking around without a mask or surgical gloves. To the best of my knowledge only one native — French Polynesian politician Maina Sage — has been infected, and that it’s pretty much a clean-slate territory. Imagine the joy of just living without the terror.

The coronavirus claimed another 793 people today in northern Italy, including 546 deaths in the Lombardy epicenter. That country’s total death roster now stands at 4,825. The worldwide tally is 11,000, according to data collected by the Johns Hopkins University in the United States. More than 277,000 people have been infected, while some 88,000 have recovered.

From Nicholas Kristof’s N.Y. Times column, “The Best-Case Outcome for the Coronavirus, and the Worst,” posted on 3.20: “Dr. Neil M. Ferguson, a British epidemiologist who is regarded as one of the best disease modelers in the world, produced a sophisticated model with a worst case of 2.2 million deaths in the United States.

“I asked Ferguson for his best case. ‘About 1.1 million deaths,’ he said.

“When that’s a best-case scenario, it’s difficult to feel optimistic.”

Posted on Friday, 6.24: As it turned out Neil Ferguson was almost exactly on the money. The current tally of U.S. coronavirus deaths is 1,040,236, of which roughly 80% represented the elderly and the obese, and another portion the too-dumb-to-get-vaccinated crowd.

Presenting five fine fellows who once lived at 948 14th Street in Santa Monica. The orchestrator is the illustrious Ed Roach (far left), longtime Beach Boys photographer. Two possibilities: (1) Pic used to be in color but has faded to pink or (2) Ed shot it in black-and-white and decided to pink it up.

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The Victorian home of the late Pauline Kael, located on a grand hill in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. The place is quite huge — not quite the size of Cecil B. DeMille’s Los Feliz mansion, but in that general ballpark or so it seemed — and the sloping grounds are well-groomed and shrouded with many trees, and surrounded by a black iron fence. Most critics and columnists live in modest spartan abodes. But what is life without exceptions?

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I am Rosemary, the infant is what’s become of a once-noble tradition of liberalism and a concurrent personification of the present-tense lunatic left, the “hail Satan” enthusiasts are wokester converts, etc.

Seriously…that’s me right there…dropping the knife on the floor, collapsing into a chair and wailing “oh God!!!”

Otessa Moshfegh‘s Brad Pitt profile in the new GQ (“Brad Pitt’s Wildest Dreams“) is my idea of first-rate. Perceptive, well sculpted, pocket-drop prose, satisfactory, etc.

But the photos by Elizaveta Porodina convey…I don’t know what the hell they convey. Some kind of late David Bowie persona with hints or echoes of the Thin White Duke, and perhaps blended with an older version of Helmut Berger in Visconti’s The Damned.

Pitt’s thinking about the photos, I’m guessing, is something along the lines of “you have to experiment and try for something else…I can’t just be Cliff in Once Upon A Time in Hollywood for the rest of my life…that’s lazy…let’s try this Siegfried and Roy meets ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ thing on for size and see where it takes us.”

The article is an early promotional salvo for David Leitch‘s Bullet Train (Sony, 8.5), an ultra-violent cartoon aboard a Japanese bullet train travelling from Tokyo to Kyoto. To go by the trailers, pic is seemingly aimed at the ADD yokels who didn’t like Watcher. Pitt plays a “seasoned but unlucky” assassin named Ladybug.

The Tokyo-Kyoto trip itself takes around 160 minutes minutes; the film lasts 153 minutes.

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One-third of the Joe and Jane Popcorn crowd doesn’t like Watcher? Not the movie’s fault in the slightest — it’s their problem.

HE approves of this unofficial Watcher poster from Chloe Okuno…grade-A, haunting in exactly the right way & summoning the right Maika Monroe mood, etc.

DataLounge, the greatest, funniest and most nourishing gay gossip site on the entire planet, is 27 years old, and glory hallelujah.

I don’t know how large the readership is, but I love that DL is part of the conversation, and especially that the commenters don’t filter themselves. Because when it comes to judging or challenging sacred-cow narratives in the universe of woke (yes!), they’re protected by their identity.

Straight white guys have to phrase carefully and watch their backs, but gay guys (especially under the cloak of DL anonymity) don’t give a toss.

Read their recent Bradley Cooper comments…merciless here and there. And their remarks about Brad Pitt‘s new GQ cover, etc.

6.22 thread titled “Congratulations to all the trannies out there for ruining everything for us” — “You took our organizations. You took our pride festivals. You took our progress and reversed it. Now the right wing is coming after us because you had to use women’s restrooms and go after little boys with your puberty blockers. We are eternally grateful.”

6.22 thread titled “When did we decide that the word ‘progressive’ is synonymous with ‘insane?’”

“It used to be that progressives would champion causes like women’s suffrage, civil rights, ending discrimination against racial minorities and gays,

enacting laws to protect women and children against abuse.

“But today, it seems like the only things progressives care about are these psychotic, whacked out initiatives like designer pronouns, allowing transvestites into women’s restrooms, and transitioning little boys into little girls.

“What happened?

“So if you’re a man who wants to be a woman, you can take hormones, get breast implants, and have an operation to mangle your penis, and then you get to forcibly shame everyone else into pretending that you’re a woman?

“If you’re a dumb teenager who wants to feel special, you can adopt some stupid pronouns and then forcibly shame everyone else into pretending your invented gender is real?

“How is this progress?”

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The murmuring pines and the hemlocks / Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight / Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic.

This morning I drove over to inspect a Wilton rental that’s up for grabs. A friend is looking to possibly move here. The current tenant is in the process of moving out, but with a fresh paint job, some posters, plants and lamps and some nice furniture and whatnot it’ll be a good place to live, not to mention the abundant greenery on all sides. Good for pets.

The six-year-old marriage between Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall is said to be kaput. The union may have provided emotional comfort to Murdoch for a certain period of time and perhaps even to Hall, but we all understood from the get-go that this was a transactional arrangement first and foremost, based on some sort of ironclad agreement that if it didn’t work out Hall would walk away flush. Nothing lasts forever including human beings. Six years is six years. Tomorrow is another day.