bignosedcopperking

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Everything posted by bignosedcopperking

  1. House (2004)

    We don't know how good a cop he is. I always assumed he was a good cop. Just because he goes after house in the way he does, does not mean he is a mediocrity. I saw him as akin to Javert in Les Miserables. I saw the cop as suffering more from an error of judgement in his evaluation of House. But he doesn't really know House and so he acts the way he does. He genuinely believes that House is dangerous. Most people perceive him as such. So, though he is acting evil by pursuing House, his dedication to stopping Crime is admirable. Imagine if he saw House as good and he pursued a course of action that would benefit House with the same dedication. That dedication within him is what I admire. It is what one would admire (if you can call it that, if you keep full context) in a man like Jesus or perhaps Che Guevera. I don't necessarily see the cop as a mediocrity. It's not that House is better than him that he doesn't like; it's that House is dangerous. What urks him is that House doesn't see this and House thinks he can do no wrong. Thus, he must be stopped. Yeah, so I don't see the Tritter as a mediocrity. Some of his tactics seem dishonorable or petty or conniving, but cops tend to do whatever is in the power of the law to get their man, and so getting House on a technicality for example, is what he has to do, if he has reason to believe that he is very dangerous. Obviously, I'm on the side of House. I want Tritter to feel foolish at the end but I don't think he's evil enough to deserve great indignation. Isn't the cop a "cold blooded bastard" in his own right? I kind of see it like Rearden slapping Francisco in Dagny's apartment. Rearden doesn't know how good Francisco really is. But I may have forgotten some details of those old episodes. Sorry. Jose.
  2. Happy Birthday to B. Royce

    Happy (belated) birthday. I hope it was a great day. Again, like always, thanks for sharing your poetry, though I don't always have time to express my appreciation. And thanks for the latest one; that was really nice.
  3. My Salsa show

    Let me finish this off by saying the following: This movie, El Cantante, and its music album, is an historical document. Marc Anthony is known for his Spanish ballads. However, he is primarily prolific in his Salsa music. However, his Salsa music is Salsa interpretations often of famous Spanish language ballads. A poignant example is his Salsa song, Hasta Que Te Conoci, which was first made famous by the great Spanish (Mexican) ballad singer, Juan Gabriel, who was also an intimate collaborator of the great Mexican ballad (female) singer, Rocio Durcal. The ballad version of this song is phenomenal; Anthony’s Salsa version is something special—because you can dance to it! However, typically, Marc Anthony’s Salsa songs are softer, not that intense, not that explosive. But his voice is one of the greatest polular music voices I have ever heard in my life! However, the early Marc Anthony is obviously extremely talented, and in hindsight, in my opinion, a musical genius because of his originality in style and his “erudition” in Latin music as such. And so with the album, El Cantante, Marc Anthony proves himself to the world as really a master in the Salsa genre, because he executes the style of Salsa of Hector Lavoe (a hero of his and of many Salsa musicians) to the tee, except that it is strangely still ‘Marc Anthony’. So this is Juan Gabriel’s version of Hasta Que Te Conoci (the original): Juan Gabriel - Hasta Que Te Conoci (Since I've Know You) And here is Marc Anthony’s Salsa version (please wait for the Salsa part, because in my musically humble opinion it is a beautiful transition): Marc Anthony - Hasta Que Te Conoci So, now I ask you please to find and listen to Hector Lavoe’s Aguanile. And then I want you, if you will, to find and listen to Marc Anthony’s version of Aguanile. I think this will be an important Salsa experience for all of you. Besides that, you will build up to the experience of either Aguanile version, and experience a song that is quite unique in the Salsa realm, (well, there is obvious African influences—but it is still primarily Latin!) So enjoy, please … Jose Gainza.
  4. My Salsa show

    Okay, I just saw the couple video, and I'm sorry for my recommendations--you know what I'm talking about already. Wow. That's good. I'm sorry to all of you who thought I had seen the couple video; I did not. Congratulations. However--I apologize in advance--Salsa does require shaking your torso, and your bottom half. I hope you will accept this fact and find it comfortable. You were good, very good--but there is another aspect of it ... it's when you are completely in the moment, you are the music, and you're body is ready to explode, but you are taming it, hence the shaking; you love life, hence the trembling; your body becomes the music, and there is no other way to experience the music except by trying to embody all the complexity and "chaos" of the Salsa music. I don't know--that's how I experience it. Sorry, if I've annoyed you further. Jose
  5. My Salsa show

    I appreciate your annoyance. You must understand that I am latin and have grown up watching salsa all my life. I have seen some really awesome stuff. And so, what you did in your video, which was still very competent, is not what you typically see at dance clubs or on So You Think You Can Dance. That's a fact. So I just want to see you dance in the way I described because that type of dancing Salsa is what thrills me personally. You are quite beautiful and you deserve to be able to show that in what the way salsa as I describe it will show. You have so much potential from what the video shows, and so you might as well conquer the way it is conventionally danced. It's not that hard. Actually, I do believe there is a lot of originality still left to be discovered in salsa, so I don't necessarily agree with the correctness of a typical salsa dance instructor. I suggest you watch the movie, El Cantante, starring Marc Anthony and Jennifer Lopez, in which you will see the type of street salsa dancing that is common in Latin America and the US, and also the type of music I am talking about. I must warn you that Hector Lavoe, was a heroine addict, and so a good portion of the movie is hard to watch in that respect, but the musical and dancing elements are true to a culture that really exists and is, simply, extremely fun. Keep it up, Jose.
  6. My Salsa show

    Here's something that might inspire you. This is from a huge dancing talent show in Canada that is currently taking place. Check out Romina at the 1:30 mark. Romina Solo Salsa Routine
  7. My Salsa show

    That was pretty good. I hope you keep it up because I would like to see you get better. It's unfortunate that you didn't dance with a partner; it's better that way. If you continue to dance alone, I suggest that you add more spice and wilderness to your routine; dance more to he ground, get down more, shake some more, use the floor to move around, do some flips , etc. The music you chose didn't really allow for that. It sounded like Tito Puentes, and he is more old school, as he is one of the originators of modern Salsa, so his stuff is softer, though still danceable. You would have to choose music that is more intense and fast. Try Hector Lavoe's Aguanile. Check out You Tube for some live performances. One of my favorites is Frankie Ruiz. I dance a strange, wild version of salsa, which technically is not correct, but is still good in my opinion. It is fun to watch but not correct. I usually dance alone. I am going to teach myself how to be more correct. I have acquired some good learning tools for that purpose. You have inspired me. Keep it up.
  8. I will share my writings with this forum

    To Generalissimo J.E. Franco and Liberty By Jose Gainza The happy cry of longing that erupts within my chest. The battle cry of protest damning burdens without Right. The vision of my country that is free to do its best. The vision of a garden where our sacred men unite. The splendor of our orchard we will grow with blessed fruit. Our thought to change our earth and strengthen body. Our choices and convictions to endure our joy pursuit. The expression of our interest and our duty. The embracing of our freedom and our promise. And the kissing-pinching of a wealth we will procure. And the dancing ‘round the malice we dismiss. Here’s our treasure chest of Justice we have promised to ensure. With a treasury of goodwill we are arming our proud men. By the training of conviction we are marching to our glory. Shedding sweat, toil, and blood, we are cheering on our men … We are standing there among them enduring the same story. We are fighting for our freedom. We are risking all our lots. We are leaving our beloveds. We are changing family. We are wounding and re-wounding. We may lose our very lives. But we march on with Conviction, Yes, we march on amidst the smoke, We march on past the stench of war, We march on past the graves. We march on past our brothers, And we march amongst them too. We’d save our would-be brothers if they didn’t hunt us too. But we kill the tyrant’s longing. We kill our freedom-takers. We defend our ancient rights. We ensure man’s paradise. On this quest you bravely joined me, You have heard my distant call. You have come to set me free to set you free. You dare join me in this coming steady brawl. You have understood my aim devotedly. You have grasped the sacred method of my way. You have known that this is what it means to Be. You know now; thinking thus you can’t delay. As an artist you have been you own creator. You’ve grown white-envy for this earth and how she wills. You have sworn to move her too, be her creator. To have her serve you; serve by your own will. And so you satisfy your joy and make her new. You beautify the earth and ways of people. You inspire men to see the freakish godly few. Your spirit gleams golden forth, beyond the people. We fight for this, us two. We’ve lived alone for it so long. We wait and wait to do our thing. We leave the folks and make our earth alone. We leave the folks to remake our sacred forms. You’ve done it there; I’ve done it here. Now you join me on this enterprise with love. And for that we fight our war— To remake our world anew our way! I do welcome you my mate.
  9. Staying Young and Beautiful

    Yes, Betsy you do look lovely. I had noticed it when you changed your avatar some time ago but the picture of your torso and the close up confirms my initial note. Quite inspiring. Jose.
  10. Staying Young and Beautiful

    I agree. For example, Johnny Depp is aging really beautifully, I almost can't wait until he is sixty. Jose.
  11. Starting Out in the Evening (2007)

    Thanks, because of this I'm no longer anxious to get it. Which leaves room for me to acquire two movies that I really want to see and study. Jose.
  12. Iron Man (2008)

    I just saw this recently. I loved it. I like Iron Man better than Batman, I think. I love that every aspect of his powers is due to his mind, even his ability to fly. Although it ended to quickly, the very ending made up for it. It was beautiful. Jose.
  13. Starting Out in the Evening (2007)

    In late Spring I saw this movie in the flyers of my local video store. It was about a writer, a fiction writer. It was about a writer named SCHILLER! And yet the flyer lied and the movie never came. I check today Best Buy and they do not have a listing. I check HMV but it's 32.99 Canadian plus the 14% tax. The next store does not have it. And shall I take the risk that Blockbuster does not have it? Shall I buy it at it's full price. If you've seen it help me out. Because if I spend $40 dollars at HMV and it sucks, wow, that will hurt! But it sounds so promising. What say you? Jose.
  14. Starting Out In The Evening

    Please add to be rated, Betsy. Thanks.
  15. I will share my writings with this forum

    R.EST AND R.ELAXATION-by Jose Gainza. It may seem to you my twenties were smothered away without you; That I approaching thirty did fail to keep that happy promise. I promised work, and gold, and love, and bliss. I promised wealth, my art, and mindful playtimes with you. Did I offend you with that happy promise of mine— The inner potential that was screaming to break free? But you tore my peace away and renounced me for your liberty, Once you bestowed me with a fleeting joy that seemed to forever shine. My eight year theme became that nagging sorrow and regret. And now I approach this era of my first white serenity, And all the blackness of my past dissolves into this purity, And this child evolves into a man who courts his merit. The fear is now a soaring eagle dominating heights. And now my earth sees its innocence in the eyes of the moon. I accept the promise of this fourth decade that came too soon. Yet I know I must have sinned coz of all my inner fights. For how could a boy with so much inside waste all those years! What disease made him weep in silence all those hours without end! Why could he not fulfill the vacancy without his dearest, rarest friend! Why did he tolerate the sickness amidst the errors of his kin and peers? He shut his eyes to the horror of the story that has been Man, And the terror of the doom that haunts our doorstep, And the frustration that comes with each of our futile step, And the sadness from that thing that did lose you, my best man. It is bad and I accept my pain, my rage, and my tears. It is bad but I have purged away my fears and need. Today I stand alone and bear their laughter and their creed. Yet it was good to live beside you those too short years. Walking by your side I glimpsed at all that was THE golden city. And included in that realm was that walking by your side. And included in that realm was the vision of our pride. And that is what I lost … and your pretty face too pretty.
  16. Victor Hugo's Hernani

    I read Hugo's Hernani. But it was some years ago. And so I can't remember the details of the plot. I remember that I was satisfied with it like any other play by Hugo. I remember thinking that it was an early play because it was the play that launched the Romantic movement in France, and so I looked forward to reading his later plays. I wish he was readily available at used bookstores in Toronto, I haven't a university library membership. and you can only find him on the public system in the Reference library. I have Claude Geux in French and haven't had the time to toil through that as I don't know french that well. And I'm dying to read Cromwell. I remember appreciating the opening scene of Hernani where he is hidden in some basket. That's what Hugo is good at, from the beginning there is something exciting that makes you want to read on. I do have Hernani in English but have not re-read it in some time.
  17. I will share my writings with this forum

    THE ETERNAL RECURRENCE OF YOUR ROARING THUNDER By Jose Gainza You thunder in me, you thunder in me, you thunder in me … My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds! You thunder in words, you thunder in words—you thunder my breast, thunder my breast. You slow down my voice, you raise the volume, you expand my lungs, As you pound in me, O pound in me. I see it’s like glass in me, smashing in me, shattering free. I hear the hard brass in me, trembling free, My metal in me electrically shuddering, ringing in me, like bells in me. I hear you as horns in me blowing free, boisterously blowing your song through me. My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds! I hear you as drums in me, pounding free. I see you as leather in me bearing the hammer Hammering me, hammering in me … My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds! I feel you as water in me, flowing through me; you are the falls on me, Crashing through me, pounding the boulders inside of me. You are the showers in me machine gunning me, Drenching my clothes and my flesh. I feel you as wind in me shooting through me, The launch when my earth wants to sing, Wants to bare its simple pain to it all in me. I hear you howling in me, screeching in me. I hear your sirens and beckoning reach, Pounding in me, O pounding in me. My heart pounds and pounds, it pounds and pounds! I hear you as words in me, as seeds in me, growing, growling, and echoing free— Calling my soul to envision, and my eyes to enlighten The truth I resist when you pound in me, O pound in me. I hide from the storm that you are, you as pounding in me, The thunder of you and the trembling in me, The wisdom of you that still lingers in me, But it thunders in me. The vision you spoke of, the freedom of we, the freedom of you and the freedom of I, The freedom of men who know of the storm that persists midst our light; And who know of the system that will recall the sun, And who know of the promise like I promised to you. I persist while producing the vision but bearing the storm Of your dying shadow and fainting echo, yet persisting memory. Yet I’m producing a vision to end your storm … My heart pounds in me, it pounds and pounds! Still you thunder in me, you pound and pound and pound …
  18. Nathan Love Shiloah, The Radiant—

    I've been meaning to correct an error in my introductory line to this story. The author of ISRAELI TALES AND LEGENDS is Arnold PosY, not Arnold Post. The cover of the book I have, the Y looks like a T. If you recall, I read a story in there called Nathan, The Radiant, and it inspired my story, which is very different, but still some significant parallels. Jose.
  19. Nathan Love Shiloah, The Radiant—

    Nathan Love Shiloah, The Radiant— A Sketch By Jose Gainza Based on a story by Arnold Post, Nathan The Radiant, from a book called,Israeli Tales and Legends Rest assured that there is no god of retribution—there is no god. I know—this from the lips of a philosopher and a profound storyteller. There is the will of Man, there is his sacred code of action, and there is his conscience. A man must be honest and accept this, or suffer the consequences of his delusions. Nathan Love Shiloah was not a believer, knowing this since his days of high school; perhaps earlier. And he struggled ever since to be a moral man, to be a happy man, despite his renunciation of supernaturalism. He investigated the issue in books and he soon found the infamous Nietzsche: the philosopher who declared that men are no longer commanded to action by their fear of their leper-loving god, nor their biased-racist god, and therefore, men find themselves in the midst of a crisis of values. Men, therefore, historically, go through a stage of Nihilism, which is necessary for the grand cleansing of mankind, to lay way for a superior type of animal. His is the philosophy of the Superman. And though this philosophy was quite attractive at first to Nathan Shiloah, he could not escape the horrors that his logic led to when following Nietzsche’s premises. Soon he decided that this was his philosophy: A man must work for his own keep, he must buy his own way. A man must find his one love, his work; he must excel in it and be satisfied with the joy that it brings him. The standard of his goodness would not be charity, or obedience to god’s morality of altruism, or the breaking of his “metaphysical” pre-determined inferiors. It would then revolve around his efficacy, translated into a practical profession, providing for a fundamental sense of joy for life. It would be about the joy of achieving values, engaging in productive, even artistic activities, and the joy of creating his, sufficient wealth. And charity would not be beyond his reach, though; surely he would help a friend in need, or a worthy stranger who became impoverished by some tragedy, or an allowed ignorance. He would thus detest sloth. He would not lie, cheat, or steal—and know the first causes for why. He would work and think. In his twenties he moved from Toronto to Alberta. At first he learned the cattle trade, and developed a tremendous strong body, though lean, to compliment an already strong mind. Soon he moved on to the booming oil industry and became a favorite of his of his foreman and managers. He had few friends, few vices, except for a bottle of good scotch every few months; and so, his savings account grew vast to a point when he decided he would invest in real property. He moved back to Toronto to invest his money. He bought a house and rented it out to boarders. After some years he bought a few more. Soon he bought a string of small apartment buildings. By the age of thirty five, with the help of an honest and brilliant stock broker, he became a millionaire. But something was missing in his life. It was obvious he wanted someone to hold at night, someone to eat meals with, to go shopping with, someone to scold lightly on occasion, someone to forgive, someone to worship, someone to pamper, someone who could predict his motivations, and someone who could move him. For years now in his easier life, he had taken up poetry. He had become quite prolific for a man just starting out in his thirties. Though the muse was there in his mind and in that sphere forever willing, she was not there, existential, and in the flesh; just a hope was she. One night after dinner, he knew he was tired of writing poetry and that it was time for a break. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few weeks, he would write again. Tonight, he would buy himself a good bottle of scotch and watch a good movie or two on television, and order some Chinese food. He walked on Queen West eastbound from Brock, from where the government liquor store was. He passed a few small private art galleries, and passed them by with indifference, for they resembled kindergarten arts and crafts. Soon he saw her. She was standing in a window, and she was smiling with pride, in a simple dress, but the contours of the folds making prominent her feminine sexuality. The Toronto skyline, the eastern wall, was behind her, so that she was at some window at the east side of the Don River, somewhere on ledge close to Queen East. Nathan Love Shiloah was in love for the first time in his life. He could not help but enter the gallery, this time. It was a small gallery; there was almost as much space in the window display. There was only three more painting on the walls of the tiny show room almost as beautiful as the one in the window. One was of a beautiful man, young, Nathan’s age, like the woman, seeming to be a self-portrait of the artist. Another was of the city, and Nathan knew the vantage point: a school yard at Dufferin and Davenport, atop a hill, seeing the skyline from the Northwest from the property’s southern ledge. The third was of a town in a small productive valley. Soon Nathan heard a voice call out from the back room, “I’ll be right out!” And in a moment the beautiful painter came out, with the most angelic and benevolent aura, though smeared by paint. “I love your work,” said Nathan. “You have good taste,” was the artist’s answer, underscored by a welcoming smile. “Who’s the woman?” was Nathan’s blatant question. “Yes, she’s real. She’s my precious one.” “Is the commitment forever?” continued Nathan with such daring. The painter grinned like a champion and answered, “I’m glad you’re so honest. She is bewitching, isn’t she? Yes, we’re married.” “I’m sorry for being so frank.” “It’s okay.” “Can I buy one?” “Any one but her.” “I’ll take the valley. How much?” “How much you offering?” “Ten Thousand.” “Wow!” “You can buy your wife some precious things.” “I will.” “Who do I make the cheque out to?” “Richmond Virginian.” “What!” “Blame my parents. That’s my name. The surname was inescapable. They chose the first; they were fanatics of revolutionary America.” “Okay.” He handed over the written cheque bearing his own name and address in gold bold calligraphy. “What do you do … Nathan?” “I made my wealth in real estate. Will you join me for some scotch? I was going to go home and watch some movies as a rest from work.” Richmond led Nathan to the back room and locked the front door of the gallery. The room was several times larger than the showroom, well-lit, with several paintings covered by white blankets. Richmond would not reveal even one more no matter how much welcomed scotch he consumed. After Nathan listened attentively to Richmond talk about his work and how his motivation was to capture in one frame the most profound and blessed themes, Nathan asked, “What’s her name?” “Hannah Josiana Virginian,” and Richmond’s eyes sparkled. “What does she do?” “She’s a poet. She’s not published but she’s a poet.” “I can change that.” “Perhaps.” And Nathan spoke of anecdotes from his time in Alberta. He spoke of the time he tamed ten horses in one night. And how he found a missing herd of cows, that had fled a hundred miles, and how he brought them all back to a suburb of Calgary in unprecedented time, alone. And he spoke of the time he, by his forethought, prevented a destructive oil hemorrhage, which he had to fight so hard to make others see. And he spoke of how, for a time, he was the greatest shot in the Greater Calgary Area. He spoke about his philosophy of work and Richmond agreed. It was clear in that one night that they were of the same soul. Now that their cheeks were flushed due to the scotch, Nathan regrettably proclaimed that he had to go back home, and to call it a night. “You know, Nathan, my wife needs another poet in her life. We haven’t met her yet.” “I write poetry. That’s actually what I’m taking a break from.” “I’d love to read it.” “I have a website under a pseudonym.” Nathan handed him a business card with the URL. Nathan walked home almost overcome by his love for Hannah. But he did not feel guilt for coveting his brother’s wife. He was “scheming” in his mind to conquer her, to prove that he was a better man than Richmond, though a great man too. He thought of situations that would bring about a happy ending to the usually fatal triangle. He was confident that he would succeed. Meanwhile, Richmond had finished reading all of Nathan’s poetry on the internet. And Hannah can be pictured at home, asleep on the couch from waiting for her love, and a cold pasta dinner getting colder on the dinner table, the candles long since blown out, and the cork back in the wine bottle. Richmond turned off the computer with a sense of torment and torture. For the next month he suffered silently from the guilt a man feels when he knows he possesses something he does not deserve, as if his marriage were now some theft. And Nathan could not bring himself to face Richmond and tell him of the upcoming competition, though he knew one day very soon he would. And then one day rational and honest Richmond knew what he would do … Hannah came home one night to discover several bouquets of flowers positioned throughout the apartment, a provocative dress draped over the living room futon, and pearl earrings hanging from the key rack. A note bore an address of a restaurant and a time of rendezvous. That same day, Nathan received an invitation to have dinner with Richmond. At the same hour that Hannah and Nathan were sitting across the same table, after both giving the receptionist the name of Richmond as the party to meet, with a pleasant bewilderment on both of their faces, Richmond was on a plane to Miami, just for a short trip, wearing the most radiant, brilliant, benevolent, and unprecedented glow of his life. And the waiter, after meeting with the receptionist, was walking over to Hannah and Nathan’s table prepared to present them with a note from Richmond: MAY WE ALL LIVE FOREVER HAPPY APART … AND TOGETHER … TOAST TO THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS AND THE COURAGE IT REQUIRES. I LOVE YOU BOTH. THE END.
  20. I will share my writings with this forum

    Her Hurricane In Me For Fifteen years I’ve yearned to enter Puerto Rico To brush my cheeks along her earth and sands, To taste her water and her potent nectar, To have her salt taste linger in my throat, And to lick my lips as a gesture of my need. I’ve hungered for her food and for her spirit. I’ve wondered for her art and for her song. I’ve dreamed of her adulation and her touch. I’ve raised the giant in me to step onto her shore. And yet she bars my way. Her guards are standing on her shore. Her guns are ready to unleash on me. Her ears ignore my sacred song. Her eyes forbid my blessed beauty. Her tongue is ready to rebuke me or to kill me with her silence. Her finger’s set to point me back to sea. Her jails will neither house me for my crime of love for her. And so I strategize to be the best that I can be, To grow this giant that I am into a god, To gather up my strength and make it more, To realize an artwork that will quench her breath, To turn into a hurricane of poesy and love, And to ravage like no isle has ever known.
  21. Which Superhero are you?

    Mild-mannered, good, strong and you love to help others Superman 95% Supergirl 80% Green Lantern 80%
  22. Does "Anything Go"?

    My main point here is that I like to think that Grey's character knows who Ayn Rand is and is horrified that this boy, who she has already decided is acting in an evil way, is totally wrong, and therefore she is horrified that he is using her as his justification, when she [Rand] in reality is the justification for pursuing Swayze. Either way, the movie does not show this, and so I can very well be wrong. Perhaps, it's simply a bad movie. [Perhaps someone should start a Dirty Dancing thread, or does it already exist?
  23. Does "Anything Go"?

    That scene does however inspire debate (at least internally) of the issue of whether the boy is right in abandoning the girl. I'll formulate it this way: is it just a matter of: sex is such a grand and noble experience, that you better be ready to accept the consequences, whatever they may be? Conception is an obvious consequence. If you both decide before hand that you don't want conception to occur, then you best be taking your best efforts to prevent it. Well, then by what circumstances do you fail? By accident or by intent. If intent, who's to blame? If by accident, who's to blame? And if neither, then how could it be the boy's duty to accept fatherhood? If the man wants the abortion, it is the man's duty to observe her right to decide. But does that mean that he has to take care of it, if he wants nothing to do with? This obviously turns quickly into a complex legal, psycological, and medical matter. Perhaps the writer's were futilely trying to support Ayn Rand, but didn't find the need to support the use of praise by the story. There is certainly not enough of the boy to support such an intrigue in his motives. We must take for granted he is bad. And Patrick Swayze and Jennnifer Grey's dilemna seems not as important as this one, so why include it? The story is about Grey's character's individualism. It is interesting that her psychology and psycho-epistemology does change through her experience. She is transformed into a butterfly, if you like. It is a different WAY of thinking, from what I remember. Now I think I need to rent this movie, and give it some more consideration.
  24. Does "Anything Go"?

    I've seen the movie several times, and everytime was before I read Ayn Rand, except for the last time which was several months ago when it was on television. I too found this scene to my surprise, and wonders whether I acknowledged the name of that author when I was 8 to 12. I can't remember. Recently upon discovering that scene and The Name of The Fountainhead, mentioned in relation to that boy who is going to adandon the girl, I initially felt a cold shudder, because it does seem that it is a shot at Ayn Rand. But observe how Kitty (is it?), Jennifer Grey, reacts, with violent indignation. Yes, she is indignant of the boy referencing this book as an inspiration for his attitude. But it doesn't mean that she knows who Ayn Rand is. Is Ayn Rand so famous in this world that she is inspiring boys all over the country to leave their pregnant girls, and using Ayn Rand as a defense for this abandonment has become a cliche? No, it is more probable that Jennifer Grey in character has heard of Ayn Rand and knows her for her own inspiration within herself, especially in her current struggle which is the situation of the play. But, granted, it is also probable that any book that the boy would have referenced, would have met with the same indignation. For Jennifer Grey's character, she takes the boys abandonment as axiomatically evil, and therefore no book and no philosopher could justify it. At this point, I believe either of the latter two. If the writers are intentionally attacking Ayn Rand in this manner, by just throwing the name of The Fountainhead in it, then it is plainly evil, unforgivably immature, and inescapably impotent, though perhaps most movie goers of Dirty Dancing would be left with horror of that book. If that were the intention of the writer, then shame on them. Can you justify in believing that this were the intention of the writers--please show it to me, I would like to know, though I don't expect it to be your main devotion, i.e., indicting these writers. If you know it already, then perhaps it is not worth addressing their offense.
  25. Toddlers: Interesting Why?

    Gifts: What I want to buy the child sometime soon is a white boy's formal suit, a little bit baggy, and perhaps a white silk blowse, baggy too ... so that when she begins to finger paint she can wipe her hands on it. The stains won't come off. I can imagine the pictures. This will serve as her Painting Suit which she can go to regularly and demand. It will be a nice memento for later years ... especially if she actually develops an interest in painting as an art. This would be the condition presented to her parents in order for me to give it to her: that the child be allowed to finger paint with it on. I figure that if I give her a BOY'S suit they may just allow it.