sovay: (Rotwang)
Of course, on the day when [personal profile] rushthatspeaks and I had plans to visit the MIT Science Fiction Society, we had a thunderstorm. I managed to leave the house with an umbrella, but somehow it did not make that much difference. I think my shirt dried out three times over the course of the evening. There was some very attractive pinkish lightning over the skylines of Kendall Square and Rush-That-Speaks brought me a snickerdoodle. The rain had almost tapered off into misting by the time we left the student center with a year's membership apiece and our book haul carefully bagged in convenience-store plastic; we tried out Naco Taco for dinner and I can report favorably on the cabrito (lamb instead of goat, with mint crema and a slight heat on the tamarind glaze), the duck confit (with pomegranate molasses and fried strings of sweet potato), and the cochinita pibil (real heat and no problem deleting the onions). Then I came home and passed out for about an hour on top of [personal profile] spatch because my head had been hurting all day and Autolycus was already asleep on my pillow.

I looked at the news in time to find out that Stephen Miller had, in Rob's words, well, actually'd the Statue of Liberty. Remember when I wanted Trump-supporting Jews to be haunted by their disappointed dead relatives? I'd like to redirect the majority to Miller personally. Or maybe just the ghost of Emma Lazarus. She could be pretty intense.

[edit] I said it better over at [personal profile] cmcmck's: Miller with his nativist, white supremacist, anti-immigrant rhetoric is Jewish, the great-grandchild of immigrants as I am. I hope he's haunted. I hope he has the dybbuks of relatives and refugees coming out his ears. I hope he sleeps even less than I do.

I am delighted by this 1984 interview with Elisha Cook, Jr. He's about eighty at the time. I'd never seen him out of character before. He's a charming storyteller, with a necessary but not over-deprecating sense of humor about his track record of getting croaked onscreen. I'd heard his story about sticking to small parts so that no one could blame him if the film bombed (I still have no idea if it's true, but he tells it well), but I had no idea he'd lost a thumb to making a movie with John Ford. I admired his hands in The Killing (1956) and I never noticed. That's Harold Lloyd levels of hardcore. Now I guess I can decide if I want to watch Submarine Patrol (1938) and wonder where he might have fit into Ford's stock company (in the timeline we actually live in, Ford never worked with him again). My favorite bit is about three minutes in: asked about his typecasting as fall guys, Cook answers, "Of course, I think John Huston had a lot to do with it, when I did Maltese Falcon for him, you know, when I played Sydney Greenstreet's—boy?" He flirts his eyebrows and all of a sudden flickers younger, teasing, playing the boy. Just in case you somehow thought the whole cast wasn't in on the subtext. "It was a fun show."

I feel very fragmentary. I hope it will help if I get some sleep. I'm dubious.
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