zero hour, nine a.m.

It’s Pearl Harbor Day – a day I’m writing about right now in my chapter, when a lot of my characters felt put on notice.  And right now so do I, with my deadline screaming at me.  My most recent blogging has been at a Facebook page I put together for Ain’t Marching, rather than constantly clogging this one with meditations on spoiled priests and mortar blasts. (If you want to know more, please do stop by there.)

A few mostly-unmilitary matters I’ve meant to note here, though:

  • As most know, the country’s security is now largely in the hands of menopausal women. So much for invisibility.
  • Speaking of which,and in time for in time for the anniversary of the U.N  Convention on Genocide on Monday, here’s Christiane Amahnpour’s demand that we scream bloody murder, .
  • I finally saw Milk, and as expected cried like a baby. But did no one tell Gus van Sant, for the opening scene, that no subway staircase is *ever* that empty in the early evening? Or that quiet? (It comes quickly in the trailer below.) I know he’s used to less naturalistic forms, but that yell was developed in New York. May as well make it feel real.  In addition, I have mixed feelings about the ending, though I know the movie was already too long, but I wish van Sant had been able to do more than mention the trial of Milk’s assassin and the twin “White Nights.”The first link is to Jim Jones’ massacre, the second to a memory of that week in the Castro). Maybe  that should be a separate movie.
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