GLADIATOR II

 

 Director Ridley Scott returns to the sands of the arena.

 

GLADIATOR II (2024) is a decent sequel, filled with all of the elements fans of the ancient world epic genre want, but with one glaring problem: its protagonist is by far the least interesting character in it. The narrative would have been much better served if it focused solely on Pedro Pascal's war-weary Roman general who only wishes to retire and spend time with his wife, but it's made clear by the twin emperors that he is their bitch and must therefore never cease conquering in the name of the empire. Also fun is Denzel Washington as an owner or gladiators who seeks to use the film's hero, the son of the original's Maximus, as his stepping stone to usurping the throne. 

 

But, whatever. 

 

There is enough pageantry, lavish costumes, well-choreographed and realistic fight scenes, cartoonish CGI animals,graphic violence, and flamboyant camp that the genre has provided since the days when Rome's Cineccita studios was cranking out badly-dubbed peplum imports by the dozen seemingly every other week to keep fans of the genre entertained. And extra points for the inclusion of Derek Jacobi, a favorite and an immortal in my eyes for his unforgettable performance in the classic I, CLAUDIUS (1976). 

 

Worth seeing, but better if seen at at cheap matinee or via streaming on a huge flatscreen at home.

 

Poster for the theatrical release.

THE CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS

 Musing during a rare day when I am neither stuck in treatment nor hospitalized.

Mildred, aka she who bore me, will be getting a chair flit installed this coming Wednesday, an item that will lift her from the ground floor, which is where most of her in-home activity now occurs, to the second floor, where her bedroom and bathroom with the gods' own favorite shower are. Tragically, that renders the world inside her pristine dollhouse fortress that much smaller, as it eliminates the downstairs level where the laundry room, the huge flatscreen, and the screened-in back porch are. Those of you who grew up with me are quite familiar with the back porch, as it was were we spent many nights getting baked while mom slept upstairs none the wiser, and the family room was our private clubhouse/screening room where many cult items were shown and fond memories made. The downstairs area used to be where Mildred would spread out on her favorite couch and lounge for hours while watching TV, but in recent months her preferred perch is the super-soft chair in the living room that looks out onto the driveway. Seeing her ensconced in its comfy confines while gazing into the outside existence beyond her human-sized terrarium brings to mind a cat or dog that sits in front of their house's biggest window, dreaming of running free outside once again, of perhaps of a freedom that they are but an open door away from experiencing for the first time.

 

It was not that long ago that Mildred was still a world traveler, going on yearly cruises and jaunts to various spots of interest in Europe, and it was then that she was the happiest I have ever seen her. Witnessing her decline to her present state of frail, cancer-ridden dotage at just two months short of age 92, and observing her unavoidable incarceration, just reaches into my chest and squeezes. Some of you knew her when you and I grew up together, so you may remember her for her iron-willed aspect, but also for occasional bursts of kindness and favor that she showed to a select few of you — contrary to how some perceived her, she absolutely did NOT like the majority of you, and that was for no reason other than the fact that your presence showed that her unrealistically and unhealthily idolized and obsessed over "perfect little boy" was growing up, and you lot were cruelly stealing my attention from her — but today you would scarcely recognize the borderline helpless shadow that shuffles round her house that is now her cage.

 

My own situation prevents me from being a presence 24/7, which I know would make her waning days among us happier (while driving me mad, if I may be honest), and it kills me to have to rely on the help of the support team local heroes who give of themselves all day, every day, while my ass is either stuck in dialysis, or recovering from its unpleasant side-effects. I certainly cannot step up to the plate, it's a simple and unavoidable fact of life, and it's an Herculean amount of work that is being put in by her helpers, a debt that she and I can never repay. When. she finally ascends to Valhalla — she is a lifelong Christian, but I will eat my own butt cheeks on live television with a few jots of Indi-Pep West Indian sauce if her lifetime of rigid bitchery and warrior spirit don't qualify her for Valkyrie status — and it falls to me to deal with her house and estate, I am hoping that there's some kind of scratch left over after the bank claims everything due to her having taken out a reverse mortgage that she frequently dipped into for expenses and necessary home repairs. If there's anything substantial left, I will give it to those who eased her suffering and loneliness during this coda to her time on Earth. They have more than earned it.

 

This week I have the usual dialysis, plus a followup with my cardiologist and and endoscopy, so it's going to be a full week in the ongoing rotation, and I won't be able to return to see my mother until the Friday of the following week, which is the day after Thanksgiving. Since my regular treatments are inescapable, with attempts to book service at a center near Mildred ending up a bust, for the past few years we have adjusted the once-inflexible times of my presence during the holidays to work with my schedule, and we have both gotten used to accepting that the situation is what it is. The only thing that really sucks about this arrangement is that I can only be there for two nights and two days before I have to return to Brooklyn's Borough Park to resume my never-ending dialysis. 

 

Being at home for extended periods has proven quite contentious over the decades, but my mother is my only remaining blood relative with whom I have contact and interaction, so every year I would butch up, hold my tongue (mostly), and if shit got too thick I could escape to the safe house of the lovely and understanding parents of a dear old friend, both of whom got to know Mildred via church and attempts at social interactions, thus them coming to fully grok my issues with her over the years. But that safe haven is gone, as those two beacons of emotional/psychological safety left Westport for warmer climes, so I now have to rely on too-brief interactions with my few old friends who remain in and around the town where we all came of age. But it's okay. They all have spouses and families to deal with, so whatever time they manage to spare for me is more precious than the rarest of gemstones.

 

So now I steel myself for the holiday season of 2024, which may or may not be Mildred's last. Though she will want to do it, her cooking the traditional lavish southern Thanksgiving feast is out of the question, and in my debilitated medical state, I don't currently possess the stamina to wrangle the logistics and physical work of an 8-hour marathon of holiday cooking. Last year we did a simple Oven Stuffer roaster chicken with sausage stuffing and minor sides, and that was good enough. At Christmas, we had prime rib or something, I honestly don't recall, and a nice meal at the town's most venerable Chinese restaurant (whose fare was good when I was growing up, but my palate has been educated and utterly spoiled by real NYC Chinatown Chinese cuisine and regular doses of quality dim sum), and as for our Christmas celebration, the presents were minimal, an acknowledgement of neither of us wanting or needing anything, and also because it was an unspoken reminder of Mildred's inevitable and imminent passing. While we managed not to fight, I would be lying if I said that it wasn't one of the most depressing experiences of my then 58 years, and I am readying myself for a repeat performance in this 59th annum. 

 

Sorry to ramble, but sometimes when I start to write about what I am thinking and feeling, the floodgates simply open and the torrent flows. Thank you for being here and bearing with my blather. Believe me, it helps. And with that said, time for a couple of bonghits of Sativa from the now-blessed Boom Tube, then some STAR TREK reruns as mental comfort food. Maybe some DEEP SPACE NINE. It's been a good while.

 

ELECTION DAY 2024: DOING MY PART TO DEPOSE "HAIR FUHRER"

It's ELECTION DAY!!! (soundtrack: "American Ruse" by the MC5)

Insomnia once again kept me awake, but at least it was constructive, because I hauled myself out of bed to stand on line outside of the local elementary school that serves as a polling station, and I was the eleventh person in the queue before the doors open. It was the first time I went to vote before the sun had come up, so I felt like some sort of socially-conscious vampire.

When I got inside PS 282, I presented my voter registration information (plus I had my raised seal birth certificate, a recent bill, and my passport, just in case; nothing was going to stop me from voting in this specific election) and was met with confusion. My voter registration card was of the old school paper variety, and the workers could not figure out where my district was, as none of the numbers on the card corresponded with any of the signage for districts. I was bounced to three different sign-in tables before an old Jamaican lady, a veteran poll worker, saw my situation and took the reins. At the three previous tables, they checked and double-checked my registration, each time telling me I was in the wrong location, only for me to tell them I made sure online that I was in the right location, as referenced against my zip code, and each time the final check showed I was in. the right place. I have no idea why there was confusion, as my registration card is valid, but whatever. It finally got sorted. However, before I could receive my ballot and get down to business of saving the nation, I had to wait for fifteen minutes because the guy who had been in front of my had been properly entered into the system by the volunteer, so two poll workers had to be sent out to find the guy. It took them fifteen minutes to find him (they assumed he went out to his car, but he was actually at the privacy booth, taking his sweet damned time), during which time I, still weak from the previous day's dialysis, requested a chair for while I waited. I had my hiking pole with me, but hunching over it while standing for an extended time is not comfortable. The guy, a 20-something Asian immigrant who was voting for the first time, was eventually located, and things proceeded. To prevent further such delays, I will request the modern scannable key fob.

Due to my registration being old, I was handed an affidavit ballot and explicitly told to circle my choices with the provided pen, which I did, but when I went to scan the ballots, the screen stated "Unreadable Document." Two poll workers came over to assist me, and it was determined that I had to darken my circles, which I did, but it once again would not scan. I was sent back to the table where I got my original ballot and was handed a new one, but the original had to be voided before I could proceed. That took another five minutes, as all of my info had to be entered and checked again, and the screen was slow. Upon receiving my replacement ballot, I filled it out again, and again it would not register. Thoroughly annoyed, I was instructed to further darken my circles, which I did, leaning into the pen so hard that I thought I was carving a groove into the privacy partition's writing surface. Whatever the case, that time my circles were dark enough and my choices were scanned. I was given several "I Voted" stickers and, my civic duty done again, I made my way back home. the rest of the day will be about recovery and utter laziness, but I rest secure knowing that I did my meager part to excise the orange cancer that has caused this nation to metastasize. 

Oh, and on the way out, I saw that the school had set up a bake sale. I perused the available goodies and settled on the brown butter Rice Krispie Treats, cleaning out the entire lot. I enjoyed two, but the rest I bagged and will bring home to mom. 

 

A responsible metal-American.

 

 

School bake sale Rice Krispie Treats: better than heroin.