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The d.j. hero of “Play Misty for Me,” Dave Garver, whispers so intimately into the microphone that an impressionable fan (Jessica Walter) imagines that she has a special bond with him. He sleeps with her a few times, only to discover that she’s a knife-wielding psychopath who won’t let go. This casually made picture featured plentiful views of Eastwood’s bare chest, which appeared in many movies, including “The Beguiled,” which he had made with Don Siegel just before “Dirty Harry.” In “The Beguiled,” Eastwood is a wounded Union soldier who is taken in by the itchy women of a girls’ school at the end of the Civil War. The two portraits of lusted-after men border on narcissism, though, in a surprising turn (which should have alerted us to where Eastwood was going), the hero in each case is a careless opportunist who refuses to take responsibility for the havoc he creates….“Play Misty for Me” ends with Dave Garver knocking his lover through a window and down Big Sur’s rocky cliffs. Eastwood was clearly telling both the studios and the public that they could admire but not possess him. –“Out of the West: Clint Eastwood’s shifting landscape,” David Denby, The New Yorker
A convincing rationale for why the Washington Post insists on “shoving [its] gay business” in your face;
drink up, ladies (unless you like being fat);
flying panty party!
The trickle of forgetfulness that seems to be slipping down through the electrical impulses of my brain is a swollen spring runoff in my mother. The people in her life are like pieces on a chessboard, and every time she goes to make a move she cannot remember which shape is the Bishop, or Queen, and how it is exactly the Knight is played. Even worse, every time she looks away, someone switches all the pieces around and when she looks back she immediately recognizes that none of the players are where she left them. That recognition, to see it, carries a certain poignancy. The unquestioned certainty of my mother’s life has been stalled and in the confusion she senses a checkmate….Our whole family went to my son’s graduation in Middlebury, Vermont, and over the course of the long weekend my mother asked if we were in Andover, Massachusetts, confusing this graduation for that of another grandchild she was slated to attend later in the month. Or she simply asked where we were. The morning of the graduation it rained hard but then stopped suddenly just in time for the ceremonies. As we drove the rented minivan towards Middlebury the sun cleared the sky and Vermont displayed its soft, green valleys and hills. “It’s so beautiful,” my mother said in awe. “I will remember this forever.” Or until 12:15, I thought, whichever comes first. –“Remembering Ray Borque, Eddie Lewis, Ploughshares
In Havana, the past year has been marked by a parade of bold-faced names from the north — John Kerry reopening the United States Embassy; Andrew Cuomo bringing a delegation of American business leaders; celebrities ranging from Joe Torre, traveling on behalf of Major League Baseball to oversee an exhibition game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Cuban national team, to Jimmy Buffett, said to be considering opening one of his Margaritaville restaurants there. All this culminated with a three-day trip in March by Barack Obama, the first American president to visit Cuba since Calvin Coolidge in 1928. But to those who know the city well, perhaps nothing said as much about the transformation of political relations between the United States and Cuba that began in December 2014 as a concert in the Tribuna Antiimperialista.
Estimated portion of registered voters in Zimbabwe who are dead:
Honeybees can recognize individual human faces.
Pope Francis announced that nuns could use social media, and a priest flew a hot-air balloon around the world.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”