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RIP


Lobowolf

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Charlie Gard. The baby that touched many people's hearts. All I can say as a humane being is that it distressed me how his short life became a media circus of medical and legal arguments. If he had been granted treatment, albeit experimental, at an earlier stage in his life, then his parents would never have had to go through all the legal wrangling, where the only winners are the lawyers. Any experimental treatment, by any recognised health professionals, should be allowed with the parents consent when a very sick child needs help, in my opinion. All that I hope is that Charlie's short life, and everything that occurred because of his distressing situation, will not be in vain, and that health and legal professionals will now act more responsibly. Hippocratic oath? Mmmm.... RIP Charlie
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Sam Shepard

 

In plays like “True West” (1980), “Fool for Love” (1983) and the Pulitzer Prize-winning “Buried Child” (1978), he dismantled the classic iconography of cowboys and homesteaders, of American dreams and white picket fences, and reworked the landscape of deserts and farmlands into his own shimmering expanse of surreal estate.

 

In Mr. Shepard’s plays, the only undeniable truth is that of the mirage. From early pieces like “Chicago” (1965), written when he was in his early 20s and staged in the margins of Off Off Broadway, to late works like “Heartless” (2012), he presented a world in which nothing is fixed.

 

That includes any comforting notions of family, home, material success and even individual identity. “To me, a strong sense of self isn’t believing in a lot,” Mr. Shepard said in a 1994 interview with The New York Times. “Some people might define it that way, saying, ‘He has a very strong sense of himself.’ But it’s a complete lie.”

 

That feeling of uncertainty was translated into dialogue of an uncommon lyricism and some of the strangest, strongest images in American theater. A young man in “Buried Child,” a bruising tale of a Midwestern homecoming, describes looking into the rearview mirror as he is driving and seeing his face morph successively into those of his ancestors.

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  • 1 month later...

Everyone has to go sometime. Most people don't live to 91, and considering his lifetyle it's pretty amazing.

 

I was at a Playboy Club once, in the 1960s. A friend had been at a business conference and had a free 30 day pass, and he could bring his friends. So we went. There was a bumper pool table and a bunny beside it holding a cue. I asked my friend Jerry if he wanted to play. Sure. So I asked the bunny how much? One dollar (this was long ago) win or lose. Huh? What does winning or losing have to do with It? Oh. I was to play with the bunny. I asked the obvious, "Can't I play with my friend here?". No, I couldn't. We stuck around a while for some overpriced drinks and then found a place more suitable both for our budget and our inclinations.

 

I wish him well, him and his bunnies.

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  • 3 weeks later...

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