Pondering Wile E. this evening - his impotence omnipresent - I read everything he spoke. I enjoy the kismet, depressing as it is. I despise the Pharaoh, as do the unfortunate folk beneath his heal, but are their tools of expression no greater than the intelligence of a ragged pack? This frailty seems consistent - stretching back towards the petal kid corduroy first responder, tripped and establishing a formal means of protest - but I can't help feeling suicidal elation because Chuck Jones stabbed the heart of the matter, gave us our icon and allowed his ideas to get lost on the viewership. I admire that kind of freedom. Imagine we're marching on the hill, picket in hand, pushing fast and angry - we got a point, we're gonna' get 'em to listen this time - "Beep, beep" – comes the response to our call. Cynicism is like your favorite electric blanket, warm on the coldest days - burning you alive when you get too comfortable; I'd like to get thru this winter in other ways, but it's freezing out there. It's hard to laugh when what's funny is your powerlessness. But there might be something possible, one procedure to implement that softens the problem, massages those nasty, penetrating late night thoughts burning a hole in your being - GRAVITY DOES NOT EXIST - or at least it doesn’t ‘til you look down.
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