I watched a movie called Right Cross last night. It was a 1950 film about a Mexican-American boxer, played by Ricardo Montalban. He was pretty good, but not great, in the role of the ambitious pugilist; his character markedly lacked depth. It was strange because he looked great--the guy was in phenomenal condition--and the boxing scenes were some of the most gripping I've ever seen in a movie (and I've seen a lot of boxing films); but somehow his characterization didn't rise above the two-dimensional. It was disconcerting because it was obviously a flashy star type of role, ala John Garfield's boxer in Body and Soul, but Montalban was outshone by the ease of his co-star, June Allyson, as his girlfriend, and Dick Powell, as a sportwriter who loves June but who does not get her affection in return. Which is ironic, because Powell and Allyson were happily married to each other off-screen.

Maybe what partially eclipsed Montalban's performance was that the chemistry between Allyson and Powell was so strong on-screen, yet she was supposed to be in love with Montalban. Their chemistry didn't seem as real. And maybe Montalban held something back in some way, subconsciously, when he was playing opposite this actress who was obviously quite close to her husband, who was often nearby in the scenes! It made for a curious imbalance to the proceedings.

I've never liked June Allyson much, partly because of her stodgy hairstyle, but she's quite good in this film, and I finally could see why she was so popular. A kitchen scene with Powell, wherein he attempts to make spaghetti, really showcases her particular attractiveness, warmth, and humor.

Another odd thing about this generally forgotten movie is that Marilyn Monroe has a bit part as a hot dame sitting in a restaurant. Although this film came a year after her large role as a burlesque dancer in Ladies of the Chorus (1949), she doesn't even get a screen credit on Right Cross; and what's even weirder is that she is rather stiff in the boxing movie, possibly the worst performance I've ever seen her give. It's yet another strange aspect to ponder about Right Cross which, despite its flaws, is a movie worth catching the next time it shows up on Turner Classic Movies for its virtues.

I'm feeling so stressed out that last night I had my second dream in two weeks about buying myself a pack of cigarettes and smoking (I haven't smoked in two and a half years). I was never a heavy smoker, a pack could last me a month, and I never inhaled, just puffed on it. Liked cigars occasionally too, and I do miss those but am reluctant to have even one...

Mostly I would smoke when I went to the stripclubs, but after Mayor Bloomberg outlawed smoking in bars, couldn't do that anymore. I think the loss of smoking made the stripclubs less enjoyable, to be honest...a cigarette or two was relaxing...and yes, I know it's a bad habit...

Hung out at Columbus Circle today when I took a break from my work, enjoyed the scenery. Some nice looking girls, although I saw a few wearing some ugly flip-flops that had weird ankle doohickeys on them. I'll never understand why women like to wear flip-flops on the street...does it make them feel more down-to-earth or something? In my opinion, a fashion suitable only for the beach.

Why do women wear short skirts and then spend so much time pulling them down? Didn't they know they'd ride up when they put them on? Don't they want them to ride up? Or maybe they only want Johnny Depp or George Clooney looking at them when their hems are inching skyward...not the likes of a Sir Cranky.

Obviously, it's been a few weeks since I last posted here. Life has been rough lately with the dwindling freelance work situation for me, and I almost dread getting too introspective, which leads to immobilizing feelings of depression. Depression is a luxury I can't afford, hence my silence. I'm just trying to see what other work I can drum up.

Went out to a stripclub one evening in an attempt to cheer myself up with some feminine company. A waitress I knew from another club had become a dancer at this one, and was trying to get me to buy a couple of her lapdances, but in my fog of free-floating gloom I ultimately could not justify spending the money, so I chugged my over-priced beer and fled while she was still onstage. I bought myself a decent meal instead.

In the evenings, I'm mostly watching vintage films on Turner Classic Movies now that I have cable. And reruns of a favorite old show from the 60s, 12 O'Clock High, about World War 2 bomber pilots. I wish they'd put that series on DVD already.

I'm feeling at loose ends today, having a hard time getting any work done that requires real thinking. Oh, I ran a few errands, did some necessary Xeroxing, but that's not what I consider the heavy lifting.

I feel so stressed, worrying about money, worrying about finding more work, worrying about worrying, that all the good effects have vanished of the powerful cream I used two weeks ago to clear up stress-related psoraisis on my hand. And somehow, after my hand being okay for a week (it almost felt idyllic), I find this recurrence particularly depressing. The dermatologist's office said the first available appointment was towards the end of May...I'm going to have to convince them to take me earlier.

On the street a little while ago, I almost got run down by one of those Chinese restaurant bicycle deliverymen. He was going against the traffic, and I was so agitated in thinking about my dermatological problems that I didn't look in the direction he was coming from. I exclaimed, "Whoa!" as the guy almost collided with me (luckily, he wasn't going too fast) and then muttered a long and sibilant "SHHHHIT!" under my breath as he rode away. We exchanged looks and I decided to wait until he disappeared from view before entering my apartment building across the street. I think he works right around here, and there's no reason to have some malevolent deliveryman know where I live...

Yes, I feel paranoid too...

I looked over my resume yesterday, in preparation for sending it out to potential clients, and worked on a cover letter as well, but I wish I didn't have to also wrestle with this feeling of hopelessness. I wish I could become a topless dancer...! SHAZAM!! Here's my pair of tits, wanna lapdance?

To forget my problems, I went to a nostalgia convention over the weekend in New Jersey with a friend of mine, and I picked up an incredibly ridiculous European action movie. I got a few chuckles watching it last night, at least. The supervillain walks around dressed like a skeleton, and always has babes hanging on him, making out with him even though he's wearing a skeleton mask. Now there's a guy who knows how to pull the chicks...

I feel like I'm caught in a weird whirlpool of emotional apathy and anxiety at the same time. Looking at my checkbook, I know that the credit-line loan I took out will be exhausted in just two weeks by my various bills. Then I read in the New York Times about bloggers who get five- and six-figure publishing deals practically overnight for coming up with crazy concepts for humor paperbacks, and I think, "That's the modern day gold rush. THAT'S my opportunity. I have to play that game." And although it might seem like a fantasy, the reality is that unless I figure out a way to 1) get a very good-paying job, or 2) making a big score like selling some kind of zany book, my life is going to continue to get financially worse and worse. I'm starting to understand the emotions of those noir protagonists pushed up against the wall by life and their own mistakes. In some ways I feel I have misused my talents over the years, not brought them to their full potential, and if I can't pull myself up, I'm going to pay a heavy price as I slide like a slug into the vortex of late middle age...

I will say one thing I read today was positive. In the New York Post, the syndicated columnist Dr. Keith Ablow had a six point system for recognizing if people love you. He's referring to lovers, but I think it applies to anybody who really cares about you. In times like these, friends are as important as lovers, and I think he hits the nail on the head when he describes the behavior of people who really care about you. Anyway, see if you agree...

SixSignsYou'veFoundTrueLove

Talk about making a silk purse out of a sow's ear...

Watching my toilet overflow last week may have been a positive experience! (Well, sort of.)

Now, my toilet had come close to overflowing before, but I was always able to prevent it. Fast action with the mechanism, or a plunger.

But the other day, I had this inflated optimism that it wouldn't overflow. In hindsight, I realize I wasn't being realistic. As it did indeed flood over, and after I stopped cussing and throwing newspaper down on the floor, I asked myself, "Why was I so damn sure it would be okay?"

I had to admit I was guilty of unrealistic optimism, and had moved too slow to take preventive action.

I wonder if I'm doing this with my search for freelance work. I seem to be dragging my heels a bit...telling myself it will all work out okay.

What if it doesn't? What if the situation gets worse, and not better? I watch film noir--I know that's the way things can go: badly.

The seductive allure of unrealistic optimism! I must resist it. I just have to take more actions to find more clients, and now.

Or, just as with my toilet, I risk being carried away by a flood of, shall we say, unpleasant things.