Patriot Games [1992)

This is not a game.

Assassination attempts on motorcades.

Jack Ryan jumps in here.

An expert by Clear and Present Danger.

Since 1972.

Tom Clancy.

Minister of State, Northern Ireland.

The answer.

Paul Channon.

Six months.

We are.

In that period.

Married Ingrid Guinness.

Former wife of his cousin.

Jonathan Guinness.

PC.

Guinness board of directors.

Guinness Trust.

By the way.

What ever happened to Rachel Chandler?

Wife of Thomas Guinness-Taylor?

He being son of the aforementioned Jonathan Guinness and mistress Susan “Shoe” Taylor?

The date of birth seems to match.

1986.

Northern Ireland Office.

Would be equivalent to Robin Walker.

1972-1974: Conservative (Edward Heath).

1974-1979: Labour (Harold Wilson/James Callaghan).

1979-1997: Conservative (Margaret Thatcher/John Major).

1997-2010: Labour (Tony Blair/Gordon Brown)

2010-present: Conservative (David Cameron/Theresa May/Boris Johnson).

The Provisional IRA was socialist.

Not to be confused with the IRA of 1919-1922.

Cells.

Splinters.

Gilded.

Annette is English.

Red wig.

Not a real ginger.

Prisoner transfer motorcade ambushed.

On the move.

Dangerous.

David Robinson.

This was before the Colombian PTSD.

A healthy amount of paranoia.

Highway attack.

By 1994, Fort Huachuca had come into the mix.

Film misdated as 1998 is actually 1992.

Watched out of order.

Keyhole.

Who dares wins.

Flynn.

Lindell.

SAS because British citizens.

CIA assist.

Assassination attempt on American.

Terrorists.

Pence was a mole.

Traitor.

McInerney correct.

London.

Alaska.

Chevy Chase, Maryland.

Diplomatic Security Service.

Maryland State Police.

HRT Quantico.

Crisis management.

A career of crises.

Diversion.

Spartacus.

Next film was already in the works.

You are watching a movie.

-PD

#9 Do-It-Yourself Mr. Bean [1994)

When you’re having a crappy night.

One thing after another.

Life is beating you with a one-two combination punch.

And a couple of jabs.

You must go to your contingencies.

When the situation is not good, you must move forward.

No laissez faire nor wu wei at this point.

So you push on.

And everywhere you go you get lame.  Rudeness.  Snobby.  Ageist.

Walking on hot coals for capitalism.

Which is to say that the two Starbucks I visited tonight were worse than lackluster.

Starbucks chokes the American market.

But there is variance from store to store.

There are a lot of problems to be witnessed.

As a daily customer.

With no better options.

But Starbucks isn’t improving.  They are happy where they’re at.

And so they are ripe to be made obsolete.

How would that happen?

Who?

What ideas?

Most importantly would be to hire Mr. Bean.

Not the actor.  But the real guy.  The character.

The inspiration.  The gaggle which became one.

And please test in San Antonio.

Because our fair city is lethargic and uninspiring.

We never have what we need.

How can we remain happy?

Mr. Bean.

I remember a time in my life that was so fair.

Humorous.  Laughful.  Lifefilled.

A time when a girl’s laugh meant ANYTHING IN THE WORLD’S POSSIBLE.

She’s married now for a second time.  Was never my wife.

But something much more.  A love.  A love for which Rembrandt or Van Gogh would have fought.

And so I must tell myself that maybe someone in this world will find me charming.

It’s a sad clown to be used up.

Limelight.

This is, of course, a great episode of Mr. Bean.

They’re all pretty damn good!

Nobody’s like him.

And nobody’s like me.

But I’ve been beaten.

You know the law enforcement dealing with the burkinis?

They are fashion police.  Not completely unprecedented.

But never nearly as absurd.

I’ve been beaten up.  And so I have a little pile of clothes.

The machinery has ripped into my forearms and tendons and screwed up my hands.

I already needed something happy.

And then it got bad.

And bad progressed to worse.

But I fought the good fight.

Reading in the dark.

Prussian blue.  Watteau.  Niantic.

Keyhole.  In-Q-Tel.  NGA.  KH recon.  Corona.

Pokémon Go.  And Google at every stage.

John Hanke.  “Foreign Service”.

School of hard NOCs.

Twigs dipped in Marmite.

 

-PD