John Schnatter, chairman and CEO of Papa John's, posted his own apology on Facebook Monday. He revealed the two employees involved in the "reprehensible" message were immediately fired, as they "defy both my personal and the company's values."-- Cavan Sieczkowski
Given what I learned later on, I suppose it was an honor that Lydia, from my Speakeasy days, emailed me. She was a black attorney from San Francisco who had roots in Philadelphia, and the admirable ability to change her environment. She was raped by a white man but had the ability to differentiate that experience from such suppositions as "all white men like it rough with jig poon" and there I am ripping off Ellroy and his more extensive slang vocabulary. Lydia was trying to help me understand that not all blacks will necessarily victimize me, and I do understand that, but many African Americans have victimized me, and in the one case violently at nearly the cost of my life. I can juxtapose that with the young upwardly mobile kid who hugged me on New Years at Drinkers West, or Claudie and my conversation with him about cats, dead cats, the ashes of dead cats, Haiti. I have Graham Greene's fascination with this impoverished colony of the United States, and told Claudie about my work in that direction.
It is not enough. I am traumatized, even by Tim's inability to manage his time without nearly always giving me short shrift. I needed a new broom and dust pan; he indicated to me he would price it and pick it up, and this is the systems failure that attendant care represents. I am out forty five dollars for a vacuumed carpet and basically a three week argument with a fucking simpleton who considers my intelligence and acuity to be an insult to his entitled minority identity. Caucasian women are little better, but there the stigma is different. Monica Carr did not want to do the time and called the police to intimidate me. Susan McNally insisted that I comply with her terms, and I wouldn't. It is never going to end, and I am going to die in misery and frustration, if not physical anguish.
Sure, I have a side that once believed that civic decency was noble, and a passion for interpretation that still draws me to Jerry's output. I'd enjoy analyzing his work for you, how at his strongest Jerry can defy expectations, but his work that is online is not the work he shared in workshop, and taking all that out of the closet and going through that to apply my best sympathies to make you love me takes time, a luxury I no longer have, and will not have the more I have to depend on paraprofessionals, and if the indignities of infirmity get much worse, my options seem fairly stark. My meal today was a hot half and half powdered cappuccino and a carrot. This morning I had a pork roll and do not really feel like preparing a meal. I invited Lydia to lunch when her mother passed away. Perhaps out of duty. She declined. Then again, how can a hard black lawyer and a precocious spastic with their denigrating war wounds actually see past the labels each other carries. Thanks to the Jamesians I am now on Linked In. I avoided it because of my supervisor. All I wanted was a contact number for Senator Toomey. His staff telephoned. Uh huh. And I have to handle any expectation behind that euphemism.
What Toomey's staff learns contextually is different in framework than my mere EEOC grievance: I mean what I say about changing systems management around disability and sustaining matriculation.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Mnemonic Agrarian
Given my personal history with the last post modern beatnik progeny on earth, his powers waning in my estimation (alas, the undercurrent of antagonism stems from? psychoanalytic drum roll, but this morning it is not a primary concern, father fucking as an act of annihilation which did not happen...) I am unresolved on what attracts me to the work of Allen Tate, whether it is, in fact, Tate's mimetic qualities conjoined to his violent modernism, which Yezzi recognizes in ridiculing fashion in his New Criterion piece, an article I have been attempting to digest off and on since 2007, and will continue to absorb, only to note here that Yezzi's hyperbole, highlighted below, while charming, is the normative hogwash of the literary critic, and his or her concerns toward peer review:
Without a proper appreciation of Tate, the full story of recent American poetry cannot be told.
Really? Jerry recognized early in our journey that I was interested in literary imitation, but I am not sure I recognize my youthful curiosity in my appreciation of the poems themselves. We'll come back to it, as I am contemplating asceticism as a form of reactionary protest, except to add something about Tate's *inherited racism,* as Yezzi calls it.
Slapping labels on people is a way of turning them off. Unlike the event of Gore Vidal's death, my demise will not have much public reverberation, but commentators burned bright to excoriate Vidal as a racist elitist pig. What does that mean exactly? That his intellectual endeavors are worthless? Not every form of reaction is an atavistic backslide.
Without a proper appreciation of Tate, the full story of recent American poetry cannot be told.
Really? Jerry recognized early in our journey that I was interested in literary imitation, but I am not sure I recognize my youthful curiosity in my appreciation of the poems themselves. We'll come back to it, as I am contemplating asceticism as a form of reactionary protest, except to add something about Tate's *inherited racism,* as Yezzi calls it.
Slapping labels on people is a way of turning them off. Unlike the event of Gore Vidal's death, my demise will not have much public reverberation, but commentators burned bright to excoriate Vidal as a racist elitist pig. What does that mean exactly? That his intellectual endeavors are worthless? Not every form of reaction is an atavistic backslide.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Princess Andromache, Croupier
.... not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "Old man," said he, "let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."-- Samuel Butler's translation
How is it that one can eschew James Joyce and still appreciate the consequences of Modernism? There is much to appreciate in Ulysses, regardless if a pauper invalid spends well over five hundred dollars on cheat sheets and the nullification of her own pretensions, particularly the Calypso section, and then Nausicca, and the disjunctions from Nausicca between Bloom and Gerty leading into Circe which I absorbed with psycho-sexual shock, and will ponder beyond the conclusion of this reading group cycle. Joyce is on par with the blindness of subsuming into appetite, and still illicits my scorn.
Scorn is a strong sentiment, a reaction against pity and the pathos of Joycean grandiosity, something that glimmers in Dubliners, rises in Portrait, and reaches a crescendo in Ulysses. Perhaps I am more Cartesian than I realize, certainly not as skillful as Nick Davis in deconstructing Greenaway. Nick helps me to see why The Belly of an Architect preoccupies and remains an insufferable pretension, and the argument it makes about feminism and legacy is to some extent historically relevant, structuralist, to say the least. Problematic films like these are needed even more than masterpieces. If you need to visualize what I mean in my charge toward a thesis, there is the gnat chameleon aspect of Jake Gyllenhaal's roles: the sounding center geek in Proof, The Zodiac Killer, a type against his A list swashbuckler bid Prince of Persia, a formula for which I could not sit still. Moving in part, more rugged in its realism than Errol Flynn's output, reminiscent of Douglas and Curtis maiming each other unto death, a film based on a game nevertheless doesn't belie expectations.
I ended my implicit contract with the long winded Timothy Artis, the talking mule of the Torah, and this time, I ended it for good. There is little between me and a major shit fest if I do not find a replacement soon, or return to the Medicaid waiver.
Should I give up, prepare for death? Like anyone has the balls to type in my comment section on accepting limitations and the inevitable. I have only a thin, thinning veneer for African American dominion in Philadelphia-- indeed, the cracks in black identity toward true matriculation into the mainstream has ushered itself in a little late for my adoption of developmental dove like expressions.
How is it that one can eschew James Joyce and still appreciate the consequences of Modernism? There is much to appreciate in Ulysses, regardless if a pauper invalid spends well over five hundred dollars on cheat sheets and the nullification of her own pretensions, particularly the Calypso section, and then Nausicca, and the disjunctions from Nausicca between Bloom and Gerty leading into Circe which I absorbed with psycho-sexual shock, and will ponder beyond the conclusion of this reading group cycle. Joyce is on par with the blindness of subsuming into appetite, and still illicits my scorn.
Scorn is a strong sentiment, a reaction against pity and the pathos of Joycean grandiosity, something that glimmers in Dubliners, rises in Portrait, and reaches a crescendo in Ulysses. Perhaps I am more Cartesian than I realize, certainly not as skillful as Nick Davis in deconstructing Greenaway. Nick helps me to see why The Belly of an Architect preoccupies and remains an insufferable pretension, and the argument it makes about feminism and legacy is to some extent historically relevant, structuralist, to say the least. Problematic films like these are needed even more than masterpieces. If you need to visualize what I mean in my charge toward a thesis, there is the gnat chameleon aspect of Jake Gyllenhaal's roles: the sounding center geek in Proof, The Zodiac Killer, a type against his A list swashbuckler bid Prince of Persia, a formula for which I could not sit still. Moving in part, more rugged in its realism than Errol Flynn's output, reminiscent of Douglas and Curtis maiming each other unto death, a film based on a game nevertheless doesn't belie expectations.
I ended my implicit contract with the long winded Timothy Artis, the talking mule of the Torah, and this time, I ended it for good. There is little between me and a major shit fest if I do not find a replacement soon, or return to the Medicaid waiver.
Should I give up, prepare for death? Like anyone has the balls to type in my comment section on accepting limitations and the inevitable. I have only a thin, thinning veneer for African American dominion in Philadelphia-- indeed, the cracks in black identity toward true matriculation into the mainstream has ushered itself in a little late for my adoption of developmental dove like expressions.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Wolf's Complex
The impact Dick Wolf had on procedural formulas is moving into pop culture archival analysis, but the attitude of his guild writers toward disability is problematic, not cut and dry in terms of victimology or perpetration: the Criminal Intent episode "Inert Dwarf," where Austin Pendleton reasonably approximates Stephen Hawking as a diabolical genius who uses his disease to kill a graduate assistant who blows a theoretical construct the physicist holds dear to pieces, contextualizes my problem as the angry disabled writer brutalized once too often. Goren supposedly trips up *Dr. Manotti* by exposing Manotti's manipulations of his more able caretakers, and then proving Manotti committed murder through not tripping off a power chair alarm. The writers may have played this twist from the news that abuse allegations involving Hawking were being investigated, only then none of us ever heard anything else about the case, good, bad, or facilitated.
Despite my empathy for D'Onofrio as Bobby Goren, Inert Dwarf stretches credulity and feels false. ALS literally destroys male muscular fibers, no matter how bitter the brain in such a degenerative casement, so it is difficult to see how Manotti pulls off this nearly perfect ruse.
What Wolf gets right, however, is the lack of pandering. Disability often destroys and exposes family pathologies as much as does sex drugs, money, and spousal battery.
Despite my empathy for D'Onofrio as Bobby Goren, Inert Dwarf stretches credulity and feels false. ALS literally destroys male muscular fibers, no matter how bitter the brain in such a degenerative casement, so it is difficult to see how Manotti pulls off this nearly perfect ruse.
What Wolf gets right, however, is the lack of pandering. Disability often destroys and exposes family pathologies as much as does sex drugs, money, and spousal battery.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Warhol Whittled, 15 Microcrons
Being and non-being create each other.--the Tao
Do Britains themselves remember that their military used to be efficient and even ruthless? Not that I expect Elizabeth to suddenly recalibrate her decorative, if sovereign authority over the isles, but if I had Cameron's ear, I would publicly execute these suspects as no better than rabid dogs, and I mean publicly, in the centre of London if need be, after two days of watching video of these ethnic Nigerians behaving no better than if they indeed had a rabies infection, a more than glaring example of how we have outpaced ourselves, how diversity backfires, and how medieval norms seem to insist on cohabitation within a digital age. I used to believe that juxtapositions such as these events were merely literary conceits, merging post-modernism, futurist techniques, but it is another thing entirely to be living amid such disconcerting savagery, and I am not entirely blameless there. Then again, neither are you.
The fact that these attacks are increasingly shallow and cosmetic illustrates how efficient western military technology has been against Al Qaeda, but I cannot imagine even an old and comforting militia like the I.R.A. engaging in such barbaric cowardice that these two Londoners exhibited, and to publicly shame them in a ritualized hanging might do the body politic some good, *Christian* and *Islamic* alike.
Short of snapping my foot fusion, or breaking my leg, which has not quite happened yet, I had a horrible day with my lateral transfers. If someone had sat me down when I was 23 and said "Liberty is going to destroy every hope and aspiration you have," I would have snorted with incredulity, just like you probably sneer at my posts in the same manner, but they did. I am not going to be able rub Aladdin's Lamp and marvel at miracle magic.
Do Britains themselves remember that their military used to be efficient and even ruthless? Not that I expect Elizabeth to suddenly recalibrate her decorative, if sovereign authority over the isles, but if I had Cameron's ear, I would publicly execute these suspects as no better than rabid dogs, and I mean publicly, in the centre of London if need be, after two days of watching video of these ethnic Nigerians behaving no better than if they indeed had a rabies infection, a more than glaring example of how we have outpaced ourselves, how diversity backfires, and how medieval norms seem to insist on cohabitation within a digital age. I used to believe that juxtapositions such as these events were merely literary conceits, merging post-modernism, futurist techniques, but it is another thing entirely to be living amid such disconcerting savagery, and I am not entirely blameless there. Then again, neither are you.
The fact that these attacks are increasingly shallow and cosmetic illustrates how efficient western military technology has been against Al Qaeda, but I cannot imagine even an old and comforting militia like the I.R.A. engaging in such barbaric cowardice that these two Londoners exhibited, and to publicly shame them in a ritualized hanging might do the body politic some good, *Christian* and *Islamic* alike.
Short of snapping my foot fusion, or breaking my leg, which has not quite happened yet, I had a horrible day with my lateral transfers. If someone had sat me down when I was 23 and said "Liberty is going to destroy every hope and aspiration you have," I would have snorted with incredulity, just like you probably sneer at my posts in the same manner, but they did. I am not going to be able rub Aladdin's Lamp and marvel at miracle magic.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Folic Acid
Already [t]he film, and not just Louisa’s husband, seems to feel that childbearing is a woman’s paradigmatic work, wheres a man's is to create great art--Nick Davis
I have to go downtown this morning, and thus I am trying to take it easy with sinuses that have been on the flare for three weeks, angry at myself for putting myself back into an informal course curriculum, anger stemming from the fact that I am going to be dead soon and Ulysses is not the detective game I wanted to play; astonished to discover this degree of antipathy in myself toward the text, this is more than the folly of my immersion with Jerry. I really don't like Joyce, and although I am a failure and now too weakened to do much about that, it makes little sense that a great author such as this pisses me off, another detective game in itself.
I do not know if Sheldon Novick is upset with me. I don't know if Jerry is upset with me either, but Jerry is memory, and Sheldon is an accomplished Jamesian who told me I could accept a gift, and wrote, many years ago, "to my friend," and now maybe he regrets the appellation, maybe not. The alliance mattered, perhaps out of a mutually shared sentiment, his being better disciplined, of course, and mine more disruptive, angst ridden, that James was a romantic optimist, of a sort.
If I have lost the association with Sheldon, this is part of the price of intellectual ferocity whose only achievement has been to get my minority landlord wardens to back off, which isn't much (and yes, I slur them, going off like gun powder, but have to remember who outnumbers whom in this city), but I am sorry to lose it just the same. He is a good man whose nature is not one to see psychic hell on earth as a place of fortitude from which to argue.
I used to feel guilty using slurs of a certain kind. Not anymore. Why do I tell you that? Is this symptomatic of mental erosion? Or in part the honesty of my resentment of having to cope with a plethora of black anti-social behaviors, and, unlike some of you, I am trapped, and have not the slightest way out, of not dealing with them again in the future. My brother would not want any of my minority attendants in his home, but day in and day out I have to cope with it, their insolence, unwillingness to keep to an agreed upon schedule, and those are the small annoyances that do not threaten my personal safety. I do not want to die at the hands of black negligence or black violence, but the odds are about as good as Oxbow's that I will fall before one or the other.
I paid attention to the Preakness on NBC sports because it is a world I do not know, with a pageantry beholden to a fictionalized notion of American aristocracy, one that would have eroded even if Lincoln had managed to avert the civil war. I laughed at it, old men with old money running herd animals on race tracks. Will computer simulations one day become horses?
I have to go downtown this morning, and thus I am trying to take it easy with sinuses that have been on the flare for three weeks, angry at myself for putting myself back into an informal course curriculum, anger stemming from the fact that I am going to be dead soon and Ulysses is not the detective game I wanted to play; astonished to discover this degree of antipathy in myself toward the text, this is more than the folly of my immersion with Jerry. I really don't like Joyce, and although I am a failure and now too weakened to do much about that, it makes little sense that a great author such as this pisses me off, another detective game in itself.
I do not know if Sheldon Novick is upset with me. I don't know if Jerry is upset with me either, but Jerry is memory, and Sheldon is an accomplished Jamesian who told me I could accept a gift, and wrote, many years ago, "to my friend," and now maybe he regrets the appellation, maybe not. The alliance mattered, perhaps out of a mutually shared sentiment, his being better disciplined, of course, and mine more disruptive, angst ridden, that James was a romantic optimist, of a sort.
If I have lost the association with Sheldon, this is part of the price of intellectual ferocity whose only achievement has been to get my minority landlord wardens to back off, which isn't much (and yes, I slur them, going off like gun powder, but have to remember who outnumbers whom in this city), but I am sorry to lose it just the same. He is a good man whose nature is not one to see psychic hell on earth as a place of fortitude from which to argue.
I used to feel guilty using slurs of a certain kind. Not anymore. Why do I tell you that? Is this symptomatic of mental erosion? Or in part the honesty of my resentment of having to cope with a plethora of black anti-social behaviors, and, unlike some of you, I am trapped, and have not the slightest way out, of not dealing with them again in the future. My brother would not want any of my minority attendants in his home, but day in and day out I have to cope with it, their insolence, unwillingness to keep to an agreed upon schedule, and those are the small annoyances that do not threaten my personal safety. I do not want to die at the hands of black negligence or black violence, but the odds are about as good as Oxbow's that I will fall before one or the other.
I paid attention to the Preakness on NBC sports because it is a world I do not know, with a pageantry beholden to a fictionalized notion of American aristocracy, one that would have eroded even if Lincoln had managed to avert the civil war. I laughed at it, old men with old money running herd animals on race tracks. Will computer simulations one day become horses?
What Are The Seven Deadly Without Pixar?
The central argument of the 2006 Monster House is moral disapproval of gluttony will come back to bite you on the ass, and that Kathleen Turner is no longer the prospective fuck of the century for Danny DeVito. How astute Zemeckis and Spielberg are about the less than pleasant truths behind the creation of mega mall America is something I am still pondering, in terms of the genre with which they are most comfortable subverting our own look at ourselves. The punk Zee and Bones are the contemporary corruptions, perhaps the conclusions of, the beatnik era. Where else can you go after the cataclysmic failure of the sixties but into a lampoon of American drug culture, and its ethnic counterpart as the residue of identity politics? Why does Nick Cannon's Lester believe the kids initially? Because blacks know a thing or two about paranoia and survival.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Stymied
Few of Joyce's books appear on the Irish school curriculum. His play "Exiles" has not been performed in Dublin for many years. His poetry is almost unknown in his homeland, and "Ulysses" is widely regarded in Ireland as an impenetrable and pretentious folly (which, in parts, it magnificently is). Joseph O'Conner for WSJ
The Hill County Farms case illustrates the loathsome underbelly of the American welfare state, that small pockets of our country are no better than dangerously disintegrated communities in Somalia. I do not care what your politics are. I do not care if I have raised more than a few eyebrows with the depth of my internalized scars. I do not care if Angelina Jolie forms a Tinseltown Exploratory Committee and wins all 50 states in a landslide in 2016, this horrifying instance of slavery is why I hate you, why, if you are of African ancestry and I have hurt your feelings, you have nothing to say to me, and why if you are a homosexual, I'd wire your mouth shut sooner than pay you a farthing in respect, and why, if you are white and suburban with your two children, what these men had to suffer is the fault of your despicable self-interest, and why, if you are a disability center consumer, you're deluding yourself. Next to the conditions these men endured my poverty is rich, but I have seen situations that do not leave much in the lack of imagination in terms of a crumbling existence that the least of ant colonies would not endure.
You see this story as an aberration. To me it's civilization's end, just beginning.
There are very few active Joyce forums online. I joined a Joyce serv akin to the James list model that hasn't seen a post since 2007, driven in my bid to find out to the degree possible how much of James Joyce had read before 1922. Bloomsday makes me wrinkle my nose and avert my gaze, as if I had caught sight of my brother's dead hamster in the basement, drowned and floating. I do not really wish to read a fucking passage of Ulysses on June 16th. Charming Lance asked me if I would be well enough, if I wished to; no doubt I shall. The exercise and celebration is pointless.
The Hill County Farms case illustrates the loathsome underbelly of the American welfare state, that small pockets of our country are no better than dangerously disintegrated communities in Somalia. I do not care what your politics are. I do not care if I have raised more than a few eyebrows with the depth of my internalized scars. I do not care if Angelina Jolie forms a Tinseltown Exploratory Committee and wins all 50 states in a landslide in 2016, this horrifying instance of slavery is why I hate you, why, if you are of African ancestry and I have hurt your feelings, you have nothing to say to me, and why if you are a homosexual, I'd wire your mouth shut sooner than pay you a farthing in respect, and why, if you are white and suburban with your two children, what these men had to suffer is the fault of your despicable self-interest, and why, if you are a disability center consumer, you're deluding yourself. Next to the conditions these men endured my poverty is rich, but I have seen situations that do not leave much in the lack of imagination in terms of a crumbling existence that the least of ant colonies would not endure.
You see this story as an aberration. To me it's civilization's end, just beginning.
There are very few active Joyce forums online. I joined a Joyce serv akin to the James list model that hasn't seen a post since 2007, driven in my bid to find out to the degree possible how much of James Joyce had read before 1922. Bloomsday makes me wrinkle my nose and avert my gaze, as if I had caught sight of my brother's dead hamster in the basement, drowned and floating. I do not really wish to read a fucking passage of Ulysses on June 16th. Charming Lance asked me if I would be well enough, if I wished to; no doubt I shall. The exercise and celebration is pointless.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Angel Gabriel Mews
"I'm shrinking."--Gina Torres
Thought I recognized Barnes Tobias from the cop out Apocalypse season of The Supernatural in the Fromage episode. Human enough still that this studio manufactured violence begins to take its toll, as if Dacy is our moral Mobius strip without a booth barrier, I have to back off from some of this, and I am dropping Kevin Bacon and his embodiment of Ryan Hardy, pondering my befuddled interrogative on why Hannibal kills his patient in this episode. Out of mercy? Because he seems conflicted in this teleplay, engaging in predatory measuring up against a rival, only beating Tobias to the punch because he could not protect Freddy?
Even if I wished, I simply do not have the time to read how Harris gave Lecter the interior rationalizations that Fuller paints on video.
Both The Following and Hannibal deploy a gaming theory, an inside wink, as it were, the former a parody on zealotry, the latter offering up more effective subversive suggestions on the nature of a cosmopolitan lifestyle. To what end I am not sure.
If we can see this as an unqualified endorsement, however, let me make NBC and Amazon happy: I do not know how long I can hold the line, but in that holding, I intend to buy every season of Hannibal.
The power of art. I am allowed a cliche in convalescence.
Oh, to pull a Prospero memory lapse, I did catch Little Man Tate, and believe I saw it before and must have forgotten. Another day.
Thought I recognized Barnes Tobias from the cop out Apocalypse season of The Supernatural in the Fromage episode. Human enough still that this studio manufactured violence begins to take its toll, as if Dacy is our moral Mobius strip without a booth barrier, I have to back off from some of this, and I am dropping Kevin Bacon and his embodiment of Ryan Hardy, pondering my befuddled interrogative on why Hannibal kills his patient in this episode. Out of mercy? Because he seems conflicted in this teleplay, engaging in predatory measuring up against a rival, only beating Tobias to the punch because he could not protect Freddy?
Even if I wished, I simply do not have the time to read how Harris gave Lecter the interior rationalizations that Fuller paints on video.
Both The Following and Hannibal deploy a gaming theory, an inside wink, as it were, the former a parody on zealotry, the latter offering up more effective subversive suggestions on the nature of a cosmopolitan lifestyle. To what end I am not sure.
If we can see this as an unqualified endorsement, however, let me make NBC and Amazon happy: I do not know how long I can hold the line, but in that holding, I intend to buy every season of Hannibal.
The power of art. I am allowed a cliche in convalescence.
Oh, to pull a Prospero memory lapse, I did catch Little Man Tate, and believe I saw it before and must have forgotten. Another day.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Postman Always Rings Twice?
"Stop being a wuss." The American idiom.
Yes, the half dead cripple down a ways from Harvard's faculty offices upbraided the merry Niall Ferguson. WTF do I know about Keynesian stimulus and aggregate demand? Not nothing, but also not very much, and the reason for this is a very studied winner, on or around the time of Gerard Debreu, won the Nobel in economics for the radical assertion of "doing nothing" to manage free markets.
But let me deconstruct what Niall meant, in a revisionist sensibility: Keynes was a repressed homosexual and this therefore this influenced his lack of optimism in bust cycles; it may not be true, but Ferguson was acknowledging difference, and goodness forbid. Pink camels like Manuel read their public the riot act on the hidden genocidal impetus toward gays. This is poppy cock. I befriended a number of gay individuals Manuel, and not all of them intended me psychological harm, but many of these people hurt me, and then they wander off. Niall is not blaming Keynes for the great recession, only asserting that Keynesian lack of optimism came from a darkened well spring. This assertion may be contended, and is, vigorously, but it is not an observation made out of hate.
Me? I am asserting that my personal experiences created the hate, and that the hatred is justified. I simply haven't expounded on what this means, since I do not believe extermination in any measure is viable. Murder may be liberating, but it also consumes a significant amount of energy to conceal, and has no geopolitical justification.
Neither does subsistence, however, which, like my latest spring head cold, threatens to envelop me, and that is in some measure my fault, with lack of post-graduate completion, but not entirely, as I have always known I wasn't healthy enough to field an average teaching load. Hence maybe I wasn't wrong not to accrue more debt. But you have no idea what it's like; you cannot.
The majority of babies born disabled should be euthanized. Oral history informs that I fought for my life, and surprise. If someone had shown me what my life would be, would my premature struggle had been so adamant?
Yes, the half dead cripple down a ways from Harvard's faculty offices upbraided the merry Niall Ferguson. WTF do I know about Keynesian stimulus and aggregate demand? Not nothing, but also not very much, and the reason for this is a very studied winner, on or around the time of Gerard Debreu, won the Nobel in economics for the radical assertion of "doing nothing" to manage free markets.
But let me deconstruct what Niall meant, in a revisionist sensibility: Keynes was a repressed homosexual and this therefore this influenced his lack of optimism in bust cycles; it may not be true, but Ferguson was acknowledging difference, and goodness forbid. Pink camels like Manuel read their public the riot act on the hidden genocidal impetus toward gays. This is poppy cock. I befriended a number of gay individuals Manuel, and not all of them intended me psychological harm, but many of these people hurt me, and then they wander off. Niall is not blaming Keynes for the great recession, only asserting that Keynesian lack of optimism came from a darkened well spring. This assertion may be contended, and is, vigorously, but it is not an observation made out of hate.
Me? I am asserting that my personal experiences created the hate, and that the hatred is justified. I simply haven't expounded on what this means, since I do not believe extermination in any measure is viable. Murder may be liberating, but it also consumes a significant amount of energy to conceal, and has no geopolitical justification.
Neither does subsistence, however, which, like my latest spring head cold, threatens to envelop me, and that is in some measure my fault, with lack of post-graduate completion, but not entirely, as I have always known I wasn't healthy enough to field an average teaching load. Hence maybe I wasn't wrong not to accrue more debt. But you have no idea what it's like; you cannot.
The majority of babies born disabled should be euthanized. Oral history informs that I fought for my life, and surprise. If someone had shown me what my life would be, would my premature struggle had been so adamant?
Sunday, May 12, 2013
An "Oh Christ" moment
I try avoid chasing every issue in a blog post, and I know who Keynes is without being fluent on his conservative theories, but the fact that the new equality of homosexuality has to send a man like Ferguson into a tailspin points to why I have paid my price to be offensive. Skidelsky veers off into futurist theory of the kind the raises its time honored head every time the free market goes bust, and this is not a concern to dismiss, but my concern is what this species is doing to itself every time science offers it a biological rationale to say barriers need erosion.
Opprobrium does not change what impressions offer up to our private judgments: Niall Ferguson is more important (or more accurately, more prominent) than I am, and no doubt many thousands of others, because he succeeds in an equally important institutional environment that processes data in such a way as to engage our perspectives on social function, degrees of affluence, the lack of it, and in the doctor's case in particular, how past discoveries inform our present.
Perhaps Keynes cynicism on economic models in a downturn had nothing to do with orientation, but group think castigation against an off color, possibly lazy segue, is a load of bull dung in a sinkhole. World population pressures, and innovations surrounding that, are beginning to outpace vast sectors of human labor that used to be important, and if the shit isn't hitting the fan now, it well might into the next millennium. People like me are a case in point, state invested, educated, and useless, and this is in the developed world, where we are forbidden to discuss uselessness and the human animal because no one wants to be charged with a hate crime.
Opprobrium does not change what impressions offer up to our private judgments: Niall Ferguson is more important (or more accurately, more prominent) than I am, and no doubt many thousands of others, because he succeeds in an equally important institutional environment that processes data in such a way as to engage our perspectives on social function, degrees of affluence, the lack of it, and in the doctor's case in particular, how past discoveries inform our present.
Perhaps Keynes cynicism on economic models in a downturn had nothing to do with orientation, but group think castigation against an off color, possibly lazy segue, is a load of bull dung in a sinkhole. World population pressures, and innovations surrounding that, are beginning to outpace vast sectors of human labor that used to be important, and if the shit isn't hitting the fan now, it well might into the next millennium. People like me are a case in point, state invested, educated, and useless, and this is in the developed world, where we are forbidden to discuss uselessness and the human animal because no one wants to be charged with a hate crime.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Wicked Men
Dear Joanne,
Thank you for contacting my office. I appreciate your taking the time to share your thoughts about current issues. Please be assured that constituent correspondence will receive a reply in the near future. Pat Toomey
Thank you for contacting my office. I appreciate your taking the time to share your thoughts about current issues. Please be assured that constituent correspondence will receive a reply in the near future. Pat Toomey
Thursday evening a crisis ensued with cupboard bare of tins, and when I returned Friday morning at nine lady iguana leapt onto my thigh and stood, in need of reassurance against abandon, and I cursed my heart, one that loves these children too much and yet after a lifetime of dead felines and an inability to save myself perhaps coming down the turn off on Baltimore Pike, underneath all this I am a regular smoe that mourns her few authentic friendships. They are gone, and all I have left is a battle that takes a bull headed obstinacy to wage, an embarrassment at my temper, an exposure to more indignity, like Biden repeating "pubic hair in a coke" in the Anita Hill fiasco.
I never understood Hill then, but I understand the pain of hostile environments, friends and colleagues belittling, turning on you with snide and disparaging epithets. Castro is our newest pariah, the new "monster." But these residential imprisonments are common among the lowest urban social castes. Sordid, like little Affleck tearing down Morgan Freeman one plank at a time. Oh, even I shut Ariel off, and debate donating to the women in their trauma, but it is exactly through the process of not being willing to open your eyes that notorious horrors like this happen. Castro will be murdered in prison if not in due process of justice, but he is human. The worst kind, sadistic, devoid and beyond redemption.
When I wrote "I wanted Christopher Dorner to win," I understood the 31 page views, the gawk, is she really crippled? How can she mean that? Like a raw, vibrating lash, and yes, even through he was wrong, and seriously eroded his own case by killing the daughter, I had hoped to see in him a defiant liberator, victorious against a modern malaise represented by filth like Castro. Tamerlan Tsarnaev, by contrast, was a cosmetic zealot in the vein that Biden meant it during his speech for the fallen officer, and crashed American psychoses with bad manners; fine tuning my dark discriminations.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Catharsis Resolution
In the aftermath of the bombing, I wrote that I felt pity for Jadar Tsarnaev, and that still holds true despite my anger at Mueller's lack of proficiency. I pity Tamerlan's corpse even while home grown outrage flows in my veins, veins desirous of expatriation and powerless to effect this transition. (Ah, I blaspheme for this dream) I have always been one of those annoying tight asses. Never cheated, never swindled, and this city of my birth has done absolutely nothing but punish me for my efforts to be a straight arrow. My anger may be concentrated on Linda's utter lack of consideration for the games she plays with our limited lives, my former supervisor, but this state insurer is a criminal enterprise, and the suffering Keystone cost me in 2007 when they dropped me after I lost Medicaid cannot be undone. I anticipated cuts in benefits after my mother died and did not care, as I wanted to resume my career, but I did not foresee that Medicare would kill me in order to protect itself from the fact that I depend on durable, functioning power chairs. Krugman, or John the Baptist with a .222 scope rifle, likes to point out that 60% of US healthcare is already socialized medicine, but leaves it to Keifer to fight veterans administration medicine regulatory overload in typical Hollywood point guard fashion.
The punishment my body absorbed from state retraction and federal compliance protections cannot be undone. It may be biopsied, and may be treatable, and may even be partly related to the fact that I am a feline pin cushion, but it can not be undone without impairing me to a point of questionable helplessness, and then the mighty mice progressives wonder at my lack of civility when minority rubes surround me in my doorway with the threat of making me someone else's problem. This is how the Presbyterian protestant exploitation deploys itself in the name of good works?
Putting young Jadar to death solves nothing. American autonomous notions remain threatened, however illusory they may be in fact, regardless of whether or not young Tsarnaev's lethal injection, if it comes to that, emerges as a ludicrous telecast on Good Morning America, so what does the administration of justice ever truly achieve? Have McVeigh's victims been able to heal? Are they satisfied or does our home bred insurrectionist haunt them?
What we hope for, I think, is the retraction of the corruption, and if I can pass away knowing that I have curbed the worst excesses of this segregationist model, I will at least have some measure of peace, even as I search for a new support network. I could try becoming the Rosenbach loon, having finally written their name, but wouldn't that be a test of secular tolerance.
I opened up with the group a little at our last meet, now that closure is coming. They are not so bad. Don't faint. I'll retype it if you want me to reaffirm the majority bipedal species can actually be tolerable.
The punishment my body absorbed from state retraction and federal compliance protections cannot be undone. It may be biopsied, and may be treatable, and may even be partly related to the fact that I am a feline pin cushion, but it can not be undone without impairing me to a point of questionable helplessness, and then the mighty mice progressives wonder at my lack of civility when minority rubes surround me in my doorway with the threat of making me someone else's problem. This is how the Presbyterian protestant exploitation deploys itself in the name of good works?
Putting young Jadar to death solves nothing. American autonomous notions remain threatened, however illusory they may be in fact, regardless of whether or not young Tsarnaev's lethal injection, if it comes to that, emerges as a ludicrous telecast on Good Morning America, so what does the administration of justice ever truly achieve? Have McVeigh's victims been able to heal? Are they satisfied or does our home bred insurrectionist haunt them?
What we hope for, I think, is the retraction of the corruption, and if I can pass away knowing that I have curbed the worst excesses of this segregationist model, I will at least have some measure of peace, even as I search for a new support network. I could try becoming the Rosenbach loon, having finally written their name, but wouldn't that be a test of secular tolerance.
I opened up with the group a little at our last meet, now that closure is coming. They are not so bad. Don't faint. I'll retype it if you want me to reaffirm the majority bipedal species can actually be tolerable.
Mafioso Googliia!
Only in America can a quadriplegic rewrite Highsmith in real time while her corporate handlers siphon what profits they can off her flaking epidermis while she subsists in entitlement bondage and her right wing aunt wants her to simply give in to the welfare state. If Google will not allow me to utilize my AdSense account on Blogger because my posts are indicative of potentially disturbing signals, it isn't so much a question of what I can or cannot do about it, as it is an issue that I cannot access any technical support to repair the problem. I suspect Google itself is a conspiracy at this point, not manned by human agents at all in their quest for efficiency.
I executed today in relatively good sequence, but, as with old Tommy, I am still past my prime. Perhaps you believe my need for justice is callow. I'd agree with you, except for one thing. Putting justice on a glider because no one cares about the apartheid of independent living centers leads to horrific injustices, such as Danieal's starvation and suspects like Ariel. I cannot rely on my family, I cannot trust the activists who lead in Philadelphia not to keep me from turning into another sordid statistic. I already know I cannot rely on you, but if I can rouse the smallest civic conscious of engagement to stay alert on those tracks, maybe we can challenge worthwhile paradigms and move on from trivial pursuit.
I executed today in relatively good sequence, but, as with old Tommy, I am still past my prime. Perhaps you believe my need for justice is callow. I'd agree with you, except for one thing. Putting justice on a glider because no one cares about the apartheid of independent living centers leads to horrific injustices, such as Danieal's starvation and suspects like Ariel. I cannot rely on my family, I cannot trust the activists who lead in Philadelphia not to keep me from turning into another sordid statistic. I already know I cannot rely on you, but if I can rouse the smallest civic conscious of engagement to stay alert on those tracks, maybe we can challenge worthwhile paradigms and move on from trivial pursuit.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Nautica
The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora cavernosa to rapidly dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis--Ulysses, page 289
Joyce and his whore house venereal disease, saved by a chambermaid. According to this sensibility I should have seen Frank and his spic Bronx survival skills as a blessing, this from an ex-fiance who only told me later that he had bee exposed to the herpes virus and that he nearly asphyxiated the cousin wife who left him, and yes, I turn back to him, but only because of our history, however negative. "I cannot become like you!" I rage, and this is cruel to his pus laden flesh, never even started the murder mystery where his killer remains undetected because I do not know how to break off closure for a killer who is not caught, a Hannibal of my own. How much trophy fucking Bryan Fuller must be able to tap. Blows a kiss. Television is growing up. Bryan baby you've just got it down man.
I do not know if I would not kill Linda for real, given her illegal humiliation from which I have (obviously), never fully recovered. If you want to know what in part prevented me from filing with the EEOC, I wrote to her that "I'd like to kill you." And I was afraid the government would not take my case. The statement encapsulates the lack of restraint; 14 years ago it was an idiomatic outlash written out of hurt, anger. In no way literal then, now I am not sure, quite honestly. Poor little crip joint, it would not take much for me to beat her clock, drive to Liberty, start what would amount to an illegal confrontation, and thus force a change in my life, getting myself arrested because of incompetent case management, interpersonal cruelty that only she and I remember, except that she left it behind, the sociopathic weasel who complies with her leash as long as her seniority is respected.
Think you need to put me back on probtheme? Well, if that day ever comes, I will not announce my plans beforehand. Missed Little Man Tate this afternoon, unfortunately, because I am not done with Foster's importance to my thematic intent.
I invested far too much in my iconic sensibility toward Linda, but it mattered because she was the only woman ever like me who wielded power. I tried to follow her example and the price tag wound up too traumatic. I did not follow through on the belief of my instructors either and if I am still a functional journalist?
Linda's response to you about these issues would be, aside from pointing out the anxiety in my transmissions, generated by knowledge that default would be a nightmare from which I could not escape, is that she fobbed me off on her dead coordinator Gil, who in turn fobbed me off on his local actress associate from painted bride. This amounts to additional insult onto injury, no more or less than that. What Linda did doesn't rise to the level of a sexual harassment case, not if President Clinton could drop his pants in front of Jones and get away with it, which he did; I was the party engaged in the urgency of communique, as well.
But my economic security was in jeopardy, and for eight months she treated me like her own personal Igor, and subsequently made it impossible for me to utilize Liberty without continuing to salt the wounds of what had become an abusive paradigm, and I have not been able to remove myself from it since-- how would you feel with this level of helplessness in a barren environment?
Trying to swallow broken glass. An inmate at Bellevue survived this; a vegetable, tube in his stomach, if memory serves.
Joyce and his whore house venereal disease, saved by a chambermaid. According to this sensibility I should have seen Frank and his spic Bronx survival skills as a blessing, this from an ex-fiance who only told me later that he had bee exposed to the herpes virus and that he nearly asphyxiated the cousin wife who left him, and yes, I turn back to him, but only because of our history, however negative. "I cannot become like you!" I rage, and this is cruel to his pus laden flesh, never even started the murder mystery where his killer remains undetected because I do not know how to break off closure for a killer who is not caught, a Hannibal of my own. How much trophy fucking Bryan Fuller must be able to tap. Blows a kiss. Television is growing up. Bryan baby you've just got it down man.
I do not know if I would not kill Linda for real, given her illegal humiliation from which I have (obviously), never fully recovered. If you want to know what in part prevented me from filing with the EEOC, I wrote to her that "I'd like to kill you." And I was afraid the government would not take my case. The statement encapsulates the lack of restraint; 14 years ago it was an idiomatic outlash written out of hurt, anger. In no way literal then, now I am not sure, quite honestly. Poor little crip joint, it would not take much for me to beat her clock, drive to Liberty, start what would amount to an illegal confrontation, and thus force a change in my life, getting myself arrested because of incompetent case management, interpersonal cruelty that only she and I remember, except that she left it behind, the sociopathic weasel who complies with her leash as long as her seniority is respected.
Think you need to put me back on probtheme? Well, if that day ever comes, I will not announce my plans beforehand. Missed Little Man Tate this afternoon, unfortunately, because I am not done with Foster's importance to my thematic intent.
I invested far too much in my iconic sensibility toward Linda, but it mattered because she was the only woman ever like me who wielded power. I tried to follow her example and the price tag wound up too traumatic. I did not follow through on the belief of my instructors either and if I am still a functional journalist?
Linda's response to you about these issues would be, aside from pointing out the anxiety in my transmissions, generated by knowledge that default would be a nightmare from which I could not escape, is that she fobbed me off on her dead coordinator Gil, who in turn fobbed me off on his local actress associate from painted bride. This amounts to additional insult onto injury, no more or less than that. What Linda did doesn't rise to the level of a sexual harassment case, not if President Clinton could drop his pants in front of Jones and get away with it, which he did; I was the party engaged in the urgency of communique, as well.
But my economic security was in jeopardy, and for eight months she treated me like her own personal Igor, and subsequently made it impossible for me to utilize Liberty without continuing to salt the wounds of what had become an abusive paradigm, and I have not been able to remove myself from it since-- how would you feel with this level of helplessness in a barren environment?
Brown Nose
John has a good memory-- Erik von Schmetterling, before he lost his
After I was banned from this online community portal, circa 2002, I spiraled downward in Yahoo Groups, and unsubcribed from the atheist community after a time. Posting like a blackguard wasn't exactly home cooked meatloaf with mash potatoes. I have not crossed any boundaries with this non-fiction community, one of the few very active on which I remain, because I cannot keep up with their reading pace, and do not post often, and this is how I have marked my existence rolling from my bed to this desk for 15 years, give or take: who bans my account, who doesn't, which communities I leave voluntarily.
My health is beginning to fail-- not the best case scenario for sticking my anguish inside of how Joyce utilized his lack of balance crammed into one evening, unintended double entendre as this is. Joyce crams deconstructions, and I crammed over three hundred pages, now find myself disoriented, trying to relocate my gravitational center and mitigate my need to freak fuck myself into a stroke. I read all night at the desk, dressed at nine and drove my blocks in somewhat somnolent states of being Rather dramatic way to rediscover my analytic decline, that I am not a student anymore; the goal is close, I am nearly finished with Ulysses, the sordid reflection of Leopold's Dublin like the crack in my psyche: if I stay with this landlord through this summer I am as good as dead, and if I give my notice this is tantamount to no more than executing the sentence.
The people with cerebral palsy with whom I live basically horrify me and I have little to say to those like the Gladhandler, or Sherry, with her happy retardation, and the ablests? They will listen, give or take, to my brutalized indignation, but how viable I remain among them is an unspoken question, how realistic it is for me to remain defiant.
The guy with the glasses who lets me in to the group, almost over now, is still good looking to my unloved trollop within.
It's been a wonderful life.
After I was banned from this online community portal, circa 2002, I spiraled downward in Yahoo Groups, and unsubcribed from the atheist community after a time. Posting like a blackguard wasn't exactly home cooked meatloaf with mash potatoes. I have not crossed any boundaries with this non-fiction community, one of the few very active on which I remain, because I cannot keep up with their reading pace, and do not post often, and this is how I have marked my existence rolling from my bed to this desk for 15 years, give or take: who bans my account, who doesn't, which communities I leave voluntarily.
My health is beginning to fail-- not the best case scenario for sticking my anguish inside of how Joyce utilized his lack of balance crammed into one evening, unintended double entendre as this is. Joyce crams deconstructions, and I crammed over three hundred pages, now find myself disoriented, trying to relocate my gravitational center and mitigate my need to freak fuck myself into a stroke. I read all night at the desk, dressed at nine and drove my blocks in somewhat somnolent states of being Rather dramatic way to rediscover my analytic decline, that I am not a student anymore; the goal is close, I am nearly finished with Ulysses, the sordid reflection of Leopold's Dublin like the crack in my psyche: if I stay with this landlord through this summer I am as good as dead, and if I give my notice this is tantamount to no more than executing the sentence.
The people with cerebral palsy with whom I live basically horrify me and I have little to say to those like the Gladhandler, or Sherry, with her happy retardation, and the ablests? They will listen, give or take, to my brutalized indignation, but how viable I remain among them is an unspoken question, how realistic it is for me to remain defiant.
The guy with the glasses who lets me in to the group, almost over now, is still good looking to my unloved trollop within.
It's been a wonderful life.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Arcane Limey
Pressed for time this evening. Barreling through the hardest part to get done with this damned revolution that is now standard academic static. Need to finish so I can return to my own concerns, but am I glad I did this? No. Simulating the return to class has not made me healthier or more optimistic. I could not even move to the neighborhood where the museum is located, which, if I could, would make me healthier and more optimistic. Am I glad I discovered the museum? Perhaps I enjoy the association with their archivist, but this is where I can use the help of any Joycean enthusiast:
I am trying to ascertain how familiar James Joyce was with the work of Henry James, specifically if there is any proof that Joyce read the James novella What Maisie Knew without spending 5,000 hours researching the question. I did ask the Jamesians and I suppose off hand none of them knew. Does James Joyce offer any evidence in his letters? I will take any biographical testimony any Joycean could point me to, either in affirmation or negation.
I am trying to ascertain how familiar James Joyce was with the work of Henry James, specifically if there is any proof that Joyce read the James novella What Maisie Knew without spending 5,000 hours researching the question. I did ask the Jamesians and I suppose off hand none of them knew. Does James Joyce offer any evidence in his letters? I will take any biographical testimony any Joycean could point me to, either in affirmation or negation.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Mrs. Iselin, Stockholm Perfectionist
Zamyatin's detractors in the Soviet Union might have been wicked men, but they were not stupid, and no one believed that a Russian We had been reconstituted out of a Czech translation..." Clarence Brown, translator, kindle location 120
Evan Perez, in the heat of the moment, does not care to reflect on when the Federal Bureau of Investigation cared to follow the letter of the law? Under the biracial nanny czar, if rumored revisionists are to be believed? Mueller made a few missteps with both anthrax suspects after 9/11, leading Hatfill to a nearly three million dollar settlement, and then miscalculating Dr. Ivins durability to the point that the public will never have criminal veracity tested through due process.
Granted, Hatfill and Ivin were both beneficiaries of western knowledge production, and had dangerous levels of expertise. Tamerlan was someone generated out of Stalinist oppression, whether or not he was aware of it before he struck out at an American liberalism that tried to give him a chance in a more free flowing society that is only free to those able to drive, those able to maintain geographical mobility, those able to generate income.
Whatever Hoover had buried in terms of personal secrets, he would not have allowed Tamarlan Tsarnaev back into the United States, and this is the level of difference we seemingly have forgotten how to determine. It may have been unkind to revoke his Visa, or pull his passport, but it would not have amounted to torture, not while we parried with Alexander's agents to get them to show their cards, and they had cards to play.
A waking nightmare about Obama being targeted by a black woman wearing a wig started me thinking about when a candidate is in charge and when they aren't. I do not take such dreams literally, but do not ignore them either, and Condon's late century thriller about stand ins and doubles was no doubt a slap in the face to Hoover's paranoia, but what was Mrs. Iselin's portraiture, really? Communist? Right wing?
What she is amounts to the certainty of conviction that runs so deep it frightens, and in the right hands, perhaps fascinates, and necessitated that the film adaptation was so rigidly schematic, because, much like other late Ike era narratives, the anxiety over the line between American muscle against Marxist radical leveling made people uneasy, and even Sinatra couldn't sanitize those who would be forever altered by Stockholm syndromes. Not quite brain washing, but certainly a psychological indoctrination of the kind that leaves deep scars.
Evan Perez, in the heat of the moment, does not care to reflect on when the Federal Bureau of Investigation cared to follow the letter of the law? Under the biracial nanny czar, if rumored revisionists are to be believed? Mueller made a few missteps with both anthrax suspects after 9/11, leading Hatfill to a nearly three million dollar settlement, and then miscalculating Dr. Ivins durability to the point that the public will never have criminal veracity tested through due process.
Granted, Hatfill and Ivin were both beneficiaries of western knowledge production, and had dangerous levels of expertise. Tamerlan was someone generated out of Stalinist oppression, whether or not he was aware of it before he struck out at an American liberalism that tried to give him a chance in a more free flowing society that is only free to those able to drive, those able to maintain geographical mobility, those able to generate income.
Whatever Hoover had buried in terms of personal secrets, he would not have allowed Tamarlan Tsarnaev back into the United States, and this is the level of difference we seemingly have forgotten how to determine. It may have been unkind to revoke his Visa, or pull his passport, but it would not have amounted to torture, not while we parried with Alexander's agents to get them to show their cards, and they had cards to play.
A waking nightmare about Obama being targeted by a black woman wearing a wig started me thinking about when a candidate is in charge and when they aren't. I do not take such dreams literally, but do not ignore them either, and Condon's late century thriller about stand ins and doubles was no doubt a slap in the face to Hoover's paranoia, but what was Mrs. Iselin's portraiture, really? Communist? Right wing?
What she is amounts to the certainty of conviction that runs so deep it frightens, and in the right hands, perhaps fascinates, and necessitated that the film adaptation was so rigidly schematic, because, much like other late Ike era narratives, the anxiety over the line between American muscle against Marxist radical leveling made people uneasy, and even Sinatra couldn't sanitize those who would be forever altered by Stockholm syndromes. Not quite brain washing, but certainly a psychological indoctrination of the kind that leaves deep scars.
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