Poop deck doxing

"There is nothing so dangerous as a woman with nothing left to lose."-- voice over narrator.

I recognize Caitlin's description of the problem of digital mob rule; its potential impact lurked in the background long before Spike Lee fell into an "I'm gonna get that sucka," mindset and posted the wrong address for his followers, with the resulting fallout. I am guilty of it myself, to the extent that even if my former disability center is lying about my former supervisor's departure, the sheer force of my emotional pain has had a significant dampening impact. Fortunately for you, I do not opine on Leelah/Joshua Alcorn's orientation. Not due to lack of courage, simply that it is news to me and I can't waddle out buffalo chips chasing every prairie fire, except to reiterate what I've conveyed before. Suicide is selfish. A select number of individuals may have no choice at the end of the day, but I have trouble believing that a 14 year old's suffering was so extreme that he/she had to punish his family with a irreversible solution. Look at the tenacity of Cosby's accusers, or genocide survivors. A didactic scold like Martin Amis isn't wrong about the strength of survivors, using his novel art to excavate fascism. (More on that another day, I have to tackle the pragmatics of post-European imperialism)

China's news agency put out the usual statistical factoid that 35 people died in riots on the mainland. I'm willing to bet John Lewis, as an Atlantic contributor, isn't in temple lighting incense for these 35-- my point being that today's activists should be as honest with their blinders as my generation is not.. My scapegoating exorcism occurred 15 years ago, and nothing has changed about the language as a whine of dependency. I do not wish to return to it, at least not as a protester. The world of IL is a subset, just as this Texas Monthly on Michelle Lyons is a subset, an oracle tableau of stark banality which is not really about the death penalty, because sometimes, there are no answers, and the European line in the sand over life imprisonment glosses over their parallel ethical morass in the worst cases. What Pamela is exploring is a subculture with its own price tag, creating its own expatriates.

It was posted to Writersblock by Venkat, and is the best long form article of 2014, receiving a staggering 8 votes. It may be read as a progressive victory in the wings, but there is always an undertow, a warning in those wings. Surviving is never quite the same when what has to be survived is overwhelming. How we vanish, it always has a ripple effect.

Name Recognition Genealogy

"No, he can't be on all the time," --Malaak Rock, in response to Oprah's query about comedy in the home.

When Malaak appeared on Oprah with her husband, the undercurrent of tension between Rock and wife was discernible. Malaak's reservations could be read in her face, her husband as passive as if he needed to be reigned in for premature ejaculation while she was calculating fortune and Chris's net worth as a bankable asset, and Rock's currency is obviously under threat of  hyperinflation.

In generational terms, why Rock has been successful as a comedian is a legitimate query. Bill Cosby may not be Mr. Clean, to recaption Joan's protest about the conspiracy of silence surrounding the allegations toppling the old man, but he did not devalue education, self-reliance. For those of a certain generational cast, permission to mourn is understandable. Rock, with Schneider behind him as a producer, disparaged higher education. What substance there was in Everybody Hates Chris was overwhelmed by clashing cymbals and Rock's high voice, always in an exasperated panic mode.

Not to say Rock is incapable of eliciting laughter from those who coast on C's, but who has a vested interest in keeping him in the public eye? His agent? His union? John Lewis? People like Coates? Why does Access Hollywood disseminate such innocuous articles about the B list?

Malaak was the matriarchal force in this spousal union, and when applied correctly, there is no harm in being chirpy. Many women relate to Winfrey's struggle with chips, but the emphasis here is on the level of correction. Why marry a frog who needs pyrotechnics to coax the caboose? Foiled against Freeman in Betty, a fugue state on overdrive, the bullied boy was passable. All Americans understand the juxtaposition of violence as one kind of economic capital against the subversive following of soap opera plots, but that was nearly 15 years ago.

I would not mind making friends with a woman like Joan Tarshis, in part because despite our experiences being exclusive to ourselves, my sympathy for her struggle to deal with her violation is intuitive. Multiply her rape allegations by 15, maybe 20, and then weigh venom in that context. 

Voyage of the Damned

"I'm going to kill that bitch!"-- Joanne Woodward, conventionalized fury

My efforts to work offline are thwarted, not because of turning in to a social media junkie, but because Karina so innocently obliterated my hard copy existence as a writer because I did not rush out of the bathroom naked to throttle the disconcerted dumbass, compounded by the fact that Presby has compounded my social fears to the ninth power, my revision files of all my mania driven poetry are basically gone, and many drafts were worth saving.

I'm starving, sick, back in indigence, and my life has been eradicated. I wanted to rewrite a complicated suburban piece, a poem about my mother's dyke friend, would be lover, and once, my second mom. I was attached to Kathy. I call her Kmac in here as much to shield my psyche from the depth of my intimacy with homosexuals, both unrealized and known alike (I knew Erik was gay when I hung out with him and Jimmi, but his vagina was news to me and when s/him told me, it was a rare instance when I nearly threw up in his face). As ridiculous as it is, I feel betrayed by Kathy Mac, feel that my childhood sanctity was destroyed by her sexual deceptions, and the few times my sister had her over after my mother's death, I made nice about bridging the gap, but knew the gap would remain, a permanent geological chasm. I cannot prove, but believe she had covert terminations, and most of my data has vanished, because I am browbeat by thick set domestics and snake-tongued prevaricating bulls with tits, my favorite fecal pair, Trudy and Debra. 

I am not the only writer and minimal author (barely one, I guess) to lose so much, but I'm not 35 anymore, and my sense of being threatened and continually overwhelmed is a non-stop conveyor belt. I used to love doing what I do, and Presbyterian Homes has been successful at one thing: leaving me in continual fear of my life. I had to leave Diamond Park, but Riverside had made me pay a high price for its eroding stability-- more inner city residents live here now than 20 years ago-- and another move is on we go, round and round.

Victor Mature Kills Kitty!

We've all seen the 49 film a million times. But today it reminded me how little time I spend on my work, and how much I hope that feline had a humane stunt double and that the carcass on the set was old, fake, and my own post-modern rendition of the jawbone with a jackass snapshot, rolling mafia Semitic bling all into one.

Cutbank rejected "With The Jawbone of A Jackass," but wrote "It made it past our first reader!," and I pulled the piece, rewriting it when not exhausting myself on mind games with google eye rolling bitch evasions. Judges is an esoteric scriptural contest, the least theological, and the scribe who was faithful to the legend of Samson must have anticipated the rise of the mogul in Cecil B Dmille, or was British, not that Hollywood ever did any prescriptive favors for doctrine, but why does a Hebrew bully so captivate the imagination?

We have no Philistine archaeology, only the knowledge that they were the regional power in play during that period of the Jewish inferiority complex, and if the Philistines were bullies, hey, the sons of Aaron had the appropriate lamentations, and out of yeshiva a bully was born. I may eschew Christ, but Samson, no. I believe he existed and fought for his people. His desire to belong to the gilded mistrusted metropolitan power class a cause celebre which achieved the desired result in the end. The last time I paid attention to lion population estimates they were at 100k. That they've dropped to 30k in 2014 is a terrible tragedy. The most recognized animal on earth. We can't even act collectively for that, and some of you temptingly lecture me about negation. Hmm. Merry Christmas

Insouciant Comity

Direct this to Nancy Salandra's attention

Nancy,

I want the following information from Liberty. I also want the 300 dollars Liana from Unlimited Staffing borrowed from me and I will not brook any argument from the CIL on the matter. Jenelle Dost, Liberty's former employee, Jennifer Barnhart, earned their salaries through my marginalization. And as case managers, you conveniently ignored and even enlarged my social fear by assigning me Africans, or African Americans, who wanted to exploit me through sexual control or other forms of abuse, so I am getting that money back. I am leaving Riverside in approximately 12 weeks, and these funds will be returned to me.

Now, as to punitive damages, my economic losses, my default on my student loans after Linda Staroscik and many others assured me of continued employment long before I asked Linda Dezenski to honor it, I have contacted Senator Toomey. Senator Toomey contacted me, and I am going to give Liberty as much of a federal heartburn as I can bring to bear, in perhaps the last pleasure of my life. People do not enjoy being turned on Nancy, or psycho-sexually humiliated, for that matter. I served the center faithfully as a consultant and an SSA advocate, deterred Marina from suing many years ago and the best you, Libby, Fran and the former Ms. Barnhart can do is suggest file closure or transfer?

In what way does this make you a morally decent activist Nancy? We don't know each other that well, but your tunnel vision and hyperactive rodent metabolism made me believe in the righteousness of your personal conviction.

Now, I want to know how bids on the Medicaid Waiver are submitted, and how the state accredits nursing agencies like Bayada. And this information will be provided under the Freedom of Information Act. I'm writing a book, and maybe not a few articles, on the corruption embedded in IL, and your acquiescence to that. I'll give you 14 business days, for the CIL that may be alarmingly short time, but since Liberty feels it has free licence to traumatize people, engage in non-delivery of non-existent services, engage in LBGT nepotism at will, going to the state attorney and asking for a criminal investigation, bit of a cakewalk, that.

Misty Gorillas Steam Ventilation

Coalbed methane developed from a safety hazard in coal mines to an unconventional gas reservoir in the last quarter of the 20th century.-- John Seidle in his preface on reservoir engineering.

Sigourney Weaver, like Ben Kingsley, has a versatile hard edge of definition I have often dismissed over the course of her career, though of course Gorillas In the Mist is a volatile film and is meant to be, leaving us little love for the poachers we do not execute for poaching. I saw video of hunters wasting an American mountain lion once and I would have wasted the bastards and told the courts to kiss my ass, not that this is an uncommon sentiment. Passions have to go somewhere. I did not dismiss Sigourney in the alien franchise. She made a preposterous take on evolutionary theory work, and I may not be dying quite yet. It may be gas build up when I do not eat and my stool doesn't move in position for a couple of days, again, not an uncommon problem, but with my small stature staying lucid is difficult without extra sleep, and then I have to destress until fecal waste decides to move, and then Joanne, wondering what the fuck happened to her life, sort of returns, her past never her past. I am trying to get a letter from Steve Gold, a Jewish lawyer who believes he has the right to judge what a disabled woman spends on cigarettes, and I put in three telephone calls to Disabled In Action, Liberty's political arm, prior to Thanksgiving 2014, and then found myself forced to control my desire to vomit and telephoned the center, twice, and had to threaten Information and Referral with a police contact before Connie dialed my number, and in attempting to call her back I got Linda Dezenski's voicemail and blew up in it; for a manager who left, that seems rather strange. 

Again, I put it to you, the center was created for quadriplegics like me. I did my job, served their ideology faithfully, and when Linda turned on me, it was like being set upon by hooligans in middle school, in addition to the personal trauma she caused me-- then Liberty's case management staff disparaged me, repeatedly saying they would or did transfer my file after I was swindled and molested by two agency attendants, and the one thing that unites Senator Toomey and a squishy liberal homosexual legislator like Brian Sims is pity. Will anyone act? I doubt it, but I have to spend all my time on this nearly obscene absurdity because I am an expendable human being, because I did not bobble head myself right back up and file with the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission and receive a pittance of a settlement, and I'm hanging by a thread with an equally corrupt Protestant corporation who's life's blood is the low income elderly as an expendable class of person. A law firm on Logan Square dialed my number, and their receptionist will not bother to tell me what type of civil litigation the firm engages in. She hung up on me when I tried to find out. Futurists, who sound like theologians when discussing the trans-optimist advance of A.I., delude themselves with the notion of singular superiority.

Efficiency models don't say much about the price of human dignity when being damaged makes you useless at the age of 36. I cracked a molar on a pork rind, and since the day I emailed Linda about it, at 36, I haven't been able to afford the dental insurance for a damaged occlusion that would cost a fortune to repair. Linda's extension is 227. For Michael Nutter, this is as close as I get to becoming a deranged spree killer, the nanny state mayor of a provincial backwater who scolded the parents of Danieal Kelly over the media airwaves. Everyone's emotional armor relinquishes, but only at funerals, when we toss dirt on the coffin with pus faces. Only the truly bereaved live their grief, all for a damn piece of paper from a Jewish attorney who judges you with the appropriate apologia for your poverty. This is my clinical expertise in the mouth of Weaver's scarred forensic therapist.

A Solar Plexus Blow

Remember Michael Moore's highlight of brownmanshirts? I am very much like a lone wolf on the outskirts, trying to reign in contributors like John Lewis and Michael himself, writing previously that Garner's arrest and Brown's death wasn't racially motivated. I wonder if Lewis thinks Brinsley's actions were a proportional response. I grew up in a law and order family, have a Protestant uncle who was chief of detectives, the uncle who inconvenienced himself enough to play human shield the last time in our lives Linda and I would have any further exchange with each other, and you won't see any sympathizers for authority calling for proportional retribution. I'm angry, and want the blood of my enemies, but not so decelerated not to perceive that this kind of anarchy destroys the fabric of human decency altogether. I'd like to remind the left that I was with them on  Zimmerman's killing of Trayvon-- because George's judgment was skewered by an overactive social fear, but I took equal umbrage at Jonathan Capehart's pandering to his identity base when Zimmerman garnished one last gasp in the news cycle, with his ethereal scapegoat notoriety.

The left has had absolutely nothing to say about the black racism I have been subjected to as a disabled woman, with Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne hiding behind regulatory authority. Zip. I'd certainly like to see Moore turn his camera on the black intolerance I've lived with, overt and otherwise, coupled with seniors convictions that the disabled shouldn't live among them.

That won't happen, of course; I need a space to mourn such senselessness, that the left cannot see the difference between unexpectedly negative outcomes and something so ruthlessly premeditated as Brinsley's act. I cannot wait until Eric Holder is recycled to the former attorney general contact list on Gwen Ifill's scanner.

Zandy's Bride

"It is helpful to follow Kant's lead, and to think about the Enlightenment as a series of interlocking, and sometimes warring problems and debates."--Dorinda Outram

There is a fleeting moment in Nicolas Le Floch, in or around the 2010 series where young Louis has yet to meet the guillotine, where Jerome, in costume, lying on the grass, is in process of proposing marriage to the casting director's vision of Nicolas's true love, an admiral's daughter, if I am not mistaken, and both actors momentarily merge irony and come out of character with a shared complicity between them, and if I was even seven years younger and healthier, Jerome Robart would have my shallow exuberance of candy gloss lust stalking his heels because of his ability to seduce with such imperfect witticism, such beautiful eyes, so prospective, limpid almond irises reminiscent of my puppy love for the instructor who wanted to upper track me for Harvard, I can never allow myself to long like that again, but remember. Where were we, John and I? Chance meeting in the dim murky interior of the library. He sat, as I am always sitting-- what is it like to walk? I can never know-- I said something, one of my spastic things before my contorted sensibilities fell over themselves in my dormitory bunk. I said something that amused the Tassoni with a fuller mane on his head, weird hair, almost frizzy, and his his eyes too held what a man's eyes hold and any woman worth her salt wants and dared to hope.

No one thinks about dropping acid at such times, or his alcoholism, or the belabored cutting of rejection curdled into bitterness, or his pedagogical dryness so easily settled into in middle age. I don't know Gail at all, but can easily project myself into their relationship and hold my nose apace while she tugs John along by his nose ring. (I knew him well enough once to know that all his intellectual efforts as a good environmentalist are to please her, and part of me says "ew!")

I never had that look that Jerome projects with such tasty poignancy. I've had men, and Frank, but Frank is too stupid to realize, within himself, that he wanted me so that I would pamper, baby him, and let him manhandle my body like an impotent rapist; as a half bred pig, that was neither desire nor love, and the very fact that he didn't fight to keep me says enough about that, in our fickle human hearts, why an invalid dared to aspire to that level of normalcy in her youth, still does, not partial, barring sensory deficits like blindness or hearing loss, to disabled men, not accepting the reality of ableism, that I can't say. Activists, like the ailing Cassie James, might say it is a delusional escape valve, but neither masculine class ever really chose to see me before they saw the spastic savant, and as Jerome said, with a trill of bemusement, relieved that the take was concluding, "C'est dure!"

Clarity Media sent me my severance commission, and that too is an irony of embittered circumstance, wondering if I'm waiting for a final breaking point despite the shattering crises of the turn of the century's fresh decade. What do we have left within the embers? 

Information and Referral

Shut the fuck up, I'm not going to hurt you-- lines I have to live with the rest of my life

My sin, such as it is, a skim of the jeremiad written by John Lewis for The Atlantic. With the latest tally in Peshawar being 141 killed by the Taliban, initially supported by ISI, as I need not remind you, African Americans seem to have it pretty good these days, despite their own predation among themselves, and what their social dysfunction has inflicted on me. I have seen what  local police experience daily, indigent minorities engaging in systemic violence among themselves with impunity, in some of the poorest urban environments. Danieal Kelly wasn't killed because my Italian father fled South Philadelphia, or because a cop shot first and assessed later. Despite the fact that this child was case managed by city services, she was an embarrassment to her mother, who ignored her daughter's pleading for water. Lewis might rebut me that police aggression is different in kind from racial shame, and my response?

Oh please. Poverty and wealth are not entirely about the luck of distribution. Inner city entitlement breeds its own myopia, among blacks, among certain classes of disenfranchised homosexuals, among disabled individuals like myself. I am overweight, and it is hard to knock those extra pounds off with one good arm, but I have made an effort, in maturity, giving up ice cream, eating at least two salads a week. I saw a new tenant get on the elevator as I was coming in, and she easily doubled me for obesity, probably due to soda, which I swore off a long time ago. The woman probably doesn't care, given her age-- you have to be 62 to live here--I, and a few other crippled sots, were let in younger because we're exactly that--the tarts-- I just have the misfortune to have a genius IQ battered by my own obstinacy-- and that indifference to her health isn't socio-economic. Poor people are either brutal or fatalistic; if they are white like me with a useless humanist education stuffed into them beaten down by the procedure, then they are angry and pissed off.

Lewis fears for the country. Christ. I don't get stoned, don't drink, don't have a criminal record. and my life is on the margin. Because of predatory lending? Hardly. My mother was a fucking nut case and I couldn't get what I wanted as an undergraduate, trotted off to live life in an urban liberal dictatorship, and got screwed by activist collusion at the end of the day-- with the Matrix Research Institute's Pew grant funding being a noble experiment pitted against an entitlement system designed to ration and penalize incentives. Once an individual gets on disability, getting off is life threatening, barring the relative security of civil service, or tenure, and I am too old to aspire to that now. Ambulatory minorities don't have that excuse; they have chips on their shoulders, or dream of professional sports, but none of us have equal worth, regardless of which nation we inhabit. The Scandinavians, maybe the Japanese, have the closest thing to a classless society, but there is hardly any nirvana in that when these nations depend on China or Russia being placid, or on America power maintaining a certain status quo for Europe and the Pacific.

Progressive idealism is noble? Fine. Move in with me and see what life is like in North Philadelphia or Kensington for two years. I'm done beating my breast over officers who profile on the basis of ethnicity or criminalizing on the basis of a chronic condition. I spent my whole life trying to be decent, as a case manager or otherwise, and certain situations are irredeemable. 

La Cattiva Strada

Somebody moved behind the brown door: first on the left, then on the right; first footsteps, then a muted rumpling of fabric and the clanking of pots; the concierge's grey eyes seemed to penetrate the wood in pursuit of the invisible noise.-- Georges Simenon, The Engagement

It isn't that one doesn't perceive the strategism within the provincial puzzles of Andrea Camilleri; Simenon was one of his influences, and it shows in the flowering absurdity and pathos of his local color. His narratives are as much about the terrible transmutation of the Old World into contemporary materialism, the one vomiting into the other with the repugnance of centuries old collapse, as they are about the fraud and corruption which truly besiege the carabinieri and all of Europe. Less murder, more graft. In the States, regardless of ethnicity, to an extent, most murders are an emotional argument: kill the wife and stage a suicide, get rid of the bitch on my ass, or go serial predator to assuage the corrosion of pathological pain. Americans go postal, enjoy blockbuster slaughter. Europe, excepting the transplantation of the mafisio, whose golden age was killed off by the ruthlessness of the FBI, is a bit different. The players are dirty, do business off the books, and authors obfuscate their real critique by leaving a dead body around; that real critique takes aim at provincialism, dirty money, and the plight of migrants, like Pakistanis who leave the volatility of the Iron Triangle, only to be victimized beneath placid milk white  surfaces. For the more swarthy Sicilians, who aren't as European as the Germans, the stigma may envelop Tunisians, but for Camilleri, it is the same formula as other mystery writers from the Continent, his progressive cues play out a bit differently than they do in American class conflicts. Spastic cripples like Bejou are simply what they are, dirty, unwashed, going off under stress, part of the comic poke of Italian effacement after centuries of diminishing hegemony.

The problem: Luca Zingaretti's screwball antics, especially when played off Peppino Mazzotta, feel forced by Rai television, and the mesh of the horrific lengths to which the criminal will go against the scatological gossip filling in the blanks doesn't quite work, not that Rai does err on the side of grandiosity, but Zingaretti is an insult to true Roman heritage, may he dormire con i pesci, grinding my teeth. You cannot win them all. 

Sedentary Colons

I suppose I am a cold hearted bitch in my own right, looking back on some of my posts, though I've held back here and there, out of respect, not having to violate all confidences offered to me in the past, my life basically destroyed by infantile paradigms, mad at myself for not seeing sooner that Philly's excuse for a disability center was more of the same I've lived through my whole life. I wanted something to do, and a three limb amputee named Laverne, fired later for lying about site visits, trained me as a volunteer. Blinded by enthusiasm, stupid, but Liberty was only nine years old then, wealthier, whiter. Couldn't see it for what it was. Zoo for the monkeys, spurred on by fallen paps with invisible tethers of bias. Intuitively I knew better, chafing at the bit. I let them take so much away from me: Jenelle Dost, Ann Piccinotti, Fern, Jennifer Barnhart, even Staroscik, my other manager, dismissive, going by rote. Debbie Russell's look of guilt in 07, the sting of that was a hostile environment as well, though she had nothing to do with the dilation and curettage game that Linda and I were playing. Another co-worker drawn in.

She taught me how to ride the ADA buses after I struck her by accident driving the elongated halls of the Presidential Suites in the 90's, a commonality in the fact that she also lost a brother to AIDS, in the years when it threatened to become the "impoverished black" disease, though I did not know her well enough to know the brother's underlying contaminant; though never friends, her layoff in 08 was nevertheless unfair, asserting this in honesty. Nearly everyone has departed, while I linger, visions of sugar plums so many nursing home beds with catheter drainage bags, waiting on renal failure, if nothing else.

Lingering Odor of Yolks

"Of course I know it's ridiculous, because I want more revenge than what's possible." --Sigourney Weaver, Death and the Maiden.

I had forgotten the name of Daily Beast's "crazy racist", and when his news letter came in I said what fucking literary journal is this now? And then remembered Spencer = a desperate disabled woman's need for change, desperate need for a hand that isn't wrapped around a Medicaid waiver. 

I know exactly zip about Richard, and if it wasn't for media carnage scavenging bones bare for gossip and bits, I would not have Googled him and sent a would be cultist a poorly spelled post with my main mantra since breaking my wedding engagement: I want out, I want out, and other than revenge on her sinewy spastic carcass, this is my remaining passion, an out while I am still cognizant to matter.

Spencer is an adept promotionalist-- as with anything online-- and he wants to sell his prognoscations on his thought crimes.

I am probably never going to break from the entitlement system ever again, and if you think my hatred of Ms. Dezenski and Liberty Resources is extreme, you need to remember that from 99 to 08 I tried to keep re-matriculating and kept taking blow after blow with one shiftless attendant after another. You've also followed my worthless effort to aggregate for Examiner. Getting beaten down repeatedly while women like Linda get away with because they can, an example of how radicalism festers in the first place. 

I'm not a supremacist in the tradition of David Duke-- not quite, but I will come back to my badminton contest with labels, as I'm hurried over groceries.  

Eliminating MAWD

Eliminating the Medical Assistance for Workers with Disabilities (MAWD) program
in January 2015 is projected to generate $7.2 million in savings. Current MAWD recipients with income under 133 percent FPL would be transferred to the new Private Coverage Option; MAWD recipients over 133 percent FPL would be encouraged to apply for coverage and subsidies through the federal Marketplace at HealthCare.gov. MAWD recipients with other Minimal Essential Coverage—such as Medicare—will not qualify for Premium Tax Credits and Cost-Sharing Subsidies through the Marketplace..

The root of all corruption begins with civil service implementation of state and federal monies. Mark Felt taught us that, the man  whom Pat Buchanan characterized as a bagman for Hoover no less, our favorite poseur for being secretly gay and black. Hilarious, these Cold War conspiratorial overtones. My rage is deeper and smarter than I may have made succinct when it comes to centers like Liberty, their umbilical cords tied to the uterus of spend down to the lowest common denominator. Service providers like Liberty, without the federal mandate perhaps, bid on a very limited allocation of the state budget to decentralize nursing care. When Liberty wins said bid they are flush, when they lose said bid they get sued except for those like myself whom they drive to a near breakdown. Linda knew how this mysterious process worked. She was a good task master at ngo sleight of hand: excess revenue, or budget shortfall, and in concrete terms it simply doesn't work. Paul Krugman is absolutely correct that the country is a complex matrix of socialized medicine with a complex matrix of market entrepreneurship, but the prodigiously read militant economist rarely looks at the details of our rationed welfare state. The applications for Paratransit services that blossom into contracts with rehabilitation hospitals to curtail usage for those with power chairs purchased by Medicare, or elderly people with canes. The hospital gets the contract. People with mobility issues get restrictions because the tax burden would otherwise be astronomical. What does this to the freedom of people with chronic conditions who want to make their own choices?

I rarely utter Widener University's name, but this is where my ambitions were nurtured and ultimately dashed to bits. Neither Jerry McGuire nor Michael C Clark nor David Ward would know that de-institutionalization would mean I was supposed to provide an income of 15,000 dollars a year to stupid people who could not afford college or dream of a white collar career, training constantly my whole life after brutal surgeries to  be independent, falling on the sword of my life long stress incontinence, badgered to death because I am not tidy enough for nominal Christians, persecuted because I did not deliver upon obtaining degree, due to what? Poor choices, strenuous travel, emotional investment in authority figures, hoping journalism would be a late life rescue when the field has its own miasma of cannibalistic silliness cluttered around events coverage. Disability centers have no real world rationale to exist. All they do is pick up the slack for people who could never dare Silicon Valley and win, like Chris Hughes.

What Dana and Marty cannot say I will: the battle with Hughes over the demise of TNR at its best is a battle between metrosexual counter culture and old world masculine assertiveness. The very fact that Hughes struck out at Marty's staff by citing Voltaire, and Dana struck back with choice descriptions of Hughes as a dilettante and a fraud evinces the rift. Homosexuality lends itself to deceptive subversion in as much as secular liberalism suppresses the truth for a mirage of utopian well being.

I want to be left alone, do my damn laundry and cleaning when I please, and in short order I will no longer be able to make these decisions for myself, and this feeds my post-50 year old bitterness, after a life of hell being butchered into an image of ambulatory correction. The beat goes on.

Dog Earred

I am just bookmarking Dana's column in hopes that I can retrieve it from archive later should I need to cancel or take a break from my subscription. I disagree with Milbank's polemical slant most of the time, but I am only marginally versed in these Silicon Valley intramural conglomerate politics. Dana is evidently well versed, and if he was this passionate more often I might reassess his expertise. I could never really dream of being in the TNR family, and frittered a bit of that capital in the heyday of the Street administration, but if their interns replied to me personally, then I'm good enough for a few clips before dying, and want to stay abreast.

The Web did not quite purchase me justice, but even I've had an impact (finally). But we're losing something. Not paper and ink really, more the accretion of dedicating ourselves to the best, which is why Blood of the Vine feels like a tutorial for a bygone world.

Plummet

"I had stopped petitioning the heavens for miracles four days before."-- Sheri Booker

Even in 2009, during my brief electronic correspondence, or conservation, with Daniel Schneider, his offer of a byline in Cosmoetica would have been a downgrade. I had already appeared in nearly a hundred literary journals. Even with my CV, I've lost count of my bylines, for everything, articles, poetry. In this sense, my long nine month stint at Examiner hurt me too. After getting in legacy media, chasing tail aggregating for peanuts kept me fluid, but hurt me professionally. Perhaps constancy reflected a certain uneasiness. Getting buried in endless repetition of stringer scoops is nothing, and it is the same with Dan's writing. Good for a student, but at some point, exposure is meaningless if all we do is skim. Penetrating the value market will not help me much unless I can build something sustainable from any future bylines, and get work I can handle.

The flap over Erdely's lax dependence on her primary source, which seems to involve more than a hint of buyer's remorse (collegiate age girls may want to rethink promiscuity?) and the much more disturbing crisis with Hughes and TNR, suggest that the lightning speed of reactivism is a continuing problem, and that we're fast losing nuances in contemplation, which at the very least, The New Republic offered as a glossy, whether or not you were a supporter. I appreciated the fascinating insights into a composer like Stravinsky even if I never invested in learning classical music, and I suspect the insulation needed for that is difficult to accrue through surfing a synopsis-- it points to my level of indifference over the death of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, which is as cold as you like. Not that cops aren't a favorite target of beat reporters for a reason. Police do criminal things, sometimes rape hoes as well, but protesters develop tunnel vision, and I've turned myself blue in the face attempting to expose what I have acquired, empirically, through so called disability activism. My antagonism toward individuals like Jimmi Shrode and Erik and Josie, and the catastrophic knife in my back from Linda and our disability center, is as much about their hypocrisy as it is the ossified sterility of the paradigm. Jimmi is all about transitioning the helpless, decentralizing them. Accepting my emotional injury because he used his personal relationship with Erik to take advantage in an federalized system which demands impartiality, this he cannot do, and thus I'm persona non grata.

It will happen among these progressives of conscience with their sit ins. Darren Wilson did not set out to murder Brown. He was doing his job on patrol, and the NYPD did not intend to kill Garner in public. They were subduing a man placed under arrest. To use Erik's phrase, "shit happens," like the climate change which we're all on the doomsday machine to repair. We may not be able to repair it, and if we traded off civil liberties for the sake of security after 9/11, what about our food sources in a hundred years if global warming becomes a calamity? Take a step back. We are not all equal in value, and never will be.

Plight of Placenta Detachment

This type of venue is about producing the product and sales data. I am more interested in the analytics which might still pay me for a well produced piece. Daniel Schneider tried to encourage me in this direction even as thinking about that first contact causes me to shrivel into a little ball, but search my archives. I don't need to remind myself all of the time-- and I cannot really say what Dan was guilty of that set me off. Sigh. I just don't work well in online groups, certainly not with a B actor trying to be charitable-- but with that episode I was stupid, and realize it. Had I just bit my tongue and faked a certain wide eye respect, played sweet little passive cripple, Dan Schneider and wifey might have been of use. Recognize him? He reached out to me in 2009, and now I BEAR THE MARK OF SHAME. Meaning the fact that he was obnoxious was not worth getting emotionally distraught, which I did.

Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.

I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.

I'm wearing out. 

Two Week Diva

I always believed, if I was going to live long enough to die from it, I would go out fighting with my last breath, screeching "Jerry!" and hating myself for the tinsel strength of circumstantial imprints. I really did believe meeting this Shakespearean was a kind of destiny, but odd discovery in warding off full blown toxic shock symptoms (I did not break out with this rash or go into fever, but loss of my menstrual cycle has made me vulnerable, and I know what happened toward genuine viral infection). If you are going to pass out from hypotension, there is no clinging, no concentration of focus, as with Sally Field in her gangling effort, which Cavanagh's support wasn't enough to hold in all of Stockman's dribbling ooze.

The emptiness of my past vanished, and the for-itself, in Sartre's existential formation, fought to restore my center, and this is real intimation of death. I have been sick before, even anesthetized numerous times, but this was different, having to pull myself back from the brink. The only firm perch I had was my flaming rage that wants her dead. She can only die once, but for me, killing them, her, it is like the familiar rhythm of a train car, a snap back of eight hours or so, and I was the me I knew once again, but your self, it drains away as fast as a light switch clicks, and Tyne Daly had the correct body language. Authentic death in hospital bed in a chintzy melodrama. Mother to daughters tit for tat. Tyne smoking a cigarette and doing a chilling death bed. Cavanagh is forgiven for being Canadian. Like Sally Field in character, video within video, I too read Tom as a good boy, dutiful, compliant. With a strong script, he is a real to life humorist who would do us all a favor by putting Jim Carey out of his misery. My biology is on notice, and I have to get the fuck out of this building, paralyzed, panicked over how little time.

The Black Dahlia

Steve Hodel first began to suspect George Hodel while going through his belongings after his death at age 91 in 1999.--in the intrigue of forever.

Let me return to more back tracing in my regret over always being late to the party. What almost led me to EMS this week was vaginal irritation, and I have to be more cautious from now on when I'm too weak to transfer. I thought I was gone, flashes of the nigger bitches finding me in a posture sardonic enough to open LA Law, but even I am stronger than I realize, and yes, I was happy with the personnel at AccessLife. Linda wasn't wrong about that. She has her side of the argument, even with her off side enthusiasm for detailed fucking assertions for former subordinates. She wanted to support me, tried to reflect my concerns back to me, told me to be patient, and did not know what to do with my daily interactions. I might have arguably harangued her, but Liberty had told me repeatedly, since 97, that they would rehire me, and I was running out of options.  Nazi's, just like good Jewish leftists, have the same apologetic rationalizations. And AccessLife went out of business, primarily because the craft of journalism is a peripatetic trade.

I came rather late in my allegiance to the writing of The New Republic, subscribing in 1997, right on the edge of Stephen's fatal blow to both the magazine and Marty's reputation. I am not sure what would be the point of writing on spec for Hughes now, but don't look at me to tell you independently what's been lost. Ryan Lizza knows better than I. Fealty to tradition, confidence in your skill, conviction that Mosaic Law is more than a Charlton Heston movie. 

When I was still *in* the family, I sent Linda a TNR critique of IDEA, and these days, the contributor had the merit of challenge on their side. Liberals cannot truly legislate equality, and I have already detailed the statutory absurdity of my existence within the welfare state. Marty's conservative Zionism appealed to the truncheon of my own experience, accepting that I find the Israeli state a failure, which he certainly doesn't. His faith is the experiment of Israel.

Jay Sterling Sliver can go fuck himself. That is my faith, but I am too sleepy to take the law professor's planks and make a Pogo stick so convenient for farcical penetration.

Lynch me

Dislike of spurious not awake yet posts, I decided to experiment and see how long I could follow @Bookblow 's sugary sentiments about literature, since the account holder followed me with my belligerent unto death temperament. Police subjugation of Eric Garner did not faze me in the least; perhaps it is my age, dislike of gluttony, and long recognition of the fact that the American underclass, indeed, all underclasses, are expendable. We all know this, hence Eugene Robinson's progressive moral chest beating. I'll link you to his column without reading it. Eugene is a traditionalist in a winnowing field, unionized, able to exchange pleasantries with Bill Cosby, maintain his health, personal grooming, and his salary is contingent upon follies like a fat and sick minority in NYC going down to an unglamorous demise because everyone reacted. Garner to being cuffed, and the officers to Garner, lassoing a moose, and every paper on the east coast is up 20 viewers or so. Personally, I have yet to have a problem with Philadelphia police. They caught my perpetrator and when I've fallen, picked me up at my direction, but if the day comes that my incessant poverty and isolation buckles, and I threaten a swamp matron like the current Presbyterian *social worker* Debra Horne, I fully expect that in the process of subduing a bitter indigent woman like yours truly, a tragedy will result, and perhaps someone like my former supervisor, Linda C Dezenski, will go viral with a poignant post about how hard it is in this country for the mobility impaired.

While Eugene engages in the double dealing of most domesticated middle brows: dubbing Cosby a *monster*. Though I previously indicated here and privately that I am on Joan Tarshis'es side in this matter, Cosby's monstrosity was enabled in the name of the business of entertainment, and he is as much a monster as my emotional wounds as a lifelong expendable piece of tripe are vehement. My father Nicholas wanted to abort me and told me to my face. My mother's mental health led to life long abuse of her children, and the one disabled woman I esteemed in all the world lashed out at me: "I'm sorry, sweetheart! I'm a married woman! What do you want from me?"  After humiliating me in front of suburban classmates with whom I came up, on top of what those of us ensnared in the social safety net have to endure.

You'll get no grief from me over a faulty arrest of an African American on the lowest rungs of the ladder. Eugene rarely if ever writes about his outreach across that divide. He leaves those content issues to his colleague, Colbert I. King

And this is why I'm not an industry critic

"Some lines should never be crossed."-- Jason Lee

I did not recognize Jason Lee in Chasing Amy. I did not follow My Name is Earl all that closely, and for absolutely no reason but cheap thrills I'd assault Ben Affleck and then have the preoccupation of being investigated-- not that Affleck is a priority for the FBI, but of course I'm being specious, posting in coded language because angry people online get stupid and wind up at the Supreme Court, and even if I tried to engage in criminal activity, my lungs have turned scarlet with carbon monoxide, and that is mostly my fault, but not entirely. I have things to do and I'm sick and if I cave in to being ill, why don't I just resign myself and let the system triumph? How can I possibly gain any form of vindication at this point?

And what the fuck is Thomas Vinterberg trying to say? Donald Levit marshals insights very ably, much better than I ever could in a kaleidoscope of dystopian gloom, but a movie cannot trope in obfuscation like a villanelle, or a bad imitation of Shyamalan, and expect to get away with it leaving the viewer with such a bizarre punch card whose intent cannot be interpreted, Africans dangled like trophies. And I've been accused of literary pretension. Parts of It's All About Love are indeed interesting, resting on forceful, stark dialogue between Joaquin Phoenix and his ex-wife's goon squad, toying with the ever insidious threat to personal identity, playing with the baroque, but this movie makes the Scandinavian procedural seem as inviting as the impact of Hill Street Blues crime series realism.

Now that how poorly I feel has receded into the background, all I have to do is debate writing or lying down, moving my goals ahead a few days--I will not die in peace, that is a fiction-- but with what little I have left, I am desperate to move on. I understand dying aunt's argument that Riverside is the evil I know, and given my poverty I can't expect better, but my family can't understand how untenable this is given what I have been subjected to, and that I cannot keep bowing under and taking it. Trudy Richardson uses what tools she has to threaten and intimidate me, and since she has no legal means to make me some other institutional problem, she yells back "Then give your notice!" as if I could pack and cart blanch relocate myself, imposing on dead and past writer friends who couldn't handle giving me the adaptations I need, while my other aunt wants to make it worse, move me in with Alzheimer patients. Yes, some of you are working three jobs, crushed by student loan debt yourself, but I resigned from the Matrix Institute in 96, and have survived this in a series of diminishing returns, in exactly the same shit hole, for 18 years.

I'd love to fight for a real job again, but who is going to accommodate an overweight ex smoker whose bowel was a misadventure even when she case managed the mentally ill who were so dosed with psychotropics that my employment was nothing more than an excuse to keep me off welfare, the fieldwork over stressing me through no fault of the psychological overlords whose efficiency model would have gotten them wiped out at Google's command center?

Sweet Weak

There was no answer, no movement within, so Gruber inserted his key into the lock and twisted.--Bernard Malamud, The Mourners

Clever Google, but I have to tolerate its algorithms, since I am granted so much latitude, or am I?  My colon has a life of its own, so I have to give up on it, but as always, it was mucus build-up causing   my unsteadiness posted here, as opposed to an insatiable fondness for macaroons. Until Zico, coconut was a starchy seed taken for granted, one of my mother's explorations, goring holes into the husk, offering a taste of the raw juice. Tastes change, And no medium is without its own polemical sins. An effigy of a lynching is not *horrific*. Salon is making a value judgment about a coping mechanism, the cruelty of a joke, while other outlets reinforce the racism Salon decries with its moral superiority. Villagers in the Congo still believe in the persecution of witches, Ugandans still conduct human sacrifice. Authorities in Qatar think a progressive Asian American couple is trafficking in human organs. I always thought William Golding something of a facile author, his famous story too circumscribed, just as I'm still rather startled that Mike Levy invited me to Writersblock-- not that I am complaining-- it is a valuable research tool, but I'm not a progressive, nor am I a fake conservative slavering with dark secrets. Focus too much on outliers? My response is we've already lost valid definitions of ourselves, to the point that British school children on an island teaching themselves to hunt feels more like a Grecian abstract. So much hubris about our data collection, theoretical models, yet our metaphysical needs carry price tags which liberalism refuses to acknowledge. This is my reality check, while I post psychic duels civilized women leave unsaid.

My conflict with the former Linda Richman did, in point of fact, cause a mental escalation which may have led to what is termed a trauma conversion--but I think it was something else, because what I really am is a sexually disappointed woman who on the whole thinks sexual pleasure and adventurism is overrated, sans Jason Lee in Chasing Amy. One can ignore Affleck and still come away perplexed. I like a nice fedora and sharply tailored shoulders in a blazer due to a projection of power in a noir cut, as opposed to announcing through attire that I'm *out*. Even back in the day, when Alan Gordon, my longest friendship with anyone, said I'd make a good butch, it was a put down, hardly a compliment.

Not that I'm immune to the homoerotic-- but Jamesian shielding and Proustian segues are techniques into voyeurism-- and my enthusiasm to observe writers like James Baldwin from a distance has cooled. I no longer see Giovanni's Room as a must read, and I agree with Hurston's critics that her depiction of segregated black society is rather two dimensional. I am about two pages in her most acclaimed novel, and believe I wasted my money on the digital edition, debating whether or not I am going to persevere. The God in whom her women anticipate gave me a break, and I caught the loose stool that plumes out of my control every so often in my hindered lung function, very glad too, as accidents consume my time, though these attacks still creep up on me. And my transsexual nemesis? He (it) is sick. His aide, Dorothy, who has with all the kindness in the world gotten in my face, so informed me. I declined to express the truth I feel about Erik and his freaking health, if you care to guess. Dorothy is New York city Haitian or Jamaican, and would no more hit on me than would an adopted aunt. I still wouldn't let her within ten feet of my personal space.

Urinary Tract

After consultation, middle child sister suggested I may have a urinary tract issue instead of hypoglycemia. Possibly, but I am feeling alarmingly unsteady, and wish to apologize for failing. I could just delete the blog and aim for more polish--not that I ever wanted to be a bland pedestrian, but even I did not realize how much, as a survivor, I seethe. And many out there have had it worse with disability and violence; many out there have had a few turns of the screw with activist groups, lawyers and litigators. If my medical catastrophe is coming homeward bound, I suddenly find blanks being loaded into the chamber, my soul trying to gnaw through my stationary despair, a desire for departure without so much as a farthing of hope for renewal, my mind is still fighting, striving for justification without knowing, if tolerance has stepped beyond my boundary, which it has, what in the name of nihilism I hope to achieve. Nothing, perhaps, but yes, I have forgiven the stupid black junkie who tried to subdue me, without being able to forgive inner city black culture: I've observed, seen too much, and don't seem to have a water hole available to come up for air, amid the pocket of urban destitution I've lived, the failed compatibility with my homosexual friends, my dissonance with Jewish lesbian ferocity.

Contextualize it as I might, even running to Italy would leave me at odds with the socialists in my country of ethnic origin; Italy has its own problems with migrants, space, resigned to a collapse from within, even here, I have a certain level of contempt for Palermo, tourist destination as it may be. Sicilians, staggering snort with commedia dell'arte, always dislocated from the true sense of place I've always felt I needed. I never saw the Pope in an overcoat, only to see Francis buttonholed in white in his visit with the Turkish pasha. Disconcerting, his body bundled like an angelic gangster.

I've not yet keeled. Buongiorno, on me.

Blood Children's Insulin

Justice denies that the loss of freedom for some is made right by a greater good shared by others.-- John Rawls, 1971

Brandon Phillips served time for his aggravated assault. Two years. Did his time, his grandmother's bones long in the ground, and the damages from the inner city and Diamond  Park, well, fifteen minutes away from a lifetime of inviolate branding, compiled by the incompetence of pluralism and cruelty of the peevish elderly, is merely fifteen minutes away. The beneficiaries in all this? The property owners, who escaped liability because I was passive, and thought the managerial minority staff were looking out for my interests.

The difference between Camille Cosby and Hillary Clinton is a matter of degree. Former Flotus stood by husband because she derived her power from a philandering husband who became the president. The Bill from Arkansas loved women, besides, though things sometimes go awry, his naked penis hanging in front of Jones an embarrassment, but legally not systemic harassment (I have done a lot of research on this). Herein lies the reason I will not vote for Mrs. Clinton. She enabled Bill's behavior in a trade off to climb the political rungs, in contrast to Napolitano, who, beyond the occasional sympathy profile, glitters with no such star dust.

The Bill from Philadelphia apparently doesn't feel our pain, and is allegedly just another black predator. Whatever side of the fence we choose, lives have been forever altered. Darren Wilson killed a future NFL scandal in Michael Brown, flabbier, if larger, than the Brandon who forever altered me. Brandon was wiry, strong, compact. Darker than Brown, and sorry but this is what he looked like, thick lips inflamed like a vagina with herpes, eyes red with hard driving inflammation, I no longer fantasize about blowing his fucking skull off; his attack was impersonal, stupid. Didn't even steal the five dollars from my consultancy fees lying on the table. If Brandon's time served is nothing against my fear of more suffering to come, contemplate what Wilson faces beyond more potential litigation: revenge threats, loss of his career. Cosby's legacy is tarnished, perhaps irretrievable, but he will be dead soon.

It is the reverberations left behind. These will reach up and ensnare the future.

Quentin Radio

"The press will have a field day with this latest escapade."-- in the script

Vengeance, if individuals are serious about enacting it, changes people. Christopher Dorner probably recognized, before the tear gas blaze in the cabin, that he had failed, and that killing his supervisor's daughter wasn't as liberating as he thought it would be, and that he was better off dead in those mountains as opposed to getting the death penalty-- and yet, his impulse to engage in anarchy against our institutional paradigms and their increasing complexity wasn't invalid.

Let me go back to Poets and Writers banning my online account (yes, I'm over it but making another point). Posters were afraid of me because I was raw with pain about what happened to me within the ranks of independent living, but, whatever my rhetoric and its decibel level, it was raw, it was grief, and beneath the surface, even today, I lost something in role models once valued. Linda was the only woman with cerebral palsy who I genuinely liked, even though, to channel Kill Bill, I knew what she was capable of. I just didn't believe she was capable of doing it to me, and in turn, she probably did not calculate that I'd put a dent in her bubble, leading to her early retirement.

That is emotional investment-- but why? Because the role model heroine was all I had, itself a sad commentary on fulfillment. The only job I never struggled with internally was my brief sojourn with AccessLife. A good editor is worth his weight in gold, but it was one position, and even with Christopher Reeve I was perhaps unfairly contentious. I am less raw now of course, but the inexorable grind is closing in on me as I age with this condition, and my line between being a bullshit artist and real malevolence is blurring, hollowly, perhaps, as the transsexual is 2/3's corpse, punishment enough for his ethics, and I was told Cassie James departed the field with an illness as well, but the thought of dying so browbeaten-- whatever the pedestrian counsels about acceptance, my ego cannot swallow it-- but what resolution would serve? It isn't about punitive  damages rolled into an annuity. It is about striking the system, and or really paying a price for which I lack the tenacity.

I have, however, become that cold.

Naivete

Bill Cosby needs to be prosecuted. If progressives believe Darren Wilson evaded a fair verdict, and I don't, whatever the inconsistencies of his grand jury testimony, something needs to be done to alleviate the accusers of the comedian, as well, and this is where I disagree with most of the Post's opinion writers on the matter, statue of limitations be damned. Kathleen, having a deadline to meet, doesn't speculate on whether NBC protected Cosby as a brand name asset, and liability may be easier to sustain against a big network. This should be investigated. I cannot claim shock. Merely minimal awareness, but the details are making me sick, turning my stomach, and this is why we're all guilty, myself included, never paying the old man's innuendo any mind.

But some of his accusers have their own culpability, just as I do. Tarshis is on the record as saying she blamed herself for many years, and this is easy to comprehend. I cannot blame myself for my mother's low life, sometimes dangerous strays, as I had no ability to get away from them, but I blamed myself for trusting my former supervisor Linda C Dezenski, as I admitted to Brian Sims aide, in tears. I *talked* to her, told her things, trusted her, and the humiliation this purchased me was and is too much to bear. Did it end her career at Liberty earlier than she would have liked? Maybe not directly, but nothing I have written about her, our interaction, is hearsay: the email threads, Liberty's assurances to me before doing me incalculable economic harm, can be traced, verified-- but I am culpable, and should have restrained myself. The trauma from that and subsequent instances, like losing unrestricted Paratransit access, the building renovations when I was absent reliable power chairs, the abuse, I am lucky to be alive.

But I'd consider it a significant lack of judgment to go to a bungalow of any sort with a celebrity like Cosby, and drink with him, by myself-- this is not to imply that Joan was looking for sexual trouble due to the fact that she was 19 and star struck, but whether or not it was the last year of the flower power decade, she displayed a critical lapse in judgment, and in Hill's case, this lapse falls on her parents. Hill was a minor, and if her allegations have any merit, she should have had an escort. Their unwillingness, or inability, to file charges within the appropriate time frame is another factor, just as it is in my case.

Statutory limitations should offer at least some latitude for the stability of the victim: I wasn't strong enough to win a settlement from Liberty Resources in the immediate aftermath of their breach, and can understand the power of that stigma. Robinson may be factually correct that serial rape has a time window, but serial revictimization is also a killer of women, crippling and impairing notwithstanding that some victims remain physically intact. 

Velleity, Mio Mal

"The light in Sicily is corpuscular," -- the perceptive cinematographer for RAI's Montalbano.

Luca Zingaretti is actually annoying for a Roman greaseball, however acculturated his Old World inadequacy against the modern age, his clean shaven pate and passive acceptance of the voluptuous female in chase of his ineptitude baffling, unlike  Terence Hill, Luca cannot fit into the spaghetti western codex.

Eastwood makes it easy in Sudden Impact, despite the moral equivocation of some of Sondra Locke's targets. Females, victimized, need to acquire the accouterments of masculine power and strike back. Not that it heals her torn psyche, necessarily. After the cartoonish punks are wiped out, Callahan has to make a judgment call about Jennifer; makes it. Everyone's debt was paid. The cost is what it is, including the price Eastwood himself pays for having created Million Dollar Baby using the same Social Darwinism model dressed up with characters in whom we invest. Eastwood is the only conservative who offers the disabled an answer within his ideology: death with dignity is better than being defeated by an environment with scarcity of resource, though Hilary is, of course, only an actress performing a white trash home girl out of her depth, and as an able-bodied women felled by the realities of the boxing industry, her decision for active euthanasia was easy for audience empathy. Developmental conditions are another matter, and for that we have to dive back in the archive for the orangutan and related mimics to loosening. 

Gang rape is a rare phenomenon, involving the dynamics of group psychology with which Sabrina Erdely should have been armed before she proceeded apace, perhaps inserted in the script to mitigate Locke's vengeance, presupposing we still live in a world where we can resolve injustices perpetrated on our own initiative.

Ulysses may be a very large Joycean experiment, but Virginia Woolf succeeds without resorting to so many belabored correspondences, though we would never allow To The Lighthouse to supersede the former. Both novels hew to their scenic locales. Woolf's alluding subtly is richer than Joyce's, not so prone to cerebral hemorrhaging. Certain Romans aren't keen on the brogue.

A See D See

She's overwrought with vengeance." Peter Rainer

The exertion it takes to masturbate outweighs the reward, but when time is taken to deal with a cunt as uncomfortable now as it was in my folly to ask Linda's advice on the matter, I scroll through a dreary set of scenes. A pallet mattress in a greyish flophouse where I am gang coaxed into masochistic submission, or go through a tie down in some stolen episodes from Japanese porn, with very little cognizance as to why Western men go for Asian women, although I find Indian men arousing and have a rape scene with my former cigarette vendor, infrequently, and exchanged Jim Brown for Bill Cosby in Joan's viral redeye scenario, or would have swapped Cosby for Brown had I remembered Brown was representative of black power in my era. Who, after all, wants to get raped by a thick lip flapper with a floating eye such as Cosby exhibits?

Black abuse of my person is the indelible stain, yet I have not taken my own life, unsure if it is sheer will or simply lethargy, perhaps both, but I will never again allow an African of either gender to lay a hand on me, ever.

Sometimes it's a whirlpool bath, or the married computer consultant's dick. He was kind to me. I called myself his whore, lacerating my soul over meaningless sex with a man whose wife cuckholded him and had a middle aged spastic's insistence. I almost had a fight with my mother's sister and would have had cellphone not served as a check. It isn't her fault she cannot see what institutionalization and her older sister's mental health has done to me. Like my own younger sister, she cannot see it, cannot deal with it, and that is most any audience, almost as indigent now as I was when I ran here because Jerry McGuire was an absence of presence. People attempted to tell me when I was that young that my compulsion to attach to his like was an obstinate distortion, but then again, I have never lived life with a full throttle investment. Not that I feel it any longer, his absence of presence. I've used up that little bit, and to be honest with you, I am irked SUNY contacted me about a no nothing reading I did in Pittsburgh. Not with them. Him. Still playing the teacher with his fucking encouragement. Christ man. I'm a cripple. Neither you, nor Michael, nor David ever talked to me about realistic career options.

You all taught me how to think. Bravo. Didn't stop me from being a vibrating pin cushion for every fucking imaginable threat out there. Even if I agree with blue blood liberals like Dana that McCulloch shielded Darren Wilson, I am glad that he did, which is the inverse of being relieved that Michael Brown is dead, but if you fuck with cops, then you can expect to become dead. I do not fuck with officers, and I can still expect, that one day I may die in their custody. Visions of how that plays out are as varied as the wind. 

Cleaned my coffee pot. Beet salad, lentil soup. If I could lose sixty pounds and get my teeth fixed, a fedora and a zoot suit would suit me just fine, and you can pass the cannoli on that. Plenty of hot coffee too.

Artificial Insemination

the share of folks not in the labor force remains near all-time highs-- my former grant funder

I was partially in error about Clarity Media's automat. Whatever unfathomable, mysterious reason, after offering my former editorial team a foul berating, I'm still receiving mails from AXS, in the calamitous state of affairs with the economics of content. I am sorely beginning to miss three dimensional space; haven't been back to my Examiner page. If it still exists. Worth more than the arthritis of my ligaments have put into it, I believe I'm worth more, I mean, than penny generated content. Maybe Morris believes she is worth more too, and would like to claw out Spielberg's eyes in a Minority Report rendition. It was her best role, getting Tom Cruise out of deep freeze in a good movie with a silly second sight premise. Women like Penelope Cruz seem to exist to get Cruise out of deep freeze.

Motifs associated with Morris to some extent. With objections to Cold Case otherwise noted, what it does differently is pace itself at the slow speed of reminiscence. It's best propaganda tool was its third oldest puzzle, Best Friends, and Tessa Thompson makes the most of her time on camera. The writers were clever, making it a girl crush, perhaps a transplant from the Harlem Renaissance. Could such affairs of the heart have occurred in Philadelphia in 1932? Between a moon faced Rosie and a minority fedora dyke? (I have a fondness for this male fashion statement which must mean I am repressing the liberating aspects of finding good pencil thin clit; get me to a psychoanalyst to embrace my deeply repressed bisexuality! That is what the LBGT activist terrorists would allege.) I doubt it. Caucasian male and a black woman, yes, but in 32 lesbianism did not exist as a recognized classification. Tessa's Billie dies not because of white male intolerance, but because the screen writers guild indulged in a progressive fairy tale. Yes, the jilted male beau gangs up on the pretty "darkie" girl, so the audience is offered a less than 30 second consequence, but it is still a dream sequence.

We'd react differently if this was transposed on Showtime, elongated into a drama series of depression era lesbianism between a maid and a bootlegger's sister. The world is not in fact shaded in back and white overtones with soft or harsh studio lighting. The writers in fact end the episode almost as if Rosie was a Victorian heroine, compensated for repressing her fascination with the attraction to the forbidden by being granted affluence, burying her dalliance within the safety of fantasy. One can see why Morris is cast between the fantastical and the futurist. Her countenance has that zeitgeist of the alien about it, otherworldly, living in her own dreamscape, whether we scrutinize her biography, chasing after what year she left Temple University after the rest of us, or not.

Joan Tarshis

When I hear of horrific things like like Tarshis being sodomized after downing a redeye, I feel compelled to reach out to the victim through shared experience, though I myself was never forcibly sodomized. Stuart Lone, my fabled heroin addicted stepfather, merely groped me, tortured my dead brother in front of my eyes. It was mother's man before him, another stone addict named Beaky, ugly as sin, who tried to rape me, and I let my ex Frank penetrate me anally, perhaps out of self-hatred, and I did not like the pressure on my bowel. Had problems days afterward. Well, I found the old woman, coping with her torment, much as I am letting it all hang out, coping with mine and losing, understanding Robinson's cautious commiseration  and Ta-Nehisi Coates' struggle with his conscience.

As an Italian woman with quadriplegia assaulted by a black relative of a public housing tenant and molested by a biracial inner city woman, I do not really have a say in this internecine argument about black identity spilling over into white cross over acclaim. Cosby did not have the greatest impact on me due to the popularity of Cliff Huxtable, rather, I had to endure countless instructional films of Bill Cosby doing exaggerated versions of Ralph Ellison's lone black man defiantly penetrating through the brick walls of white preconceptions, and it influenced my subconscious about the righteousness of being a straight arrow. Now I have to live with the imagery of his alleged forced penetrations, with these women alone with him like naked sheep, shorn of their woolly coats, in our sexually permissive society.

I tweeted to Joan. You can read it. I cannot enter into how she lives with it, being forcibly fucked by such a talented man who had such an influence on our psyches. It isn't about whether or not we believe her, or want to defend an icon who may have to end his public career on such a note, it is more about what kind of society we want, where trauma is apparently the new normal, and nothing is innocent any longer. Coates' observation that we generate our moral values from people like Cosby may seem a deft perception, but in reality, personality cults cut across human cultures. It isn't simply an American meme. Napoleon is still a herald in France. Margaret Thatcher was part of a Reagan era triad, of some sort, and so on. Nomenclatures evoke their own language, and Ellison would probably be turning in his grave. I was naive enough to tape his picture and obituary on my door in the inner city the year he passed away in 1991, a man whose genius strove more than most to call identity politics the tragedy for which they were. Right now I can't forgive anyone. Black journalists, corporate media, women like me and Joan who eat it and don't fight back until it is far too late, certainly not a comedian who made me believe my moral center was a justified possibility.