Let me hit the pause button. You might infer from Carcano that I'm a duplicitous schemer, but that isn't quite the case. Political aides who work for my state representatives advised me not to place a classified on Craigslist, and after trying cleaning businesses which weren't suitable, using Craigs was a last resort which worried me. I am not infallible, and I daresay I do function savant at times, so I was scared. The Web is a pornography shallow troll riddled junkyard to which I'm contributing like catacomb of ghoulish delight, and the new guy got the job because the other interviewee I telephoned without the appropriate judgment at first glance. That takes patience.
I did not know he was gay, but I know the terrain, and in terms of what I might have gotten, feeling that I could be safe, this counted. The safety factor won, in essence, despite the fact my hostility toward homosexuality radicalized equality is genuine. And it was, in fact, extremely difficult to be civil to Erik in front of s/his brother "in the life". The flesh fair freak happened to be on the pavement outside the vestibule when I introduced J-- to the building. My show of civility vanished when my new assistant headed home. Erik and Jimmi are a significant factor in my need to get off this corner. Dealing with the two of them feels like rust eroding my esophagus. I'd enjoy beating them into a pulp.
Erik von Schmetterling did not know I was pleading with Linda Dezenski as a last resort to avoid calamity those years ago, but that doesn't absolve him. They don't like each other that much, Linda and the regional shim, and Erik is in fact a sick bangle of nerves on its last legs. I hate the two of them equally for being corrupt and necessarily vicious when it suits them. The bitter transvestite failed intern and the gloating Jewess I transformed into an icon with her own hagiography. Back biters, allies by necessity.
We'll see how it works. J-- is nice. I selected him on my own terms without imposition from regulatory authority. He is better looking than Alan Gordon, and I am not going to see him daily unless I surrender to Medicaid waiver and he wants that position. My social fear is not ignited and we aren't going to swap sexual escapades and stories.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Carcano Ammunition
"So write."-- Howard Stern, when he was still at WMMR
Would it surprise you to learn I hired a 32 year old homosexual who enjoys cooking? I did it because of my post traumatic stress, and I told him about that, the assault. I also insinuated something about the damage to my health under the Medicaid waiver. I told him not to read my blog, this account, deflected what he presumed to be my progressive sympathy for gay marriage, and will admit to you, should he find my spastic dowager url and quit due to my reactionary stance, I will feel it. I am not so far sociopathic yet; however, beneath my conscience, I don't care, honestly, and this reflects how bloody far gone I am; he is white, still relatively young, and I've spent far too much time and money on housekeeping since my divorce and frustration with Tim Artis, sinking in quicksand; this is all I am doing, watching my emotional pain smoke from inside and out.
There is a writing job at Princeton and I'm telling myself to submit my resume and worry about the obstacles later, but my body is over a half century old and I am not sure who I'm kidding. People who knew me in the 90's here are shocked when they see the toll the damage my rift with Linda has taken on me. It has not been as much as some, but nevertheless, the damage has been considerable, more than all the sum total of my epistolary arts, to Ron Offen, the poet who never published me in Free Lunch, but responded to me by telling me about his wife's cancer. I carried his letters into work in my early days with Matrix at their strange, somewhat queer Alden Park offices. I wrote to everyone in the Len Fulton network, and even emailed Len himself later on when he took my SPR oped.
Now I post, to everyone, in theory, but it is not the same. Salutations on paper to individuals were my message in a bottle. I am not strong enough to re-matriculate people, and I am not sure what to do. Finding a Kevorkian to deliver me from getting buried by indigence is a dicey proposition. Writing from the heart is no longer a guarantee of anything, and even if Blogger allows me to resign into Ad Sense when I close LiveJournal, which should occur soon, I cannot really afford to pay in. I obviously do not cater to popular sentiment.
Kisha asks how I am, and I haven't responded to her yet. I fired her twice, yet she found my account on LinkedIn and let bygones be. I've no reason to troll the girl, relatively dark skinned with a son, she's more affluent than I, with my useless education.
Jerry doesn't know how many tears I shed for getting his signature on Vulgar Exhibitions. He was simply a teacher looking for an apartment, and I allowed this desultory instance to ruin my damn life. I should have simply asked him for a pity fuck and absorbed the damage from a cursory and brutal rejection, c'est pas? Enough men despise me if they do not view me as hustle slut trash otherwise.
Would it surprise you to learn I hired a 32 year old homosexual who enjoys cooking? I did it because of my post traumatic stress, and I told him about that, the assault. I also insinuated something about the damage to my health under the Medicaid waiver. I told him not to read my blog, this account, deflected what he presumed to be my progressive sympathy for gay marriage, and will admit to you, should he find my spastic dowager url and quit due to my reactionary stance, I will feel it. I am not so far sociopathic yet; however, beneath my conscience, I don't care, honestly, and this reflects how bloody far gone I am; he is white, still relatively young, and I've spent far too much time and money on housekeeping since my divorce and frustration with Tim Artis, sinking in quicksand; this is all I am doing, watching my emotional pain smoke from inside and out.
There is a writing job at Princeton and I'm telling myself to submit my resume and worry about the obstacles later, but my body is over a half century old and I am not sure who I'm kidding. People who knew me in the 90's here are shocked when they see the toll the damage my rift with Linda has taken on me. It has not been as much as some, but nevertheless, the damage has been considerable, more than all the sum total of my epistolary arts, to Ron Offen, the poet who never published me in Free Lunch, but responded to me by telling me about his wife's cancer. I carried his letters into work in my early days with Matrix at their strange, somewhat queer Alden Park offices. I wrote to everyone in the Len Fulton network, and even emailed Len himself later on when he took my SPR oped.
Now I post, to everyone, in theory, but it is not the same. Salutations on paper to individuals were my message in a bottle. I am not strong enough to re-matriculate people, and I am not sure what to do. Finding a Kevorkian to deliver me from getting buried by indigence is a dicey proposition. Writing from the heart is no longer a guarantee of anything, and even if Blogger allows me to resign into Ad Sense when I close LiveJournal, which should occur soon, I cannot really afford to pay in. I obviously do not cater to popular sentiment.
Kisha asks how I am, and I haven't responded to her yet. I fired her twice, yet she found my account on LinkedIn and let bygones be. I've no reason to troll the girl, relatively dark skinned with a son, she's more affluent than I, with my useless education.
Jerry doesn't know how many tears I shed for getting his signature on Vulgar Exhibitions. He was simply a teacher looking for an apartment, and I allowed this desultory instance to ruin my damn life. I should have simply asked him for a pity fuck and absorbed the damage from a cursory and brutal rejection, c'est pas? Enough men despise me if they do not view me as hustle slut trash otherwise.
Friday, March 28, 2014
The Hunt for Kony
"There were people with their tongues hanging out of their mouths."-- a child narrator in a Richard Gere film
Scowling. The viewers who reported me due to the immersion of my sympathy with Christopher Dorner had it right in the first place, and correctly divined my genocidal impetus. I would dare to sit in judgment, and like the Chinese authorities in the Peoples’ Republic, I’d gleefully waste thousands here and thousands there in hyperbolic exaggeration, and deep down inside, there are many human power mongers like me, not to add a few Egyptian generals to the list, or the entire governing body of North Korea. The only reason I do not really let loose, I mean really let it out in a verbal ingenuity of hell fiend on wheels in a scathing vat of boiling gold to the tenth Klevin, is only partially due to an over developed paranoia. I care too much about the project I’ve developed on my two blogging accounts, akin to my fervor to annihilate public housing.
The fossil fuel residue that ignites my violet Roman temper upset mio padre. I telephoned him to discuss estate planning in my avarice. He then telephoned his demented sister of whom, it may be said, is wearing me out in her shrewd and shrill inconsistencies. This, from a spastic running her native tongue into the searing Fahrenheit. Marie, my Uncle Joseph, Louise mio padre’s wife, with her RA, would save us a great deal of trouble with a lungful or two of carbon monoxide, regardless of my cousins’ umbrage. Richie and I do not get along, and he’d whale me for the blunt force of my unhappiness his mother has absorbed since 2006. Billy would be softer.
Should I apologize to the writers like Robert and academics like Carrol Cox or Sheldon Novick, when I letter write failure miseries in my box set? I did the same thing to Professor Jerry McGuire, now in emeritus status, deploy rhetorical strategies to make the more deftly able feel badly for me. I would apologize to Robert for my last plaint, but he is too well mannered to tell me he is weary of my electric chatter in his head, and I am uncouth enough to go into minute speculative detail signifying nothing, except for one small item. Robert is my exception to the rule about online interactions. He is my friend, mainly because we’re both poets. All I was going to convey is that I do not want to sleep with him, and then apologize to his wife for that, but you see how the worms wriggle in the tin if I keep up this reflective introspection, especially as one Watson like sidekick is better than none at all. You have no idea how much I’d like to say “fuck housekeeping” and bring back an official caste system. I have to lie down, as I’m interviewing a second candidate later this afternoon, even when I utilize a post as letter writing to no one. I would have liked Reiner's film somewhat better if it was as nuanced as Lost in Translation. I may pick this up again. Buttock has made a request, in the interim, not to suicide by pressure sore. One of my former aides just pinged me on Linked In. That she will probably regret in relatively short order, ha.
Scowling. The viewers who reported me due to the immersion of my sympathy with Christopher Dorner had it right in the first place, and correctly divined my genocidal impetus. I would dare to sit in judgment, and like the Chinese authorities in the Peoples’ Republic, I’d gleefully waste thousands here and thousands there in hyperbolic exaggeration, and deep down inside, there are many human power mongers like me, not to add a few Egyptian generals to the list, or the entire governing body of North Korea. The only reason I do not really let loose, I mean really let it out in a verbal ingenuity of hell fiend on wheels in a scathing vat of boiling gold to the tenth Klevin, is only partially due to an over developed paranoia. I care too much about the project I’ve developed on my two blogging accounts, akin to my fervor to annihilate public housing.
The fossil fuel residue that ignites my violet Roman temper upset mio padre. I telephoned him to discuss estate planning in my avarice. He then telephoned his demented sister of whom, it may be said, is wearing me out in her shrewd and shrill inconsistencies. This, from a spastic running her native tongue into the searing Fahrenheit. Marie, my Uncle Joseph, Louise mio padre’s wife, with her RA, would save us a great deal of trouble with a lungful or two of carbon monoxide, regardless of my cousins’ umbrage. Richie and I do not get along, and he’d whale me for the blunt force of my unhappiness his mother has absorbed since 2006. Billy would be softer.
Should I apologize to the writers like Robert and academics like Carrol Cox or Sheldon Novick, when I letter write failure miseries in my box set? I did the same thing to Professor Jerry McGuire, now in emeritus status, deploy rhetorical strategies to make the more deftly able feel badly for me. I would apologize to Robert for my last plaint, but he is too well mannered to tell me he is weary of my electric chatter in his head, and I am uncouth enough to go into minute speculative detail signifying nothing, except for one small item. Robert is my exception to the rule about online interactions. He is my friend, mainly because we’re both poets. All I was going to convey is that I do not want to sleep with him, and then apologize to his wife for that, but you see how the worms wriggle in the tin if I keep up this reflective introspection, especially as one Watson like sidekick is better than none at all. You have no idea how much I’d like to say “fuck housekeeping” and bring back an official caste system. I have to lie down, as I’m interviewing a second candidate later this afternoon, even when I utilize a post as letter writing to no one. I would have liked Reiner's film somewhat better if it was as nuanced as Lost in Translation. I may pick this up again. Buttock has made a request, in the interim, not to suicide by pressure sore. One of my former aides just pinged me on Linked In. That she will probably regret in relatively short order, ha.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
A Chameleon in the Tradition of Lawrence, O'Toole Even
"The advantage of the sponges was that they were mobile; plucking them would not kill them."-- Piers Anthony, franchise followed.
International recognition for the role of Gandhi is within the bounds of an acceptable idea to be embraced. Attenborough had a passion for this subject and the pool of indigenous performers who could live up to the rigors of such an epic were scant, at least one surmises, since Attenborough's project is largely forgotten, like water rolling off one's back, but one could see the need for an amphibian.
Is it subversive, or a testament that Kingsley switch hits from native activist to Holocaust victim Itzhak with his head lice, to pseudo-fascist in Death and The Maiden--which, with a concession to its superficiality as an adaptation from a play still has a language broadening an appreciation for the solidarity of Sigourney Weaver's center, to the chess eccentric in Searching For Bobby Fischer, to the maniac in Suspect Zero, which at least glimmers on the heels of his outline as Logan in the Y2K Sexy Beast.
There are still celebrity followers out there who will pay to see an actor they admire in a movie, but the jack of all trades approach depreciates over time. Zero is a perfect example of film with a script which makes no sense, and all Kingsley's malevolent force of will, even in deterministic despair, cannot save.
Merhinge does manage to visualize sordidness through the lens of his miserable cinematic effort; it bombed because it had a bad aftertaste and grimy residue that became unidentifiable--lessons not learned through studying McNaughton's serial portrait saga. Henry used the gross to its advantage. One thing the Brits have left over in their lost spoils of global dominion is a courageous ability to excavate a story with stark ruthlessness. Kingsley made the transition to the American soft boil, with a dangerous whiff of the commonplace despite his reversal of expectations for the Anglophile.
International recognition for the role of Gandhi is within the bounds of an acceptable idea to be embraced. Attenborough had a passion for this subject and the pool of indigenous performers who could live up to the rigors of such an epic were scant, at least one surmises, since Attenborough's project is largely forgotten, like water rolling off one's back, but one could see the need for an amphibian.
Is it subversive, or a testament that Kingsley switch hits from native activist to Holocaust victim Itzhak with his head lice, to pseudo-fascist in Death and The Maiden--which, with a concession to its superficiality as an adaptation from a play still has a language broadening an appreciation for the solidarity of Sigourney Weaver's center, to the chess eccentric in Searching For Bobby Fischer, to the maniac in Suspect Zero, which at least glimmers on the heels of his outline as Logan in the Y2K Sexy Beast.
There are still celebrity followers out there who will pay to see an actor they admire in a movie, but the jack of all trades approach depreciates over time. Zero is a perfect example of film with a script which makes no sense, and all Kingsley's malevolent force of will, even in deterministic despair, cannot save.
Merhinge does manage to visualize sordidness through the lens of his miserable cinematic effort; it bombed because it had a bad aftertaste and grimy residue that became unidentifiable--lessons not learned through studying McNaughton's serial portrait saga. Henry used the gross to its advantage. One thing the Brits have left over in their lost spoils of global dominion is a courageous ability to excavate a story with stark ruthlessness. Kingsley made the transition to the American soft boil, with a dangerous whiff of the commonplace despite his reversal of expectations for the Anglophile.
Ethnographic Sins, like shedding purple kush
The herd of reechoing tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into solemnity. -- Henry James
The game of first billing, the subtextual energy it generates, this is difficult to encapsulate, just as much as the components that make up successful theatrical performances. An episode Firefly? Didn't register. The good wife against Chris Rock in the anemic I Think I Love My Wife? Forgettable black comedy too simply delineated. Up against a Danish actor playing the ultimate American monster, however, Gina Torres comes into her own, except that her intimacy with Laurence doesn't quite conflate the viewers' attention under the episode director.
One can commiserate on the slight with Thomas Harris. He created Hannibal and earned his moola and bravo to that, but the character is no longer his. The methodical death machine is now a celebrated art. He belongs to Anthony's accolades as much as to the author who conceptualized him. Mads and others only add to the comparison. But what kind of language is it? The craft of pretend must have some of the structural comforts that made the work of Levi-Strauss so influential in its time. We read actors like brands now, within their mediums. Laurence, for instance, doing the buck hustle in Searching for Bobby Fischer offers a kind of wry, almost pleasing augmentation. Great movie which anticipates what going digital was about to do to us. A visit to the real Josh Waitzkin's website invites bewilderment, however. Exactly what kind of genius are we supposed to recognize? New age Facebook savvy?
Gina Torres shouldn't have to carry a black identity, and from what I'm able to infer since paying attention to her glamour register, she herself seems ambivalent about putting a face on translucence. Every diva wants to try her hand at the death scene. Bette Davis, Charlize Theron, Sandy Dennis. Even Sally Field trashes up the place badly in Two Weeks, but in her few minutes against Mads, Torres benefits from the necessity for television editors. There is something vibrant in her struggle for dignity against loathsome motives.
The game of first billing, the subtextual energy it generates, this is difficult to encapsulate, just as much as the components that make up successful theatrical performances. An episode Firefly? Didn't register. The good wife against Chris Rock in the anemic I Think I Love My Wife? Forgettable black comedy too simply delineated. Up against a Danish actor playing the ultimate American monster, however, Gina Torres comes into her own, except that her intimacy with Laurence doesn't quite conflate the viewers' attention under the episode director.
One can commiserate on the slight with Thomas Harris. He created Hannibal and earned his moola and bravo to that, but the character is no longer his. The methodical death machine is now a celebrated art. He belongs to Anthony's accolades as much as to the author who conceptualized him. Mads and others only add to the comparison. But what kind of language is it? The craft of pretend must have some of the structural comforts that made the work of Levi-Strauss so influential in its time. We read actors like brands now, within their mediums. Laurence, for instance, doing the buck hustle in Searching for Bobby Fischer offers a kind of wry, almost pleasing augmentation. Great movie which anticipates what going digital was about to do to us. A visit to the real Josh Waitzkin's website invites bewilderment, however. Exactly what kind of genius are we supposed to recognize? New age Facebook savvy?
Gina Torres shouldn't have to carry a black identity, and from what I'm able to infer since paying attention to her glamour register, she herself seems ambivalent about putting a face on translucence. Every diva wants to try her hand at the death scene. Bette Davis, Charlize Theron, Sandy Dennis. Even Sally Field trashes up the place badly in Two Weeks, but in her few minutes against Mads, Torres benefits from the necessity for television editors. There is something vibrant in her struggle for dignity against loathsome motives.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Tomasi
Increasing soy, legume, and flaxseed consumption can help with estrogen deficiency.
Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:
I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.
I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.
A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.
Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:
I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.
I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.
A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.
Monday, March 17, 2014
... And Clench
Remember the Microsoft commercial with the deaf girl signing in the Bill Gates utopian sense, that there were no disabilities online? It is not true. I am alienated wherever I go, no matter whom I talk to, or what I do, barring a stranger's lack of familiarity. It may be what I get for hanging out with pompous assholes who flatter themselves over rhetorical expertise and treating early experts as a vocabulary which cannot be entered into without wearily cataloged diligence, but my point isn't about the electronic social cut; it's about belonging. I still want to fit in somewhere. The Jewish museum-- well, what did I expect, especially if I can't contact my Jewish cousins for cover?
I was banned by Poets & Writers, and allowed The Literature Network to repeat the process, I can never reconcile with disability activists in Philadelphia, and after oh, 15 years of posts with literary instructors on a group list, I get bitch slapped every time I assert myself. And my family? Well-- you know what that's like. I'm very depressed-- no, wrong sensibility.
Inchoate flailing. It occurred to me that the poster who once had the idea of Ulysses being a Cubist novel may have thought my response was an insult. Said response was more like a yelp, given my hostility to an exercise Joyce himself described as a "damned long novel."
Now you understand why purists kill intellectuals when they have a coup and bear responsibility for genocidal routs.
I was banned by Poets & Writers, and allowed The Literature Network to repeat the process, I can never reconcile with disability activists in Philadelphia, and after oh, 15 years of posts with literary instructors on a group list, I get bitch slapped every time I assert myself. And my family? Well-- you know what that's like. I'm very depressed-- no, wrong sensibility.
Inchoate flailing. It occurred to me that the poster who once had the idea of Ulysses being a Cubist novel may have thought my response was an insult. Said response was more like a yelp, given my hostility to an exercise Joyce himself described as a "damned long novel."
Now you understand why purists kill intellectuals when they have a coup and bear responsibility for genocidal routs.
Ladies' gloves
How far would you go to bite that hand that feeds? Shit on your kitchen table? The question reminds me that as much as I hate musicals, Dennis Potter's highbrow muck was a rare and indelible experience. I have had masturbatory fantasies of Michael Gambon ejaculation like simulations for a long time after a much younger, or more adventurous, WHYY aired the risque vision, for which they took some heat and never aired again. Pretentious wussies. I was going to deploy harder diction, but I'm tired.
Look, people, if most of you think I am a troll, or a portion of you do, to some degree, you're right, but rules about not feeding aren't always a valid proposition. If some of you think I'm obfuscating or confusing, you may have a valid critique. I may carry the burdens of my anti-social behavior with me, but I do not attack a participatory audience merely to provoke. When I respect responsible thinkers, I can mind my manners. Ask him. It isn't that I want to beg for feedback, but if I lose you I can't read your minds to divine that.
Look, people, if most of you think I am a troll, or a portion of you do, to some degree, you're right, but rules about not feeding aren't always a valid proposition. If some of you think I'm obfuscating or confusing, you may have a valid critique. I may carry the burdens of my anti-social behavior with me, but I do not attack a participatory audience merely to provoke. When I respect responsible thinkers, I can mind my manners. Ask him. It isn't that I want to beg for feedback, but if I lose you I can't read your minds to divine that.
Superficial Sincerity
"He explores the invisible the way others explore an unknown island." -- Tzvetan Todorov
Perhaps Gillian Anderson perseveres due to the wide-eyed hazel expression of sacrificial duplicity from which we blithely follow, whether or not she was Scully the incredulous or a gilded age female doomed to failure. The X-Files filter through in the smallest segments. Mulder rescuing Anderson from the usual humanoid transformation deemed a pathological exploit, or the send up to paranoia: insects as alien scouts. That's it. Nine seasons of fiddle and faddle. Yet she works in Hannibal as the psychiatrist, whacko to whacko, Fuller's irony intangibly perfect.
Two pitches, this while I evaluate my Teflon frying pan from my doomed Kmart outlet as a murder weapon. Do I still have the arm strength? Whack on the skull, joyous giggle, last downtown fugue. Policy analysts would differentiate the Iraq War and the Crimean annexation as follows: Bush destroyed Saddam Hussein as a conservative rebuttal to Al Qaida, trying to free the Arabic Islamic world from tyranny, even if Cheney wanted uncontested fossil fuel access. The war was a policy disaster with far reaching consequences, but it was a case of America fighting to give the gift of liberty.
Putin, conversely, is utilizing sentiment for Mother Russia to rebuild a quasi-Czarist state. This is evil as opposed to our good, even if we stepped in dog shit as a consequence. I would have bought this line of reasoning as a young student.
Mind, I am not particularly sympathetic to authoritarian state models from the past, but liberalism is just as exhausted as is our imperial impetus
Perhaps Gillian Anderson perseveres due to the wide-eyed hazel expression of sacrificial duplicity from which we blithely follow, whether or not she was Scully the incredulous or a gilded age female doomed to failure. The X-Files filter through in the smallest segments. Mulder rescuing Anderson from the usual humanoid transformation deemed a pathological exploit, or the send up to paranoia: insects as alien scouts. That's it. Nine seasons of fiddle and faddle. Yet she works in Hannibal as the psychiatrist, whacko to whacko, Fuller's irony intangibly perfect.
Two pitches, this while I evaluate my Teflon frying pan from my doomed Kmart outlet as a murder weapon. Do I still have the arm strength? Whack on the skull, joyous giggle, last downtown fugue. Policy analysts would differentiate the Iraq War and the Crimean annexation as follows: Bush destroyed Saddam Hussein as a conservative rebuttal to Al Qaida, trying to free the Arabic Islamic world from tyranny, even if Cheney wanted uncontested fossil fuel access. The war was a policy disaster with far reaching consequences, but it was a case of America fighting to give the gift of liberty.
Putin, conversely, is utilizing sentiment for Mother Russia to rebuild a quasi-Czarist state. This is evil as opposed to our good, even if we stepped in dog shit as a consequence. I would have bought this line of reasoning as a young student.
Mind, I am not particularly sympathetic to authoritarian state models from the past, but liberalism is just as exhausted as is our imperial impetus
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Orbital Jellies Bounce Dull Blades
In the facade of diligence, I long ago took notes on Of Human Bondage in my wheelchair friendlier inner city apartment, always meshing disability studies, and what better way than through the harpsichord of W. Somerset Maugham's sexual indifference to women unless they were dying of syphilis. Faggot doctors, with Hollywood's ingenious tapering of Tyrone Power to serve as the face of the lost generation. In fairness, I have no idea what the struggling matinee pony boy knew of Fitzgerald's jazz age, but he was a young child of America's derelict energies between the great wars. Such a damn stupid film. Fake acting, paint by numbers schematic. Despite myself, I also watched Gillian Anderson inhabit Edith Wharton's Lilly Barth. Been some time since I took my LOA of Wharton out of the bookcase my father gave me, and I do not remember Stolz having such a prominent place in the novel. The television adaption shriveled the antisemitism of Wharton's milieu. No surprise. I can't say if it is better to go quickly and thus be enshrined like Power, victim of daddy genetics, or wilt like a run of the mill has been horse's ass, sans David Brenner.
Obviously, if I am unhappy slaving away for Examiner.com then I should ease up and revest my energy into the hope of better pay for other markets. It annoys me. That I remember Brenner at all and felt caught with my pants down, that his obituary was notable enough for no real reason other then the fact that I watched him and can't place any value on his jokes except for the fact that he was a lanky horse who came out of the same urban environment in which my energies are ebbing with every damn bowel transit.
Not fame I ever wanted. Success. The right man. The right version of esteem and self-sufficiency, all down the drain of fear, my own version of Gillian's cry of uselessness in a character where she exudes pretense and middling craft, and yet her Barth, who doesn't want to pay the price of her vanity in relation to her own self worth as a feminine figure worth having, manages to break through in a facsimile of every woman's insecurity. Had I married Frank, it would have amounted to an unspeakable horror. My job as a writer is to convey it, the obscene pot-marked Hispanic skin, his ocher obesity and gout. The big google diabetic eyes, the constant maintenance of his living carcass, just like my last living uncle with his frigging MRSA and Marie's terror of it. Fucking western physicians, and here I am, still striving. Ah. My poor aunt tells me she is a latent carrier. Our wondrous support systems.
Obviously, if I am unhappy slaving away for Examiner.com then I should ease up and revest my energy into the hope of better pay for other markets. It annoys me. That I remember Brenner at all and felt caught with my pants down, that his obituary was notable enough for no real reason other then the fact that I watched him and can't place any value on his jokes except for the fact that he was a lanky horse who came out of the same urban environment in which my energies are ebbing with every damn bowel transit.
Not fame I ever wanted. Success. The right man. The right version of esteem and self-sufficiency, all down the drain of fear, my own version of Gillian's cry of uselessness in a character where she exudes pretense and middling craft, and yet her Barth, who doesn't want to pay the price of her vanity in relation to her own self worth as a feminine figure worth having, manages to break through in a facsimile of every woman's insecurity. Had I married Frank, it would have amounted to an unspeakable horror. My job as a writer is to convey it, the obscene pot-marked Hispanic skin, his ocher obesity and gout. The big google diabetic eyes, the constant maintenance of his living carcass, just like my last living uncle with his frigging MRSA and Marie's terror of it. Fucking western physicians, and here I am, still striving. Ah. My poor aunt tells me she is a latent carrier. Our wondrous support systems.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Bull horns
"Make love as much a you can. It's good for you."-- maybe an exact quote from Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night.
I rolled into the office yesterday and told Trudy Richardson I wanted a meeting about Presby transferring me out of the company. This made my despair unravel a considerable distance, but public housing is more corrupt than the Koch brother's money funneling right wing dissension, so, if I vanish, vested interests have deliberately injected me with cancer causing agents. Danny Aiello screaming Jack Ruby at the top of his lungs. You remember that made for television movie, right? I believe the JFK assassination was a conspiracy, but I also believe it failed, and no one would dare it again. Pressed for time, my charming aunt screamed into voicemail, "Joanne what happened to the plane?"
"Aunt Marie, what the fuck do you think I am, black ops?" Italian aunts. I did not actually offer her that rejoinder.
Just because I have not connected all the dots, this doesn't mean I'm wrong. Told you so. And I will connect the dots. Policy pieces take time.
I rolled into the office yesterday and told Trudy Richardson I wanted a meeting about Presby transferring me out of the company. This made my despair unravel a considerable distance, but public housing is more corrupt than the Koch brother's money funneling right wing dissension, so, if I vanish, vested interests have deliberately injected me with cancer causing agents. Danny Aiello screaming Jack Ruby at the top of his lungs. You remember that made for television movie, right? I believe the JFK assassination was a conspiracy, but I also believe it failed, and no one would dare it again. Pressed for time, my charming aunt screamed into voicemail, "Joanne what happened to the plane?"
"Aunt Marie, what the fuck do you think I am, black ops?" Italian aunts. I did not actually offer her that rejoinder.
Just because I have not connected all the dots, this doesn't mean I'm wrong. Told you so. And I will connect the dots. Policy pieces take time.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
JJ Abrams, modern Baptist
"You're in so much pain that--" Gretchen Laskas, banning me from the boards with forgotten similes
"I'm sorry you're in so much pain."-- Linda C Dezenski, trigger happy matron
I've yet to see mainstream media outlets link Malaysia Flight 370 to the revolutionary pilot that unfortunately imprinted Abrams on the national psyche. My aggregate may have done it, and I would not put such a move past The Huffington Post, although I will not attempt to verify this supposition, but it feels like an ominous parallel. Ample reason I do not wish to aggregate the mysterious incident, despite having a rationale to do so. Philadelphia has a changing demographic with its Asian influx in recent years, and though much of that influx probably doesn't utilize the Internet due to the language barrier, some have naturalized, speak American. Perhaps I'll change my mind, and callously turn it into science fiction hype, without designating it as newsworthy so as to not have any speculative arguments with Examiner managers I am not absolutely certain exist.
Gretchen, intrepid novelist, abandoned any link we actually had with each other; it was her prerogative-- I've abandoned people, and if certain Philadelphia activists attempted rapprochement violence would be the end result. Not television's glamorous violence, nothing in fact that some viewers wouldn't make fun of, old wheelchair user grabbing a developmentally immature homosexual's balls for a preschool bully battle, but I miss engaging with writers and authors. So stressed with monetary decline, however, aging into a kind of golden zealotry which cannot possibly exist, I am not sure my family understands the depth of my rage. Marie, father's sister, has an inkling, and the fact that she spent 550 on a Raymour & Flanigan deal is making me physically ill. I no longer have the luxury for this kind of outlay, but have an appointment with them Thursday, simply for a bedding replacement. The harder I try, the deeper I'm sinking. Therapy isn't going to help me. I have spent a lifetime parrying with clinical psychologists and triage psychiatrists. My mind is closed to efficacy of counselors. Not that I'm assigning blame, but the counselor with whom I was going to have an affair when Linda was enjoying her flauntlet with me, he suggested I'd implode. That wasn't an entirely useful insinuation, in retrospect. Not that I'm being hard on him; his marriage was failing. We wouldn't have been good lovers.
"I'm sorry you're in so much pain."-- Linda C Dezenski, trigger happy matron
I've yet to see mainstream media outlets link Malaysia Flight 370 to the revolutionary pilot that unfortunately imprinted Abrams on the national psyche. My aggregate may have done it, and I would not put such a move past The Huffington Post, although I will not attempt to verify this supposition, but it feels like an ominous parallel. Ample reason I do not wish to aggregate the mysterious incident, despite having a rationale to do so. Philadelphia has a changing demographic with its Asian influx in recent years, and though much of that influx probably doesn't utilize the Internet due to the language barrier, some have naturalized, speak American. Perhaps I'll change my mind, and callously turn it into science fiction hype, without designating it as newsworthy so as to not have any speculative arguments with Examiner managers I am not absolutely certain exist.
Gretchen, intrepid novelist, abandoned any link we actually had with each other; it was her prerogative-- I've abandoned people, and if certain Philadelphia activists attempted rapprochement violence would be the end result. Not television's glamorous violence, nothing in fact that some viewers wouldn't make fun of, old wheelchair user grabbing a developmentally immature homosexual's balls for a preschool bully battle, but I miss engaging with writers and authors. So stressed with monetary decline, however, aging into a kind of golden zealotry which cannot possibly exist, I am not sure my family understands the depth of my rage. Marie, father's sister, has an inkling, and the fact that she spent 550 on a Raymour & Flanigan deal is making me physically ill. I no longer have the luxury for this kind of outlay, but have an appointment with them Thursday, simply for a bedding replacement. The harder I try, the deeper I'm sinking. Therapy isn't going to help me. I have spent a lifetime parrying with clinical psychologists and triage psychiatrists. My mind is closed to efficacy of counselors. Not that I'm assigning blame, but the counselor with whom I was going to have an affair when Linda was enjoying her flauntlet with me, he suggested I'd implode. That wasn't an entirely useful insinuation, in retrospect. Not that I'm being hard on him; his marriage was failing. We wouldn't have been good lovers.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Shards and fissures
I used to believe I'd automatically get myself excluded from the established press if I told the truth about inherent bias, but it is something of which most readers are suspicious of already, not without justification. Let me give a for instance. Eugene Robinson yesterday faults the administration's liberal self-righteousness in villainizing Putin's provocation in the Crimea, and indeed, Eugene's voice sates progressive outrage with the Bush Administration's 9/11 overreach. Nothing wrong with pandering to a liberal base trying to shore up a fading promise Barack Obama represented. If candidate Obama had not aspired to the presidency, one can speculate what he might have done as an inspirational leader on a more nuanced platform.
Like Robinson, I actually remember Grenada. I can neither affirm nor deny that it was an appropriate domino effect for Reagan era spheres of influence, but citing the US incursion on the petite Caribbean paradise doesn't explain Ukrainian turmoil. Neither does citing America's systemic destruction of Saddam Hussein's regime in Iraq. There is a minority viewpoint which doesn't equate Putin with Mussolini, which is not to be blind to modern Russian brutality. I am not unaware of ugly brute force in Russian penal systems, but this doesn't preclude Vladimir from acting out of legitimate national interests.
In that vein, plagiarism is not quite the crime journalists make it out to be, and that was what I was driving at in my column about fraud in my Examiner piece on Glass's inability to acquire a legal license. The editorial chicks who deign to approve or reject my pieces for a certain degree of promotional status didn't like it as newsworthy commentary. Certainly their prerogative, though I stayed up all night researching it, debating a call to the bar association contact. I am on to a thesis which matters, at least in relation to veracity. I do not believe my finished product, as such, does all that badly getting me where I want to go.
I have to watch a very young Peter Falk play a spree killer for Hitchcock again; it was an interesting rationalization. Past informing the present; Falk did not mind spoofing himself, but he never played his audience false. I miss him. He loved life, tumbling with adversity and coming out of it with a twinkle in his eye. Tassoni had the same propensity toward sardonic affection in his gaze.
Like Robinson, I actually remember Grenada. I can neither affirm nor deny that it was an appropriate domino effect for Reagan era spheres of influence, but citing the US incursion on the petite Caribbean paradise doesn't explain Ukrainian turmoil. Neither does citing America's systemic destruction of Saddam Hussein's regime in Iraq. There is a minority viewpoint which doesn't equate Putin with Mussolini, which is not to be blind to modern Russian brutality. I am not unaware of ugly brute force in Russian penal systems, but this doesn't preclude Vladimir from acting out of legitimate national interests.
In that vein, plagiarism is not quite the crime journalists make it out to be, and that was what I was driving at in my column about fraud in my Examiner piece on Glass's inability to acquire a legal license. The editorial chicks who deign to approve or reject my pieces for a certain degree of promotional status didn't like it as newsworthy commentary. Certainly their prerogative, though I stayed up all night researching it, debating a call to the bar association contact. I am on to a thesis which matters, at least in relation to veracity. I do not believe my finished product, as such, does all that badly getting me where I want to go.
I have to watch a very young Peter Falk play a spree killer for Hitchcock again; it was an interesting rationalization. Past informing the present; Falk did not mind spoofing himself, but he never played his audience false. I miss him. He loved life, tumbling with adversity and coming out of it with a twinkle in his eye. Tassoni had the same propensity toward sardonic affection in his gaze.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Joe Caroll
Beneath the stark application of its squish bags, and its cheats, (we'll never see Purefoy actually killing the females who then comprise his dark art), The Following has a subtextual frustration with liberalism which appeals to Fox's audience. One can understand the need to gut progressive propensities and squelch around in the carnage, and beneath every moderate, domesticated middlebrow lies a secret zealot. The show's writers are careful to placate progressives in one possibly unrealistic sense. Caroll doesn't discriminate over whom he inducts. Perhaps due to political sensitivity, we do not see any Cambodian cult members, but blacks and whites and Indians are equal opportunity looms or hard ass informers, hence the show's dark humor between its graphic eruptions. Yet I cannot watch much of the series without an undercurrent of fear in my own vulnerability, one which Hannibal doesn't elicit. Both shows are applying ascetic values subversively, however. Both have an aesthetic defense, which I am not sure applies to the chances I've taken with my reactionary scorn.
Disability in Entertainment Arts will never be promoted in mainstream outlets, even if I clean it up and find a way to stop insinuating murder revenge plots according to powerful medieval Curia codes. Different as Britain's worldview is from Roman bloodlust, both imperial modalities understood ruthlessness, something which gave the original Avengers a modernist style which cannot be copied. I was a young girl during its American run, and its satirical arrows toward the superpower it spawned was over my head, but Emma Peel was an early and impossible superlative standard. I cannot wear leather without connoting granary sacks.
Disability in Entertainment Arts will never be promoted in mainstream outlets, even if I clean it up and find a way to stop insinuating murder revenge plots according to powerful medieval Curia codes. Different as Britain's worldview is from Roman bloodlust, both imperial modalities understood ruthlessness, something which gave the original Avengers a modernist style which cannot be copied. I was a young girl during its American run, and its satirical arrows toward the superpower it spawned was over my head, but Emma Peel was an early and impossible superlative standard. I cannot wear leather without connoting granary sacks.
Reign?
"She has a system," Trader Joe's associate, two bells
Conservatives are right to criticize victim's narcissism; it is exceedingly self-involved. Viewers inclined to sympathize don't know what to say. At the moment I feel overwhelmed, and, even if I wanted to engage in illegal schemes or really invective language, it would amount to an exercise in futility. Angry quadriplegics are that. I've been sick to my stomach with the memory of this Eddy throwing herself on me. Sick with Linda's scathing embarrassment ringing in my ears. I splintered like the crack of a tree trunk, sick from my own embarrassed lashing out at her, or the memory of my stepfather, or my brother, little Nicky. He paged me at the partial hospital when he thought it was time. He wanted me to help him die. Couldn't do that for him.
Yet, my vibrancy is still there. "I shouldn't buy them," I said, "because when I open them I eat them all." I barely noticed the man. That is my way of blocking out ambulatory paternalism, but I must have amused him, because I noticed him smiling at me when we changed aisles, and he would have been perfect. Grandfather who passes out $20 dollar bills at funerals. Pot belly but carried well. "Take care," he said, flushed.
What was I supposed to do, scream "Wait, tell me you're divorced and don't feel threatened?"
I may keep Thomas H Earle entertained; I may even win and get reforms instituted in rehabilitation law, but I've never lived my thriving sensory engaged literary life.
Conservatives are right to criticize victim's narcissism; it is exceedingly self-involved. Viewers inclined to sympathize don't know what to say. At the moment I feel overwhelmed, and, even if I wanted to engage in illegal schemes or really invective language, it would amount to an exercise in futility. Angry quadriplegics are that. I've been sick to my stomach with the memory of this Eddy throwing herself on me. Sick with Linda's scathing embarrassment ringing in my ears. I splintered like the crack of a tree trunk, sick from my own embarrassed lashing out at her, or the memory of my stepfather, or my brother, little Nicky. He paged me at the partial hospital when he thought it was time. He wanted me to help him die. Couldn't do that for him.
Yet, my vibrancy is still there. "I shouldn't buy them," I said, "because when I open them I eat them all." I barely noticed the man. That is my way of blocking out ambulatory paternalism, but I must have amused him, because I noticed him smiling at me when we changed aisles, and he would have been perfect. Grandfather who passes out $20 dollar bills at funerals. Pot belly but carried well. "Take care," he said, flushed.
What was I supposed to do, scream "Wait, tell me you're divorced and don't feel threatened?"
I may keep Thomas H Earle entertained; I may even win and get reforms instituted in rehabilitation law, but I've never lived my thriving sensory engaged literary life.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Twilight Spaces
"It lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge."-- Rod Serling
Yes, I know people. Let it all go, and I demean my once fine, if wounded, intelligence, by denigrating self'indulgent bitches. It is over. Miss Eddy was vanquished, and the white mental health amputee Sharon who also thought I was a tasty dyke vibe, I will undoubtedly never see again. I am not one of Hillary Clinton's victims of war rape. For the natives of the Congo who managed to migrate out of that horrific scenario, it is over. Not for me.
Minority attendants have been known to be charged with manslaughter, second degree murder, grand larceny. When I was Ms. Dezenski's happier subordinate, I was indelibly impressed upon by fully paralyzed men with horror stories of their apartments being cleaned out while they were forcibly left stranded. I have written a thousand dollars of articles on the subject. My analytic abilities were no surety. And after what I went through after ten years of defying the model, I live in fear of my life.
When I was 23 years old, fresh in exile, I did not utilize paraprofessionals, and battled through a failed career, a miserable life, a complex sense of threat by Ms. Dezenski which I brought on my own head by letting her sow crab grass onto my impending distress (and this was a friendship how exactly, what the mother fuck am I mourning/hating and nearly powerless to vindicate?) to not utilizing them once again, but my strength is shrinking like Gina Torres parrying with Mads, vibrant actress she is, strength that ebbs out of me, like stool mucus. I left television off to work Friday and forgot the second season premiere. Do I watch it now, sleepy, tinnitus buzzing?
Maybe I will find a way to relocate; maybe I won't. I am 52 and shrinking, and I'd rather be euthanized than be turned into an African American trash talking fuck toy, or worse. Diane Babikian, former coordinator manager at Liberty, when I finally got her on the phone, this before the great 2008 layoff, "said ooooooo no," in relation to my coordinator's lack of professionalism, but she also implied that maybe I misinterpreted Eddy's attempted seduction, as if a woman in her mid-forties can't tell when she is being propositioned. If Chris Christie cannot get out of high school, disability centers run on perpetual elementary instruction.
Dr. George Cruthers was a quack. He had a school, aptly called George Cruthers. He tortured children with cerebral palsy with corporeal punishment. My method of surviving: throwing a blue in the face squall which moved my fuck up parents enough to withdraw me after one year. Linda C Dezenski was there for seven. Seven years of a would be cultish-like Ron Hubbard. Fortunately Pennsylvania is clueless when it comes to the creation of infamous repressed homosexuals.
Yes, I know people. Let it all go, and I demean my once fine, if wounded, intelligence, by denigrating self'indulgent bitches. It is over. Miss Eddy was vanquished, and the white mental health amputee Sharon who also thought I was a tasty dyke vibe, I will undoubtedly never see again. I am not one of Hillary Clinton's victims of war rape. For the natives of the Congo who managed to migrate out of that horrific scenario, it is over. Not for me.
Minority attendants have been known to be charged with manslaughter, second degree murder, grand larceny. When I was Ms. Dezenski's happier subordinate, I was indelibly impressed upon by fully paralyzed men with horror stories of their apartments being cleaned out while they were forcibly left stranded. I have written a thousand dollars of articles on the subject. My analytic abilities were no surety. And after what I went through after ten years of defying the model, I live in fear of my life.
When I was 23 years old, fresh in exile, I did not utilize paraprofessionals, and battled through a failed career, a miserable life, a complex sense of threat by Ms. Dezenski which I brought on my own head by letting her sow crab grass onto my impending distress (and this was a friendship how exactly, what the mother fuck am I mourning/hating and nearly powerless to vindicate?) to not utilizing them once again, but my strength is shrinking like Gina Torres parrying with Mads, vibrant actress she is, strength that ebbs out of me, like stool mucus. I left television off to work Friday and forgot the second season premiere. Do I watch it now, sleepy, tinnitus buzzing?
Maybe I will find a way to relocate; maybe I won't. I am 52 and shrinking, and I'd rather be euthanized than be turned into an African American trash talking fuck toy, or worse. Diane Babikian, former coordinator manager at Liberty, when I finally got her on the phone, this before the great 2008 layoff, "said ooooooo no," in relation to my coordinator's lack of professionalism, but she also implied that maybe I misinterpreted Eddy's attempted seduction, as if a woman in her mid-forties can't tell when she is being propositioned. If Chris Christie cannot get out of high school, disability centers run on perpetual elementary instruction.
Dr. George Cruthers was a quack. He had a school, aptly called George Cruthers. He tortured children with cerebral palsy with corporeal punishment. My method of surviving: throwing a blue in the face squall which moved my fuck up parents enough to withdraw me after one year. Linda C Dezenski was there for seven. Seven years of a would be cultish-like Ron Hubbard. Fortunately Pennsylvania is clueless when it comes to the creation of infamous repressed homosexuals.
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