As goes the District

"I am confident section 202 housing can fly again to serve the low income elderly and the handicapped."-- a pontificating Senator

Black journalists like Jonetta Rose Barras always do this. As long as its a member of the minority media doling moral sanction and speaking to the corruption of minority politicians, then progressives of all stripes can relax. Poverty and negative behavior like destruction of property is indicted, and CBS engages in grand larceny against intelligence marketing "Big Brother" as gen x reality television. If it is the likes of Eric Edwards I am trying to reach, I have been partially successful, but only that, as I tersely told the actual humorist of his little non-fiction pamphlet and local celebrity status in San Diego to go stuff it, after indicating a willingness to be kind to his work. I managed the first paragraph of his introduction, and felt myself akin to Nathanael West in his Mardi Gras guise counseling suicide to his victims of Prohibition era misogyny, in yet another iteration. I might have lied, and wrote something pithy, handed him our convenient two or three star rating, Clarity Media would have pitched me a few more pennies in my wallet, and on we go, not deigning to interfere. Nathanael West is actually an amazing predictor of the future, for Examiner.com does not have to fire me. I am not staff, keep my content parenthetically innocuous, and we're on our merry way. Offering me what I want towards the end of my viable productivity might be a nightmare after all, so I should consider myself lucky to have survived the modern black police state, fossil that I am beneath the harmony of the Pro Publica strivers, busy fighting for capital offenders in Muncy and other pristine terror wards, or a misjudgment might leave me at the mercy of a less gruesome Ariel Castro. Such a house arrest is a plausible scenario of my desperate desire for change, as what is unsaid in my actual quest for an attorney to litigate my freedom with the least possible negative consequence is my own indictment of African American bigotry, the indifference and unwillingness of my own class to support me toward my own esteem of what I believed my empirical value to be. Gwen Ifill, like me, is from an era where submersion was the price one paid to climb professionally, only tacitly acknowledging the brotherhood which paid in blood for her to become a top national anchor. Gwen no longer has Jonetta's space to spearhead the issue of real estate and our diseased socialist model so succinctly, but her platform doesn't offer anything innovative, as chastisement has been with us since Clan of the Cave Bear.

I am not guilty of any of the problems associated with the public housing tenant save one, and in this vein of reigning in, none of my early instructors did me any favors through the recognition of my own promise-- and in point of fact, Sheldon's later encouragement is equally null, equally void, not because I am unable to write a biography of Alice James and her pitiful succor on the breast of the woman in service to care for her, but because such a despicable exercise is no bulwark.