Despite Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas, despite years of aggressive litigation to broaden civil rights, social reality on the ground is relatively stagnant in the African American community, at least when it comes to major urban enclaves. Philadelphia, Detroit, Compton, Liberty City, large sections of New Orleans, LA, the District of Columbia, even San Antonio, from what I've seen in historical footage, though I grant that Texan violence seems to have a more ruthless aspect to it. The Northeast corridor is more five and dime, if my years off campus were any indication. My perpetrator, for instance, allocated that he was subduing me in order to rob me, but I had next to nothing of value in Diamond Park, five dollars on my kitchen table, purchased by my Italian grandmother, utilized as a writing desk, I still keep my Smith Corona PWP on it, in my static environment. Five dollars, some change. Drug stabbings, drug fires, inner city neighborhoods aren't just about a deficit of resources, and poverty isn't simply about lack of money, nor even education. It's uselessness, and efficiency developers like Ev Williams cannot always solve this through coding and apps; neither can the Communist Party in Beijing, from what I've seen, and white Americans aren't immune from this malaise of not being able to apply themselves. Karina telephoned me Tuesday, unexpectedly, disruptive, and was quite changed, back to her natural brunette hair color, wearing very little mascara. I don't know what it is with me and this New Church woman who inadvertently ignited a war between me and Riverside's management, or, more correctly, ushered in the latest battle I will eventually lose. I feel badly for her, and like her even if she's flighty, leaving me with the mistake of trusting her judgment, and I suppose she feels badly for me, and I'm wondering if I engage in my last life altering event of giving my notice at the end of March, come hell or high water, if she'll let me sleep in her car. I've no idea how she's managed to retain the vehicle, even less why a 36 year old who's a bit loony wants to be my friend. I cannot pay her what I did, even if I find a writing job. What should the fact that she's being kind to an embittered cripple mean? She hardly has the resources to pool her fortunes with mine to help me relocate on the last leg of my viable years. She doesn't want to apply to be my consumer model attendant. Sandra Bland had a position awaiting her, by contrast, when she was arrested for that traffic violation. Did she fear losing it over a misdemeanor?
Spastics like myself have some insulation in that regard. Police do not like the hassle arresting wheelchair users pose, even if their domestic housekeeping presents itself as a liability, and as I come from a family with a number of first responders, I know something about cops and firefighters. They don't want to kill anybody, normally, and aren't prone to excessive force, not on the beat, but an arrest brings any citizen closer to a high risk lifestyle, though in most cases it is a revolving door, when it doesn't lead to rehabilitation due to injuries sustained in high crime areas. Darrell Jordan's decision to impanel a grand jury which then declines to indict doesn't foster trust in enforcement, any more than indicting a celebrity like Bill Cosby on hearsay is justice for victims of sexual assault, and just as automation forgets we're people first. I've been a writer publishing since I was 19, and Inquisitr has ignored my inquiries too.
Ozy would probably say, if it said anything, that my umbrage with them is misguided, and it probably used an automated system to sweep in my twitter account in 2014, and their email to my yahoo address was a prompt, and this doesn't obligate them to listen to me, especially since I am not a passive disabled woman grateful for ambulatory suffrage, but they certainly aren't as liberal as they claim if they can't handle how Philly's incompetent paradigm traumatized me. Won't even bother to listen. In California the unbearable lightness of being is a mandatory disposition, evidently.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Monday, December 28, 2015
Bear With Me
Very rapidly, in recent decades, that once-familiar language of organism has become strange to us.-- Robert D Crouse
Perhaps because I am more fluid under stress, and nostalgic for youthful influences, haunted by that to which contorted bodies could never compare, let's stay with the dearly departed Elizabeth Montgomery and Lee Remick. Both actresses are roughly representative of the Protestant standard, and what happens to women when they get there and hit that indomitable glass ceiling. Dowager confesses to bias: I wanted Montgomery to achieve superstardom, because it was evident, in her revisionist take on Lizzy Borden, that our beloved pedestrian lynch pin wanted it, critical acclaim. Elizabeth's limitation: you could perceive the effort she was putting into it, and in the length of time between Johnny Cool and Borden, this limitation isn't altered by her maturity. Lee Remick, clever enough to play against the A list to her strength and wise enough to know she could not carry a movie by herself (cf, The Women's Room-- Marilyn French was a terrific voice when it came to repression and sexual escape-- television actually weakens the novelist's reputation), makes you forget you're viewing any effort at all.
Both actresses also have the "Pretty Women" appeal not too far off from Rizzoli & Isles of today. To defeat what hopes to be your future Jewish mother in law, you appropriate the enemy. Lee's performance in "Lady" is as wry and witty for a woman's burgeoning freedom as anything in the banter between Harmon and Alexander in the contemporary procedural, and had more vulnerability in her sexuality: for some reason, women understood the consequences of containing and taming Remick. It emanates from her with intangible censure: Here we have a trollop who gets what is coming to her.
Elizabeth, despite the fact that both actresses died of cancer, within not many years of each other, understood her sexual barriers better, to the point that the audience wanted her Borden to beat the judicial system, and she did! This again rehashes the intractable problem of veracity, and acknowledges that both litigation and regulatory statues have significant limitations. Spastic has some difficulty believing the Texas officers had it "in" for Bland, and tend to agree with conservative faith in the process. By the same token, traffic laws are a direct consequence of automotive technology, which will only recede when traveling the globe through orbital trajectory becomes standard. Minorities of African American descent will undoubtedly have the violins handy then too. The technically advanced alien's we're searching for will have such an intrinsic empathy that chips on the shoulder, brain lesions, will vanish. Epidural hematoma's will heal themselves by sheer force of will.
I believe in the import of Medusa's Touch. I grew up with this movie, practicing Burton's misanthropy as Mortar everyday. As Stephen King wrote, sometimes being a high flying bitch is all you have.
Perhaps because I am more fluid under stress, and nostalgic for youthful influences, haunted by that to which contorted bodies could never compare, let's stay with the dearly departed Elizabeth Montgomery and Lee Remick. Both actresses are roughly representative of the Protestant standard, and what happens to women when they get there and hit that indomitable glass ceiling. Dowager confesses to bias: I wanted Montgomery to achieve superstardom, because it was evident, in her revisionist take on Lizzy Borden, that our beloved pedestrian lynch pin wanted it, critical acclaim. Elizabeth's limitation: you could perceive the effort she was putting into it, and in the length of time between Johnny Cool and Borden, this limitation isn't altered by her maturity. Lee Remick, clever enough to play against the A list to her strength and wise enough to know she could not carry a movie by herself (cf, The Women's Room-- Marilyn French was a terrific voice when it came to repression and sexual escape-- television actually weakens the novelist's reputation), makes you forget you're viewing any effort at all.
Both actresses also have the "Pretty Women" appeal not too far off from Rizzoli & Isles of today. To defeat what hopes to be your future Jewish mother in law, you appropriate the enemy. Lee's performance in "Lady" is as wry and witty for a woman's burgeoning freedom as anything in the banter between Harmon and Alexander in the contemporary procedural, and had more vulnerability in her sexuality: for some reason, women understood the consequences of containing and taming Remick. It emanates from her with intangible censure: Here we have a trollop who gets what is coming to her.
Elizabeth, despite the fact that both actresses died of cancer, within not many years of each other, understood her sexual barriers better, to the point that the audience wanted her Borden to beat the judicial system, and she did! This again rehashes the intractable problem of veracity, and acknowledges that both litigation and regulatory statues have significant limitations. Spastic has some difficulty believing the Texas officers had it "in" for Bland, and tend to agree with conservative faith in the process. By the same token, traffic laws are a direct consequence of automotive technology, which will only recede when traveling the globe through orbital trajectory becomes standard. Minorities of African American descent will undoubtedly have the violins handy then too. The technically advanced alien's we're searching for will have such an intrinsic empathy that chips on the shoulder, brain lesions, will vanish. Epidural hematoma's will heal themselves by sheer force of will.
I believe in the import of Medusa's Touch. I grew up with this movie, practicing Burton's misanthropy as Mortar everyday. As Stephen King wrote, sometimes being a high flying bitch is all you have.
Friday, December 25, 2015
Trivial Decadence: A brief Christmas Post
Her face is meditative, solemn, almost august, as she commences the lascivious dance that will awaken the slumbering senses of old Herod. Diamonds scintillate against her glistening skin.--Against the Grain, Chapter 6
Kafka may have been skeptical of the midrash, but he succeeded in becoming a canonical author because biblical guilt carries over in his work. Scripture is two dimensional; Kafka is absurdly abstract in his cockroach as an extended metaphor of patriarchal judgment. Spastic has not read her St. Joseph's edition in a very long time, but remembers enough to know the Gospel of Mark presents Salmone as a collusionist to her mother's will. The queen wants the Baptist silenced, tells Salmone, less a figure of peace, more a hedonistic nullification, to dance for Herod. The rest gives way to Hollywood's variation on Apocrypha which is a disservice in the conflict between faith and rational progression.
In comparison to what we're beset with today, 1953 revisionists were a placid bunch, but the critics should have castigated Dieterle for casting Rita Hayworth as a clean run girl whose innocence is duped in an era of Gnostic flowering which created the second branch of monotheism. Getting a script past the censors is one thing. Transforming Semitic deviance into an American chorus line erases what the metaphysical conflict seeks to teach. Sexual gluttony perverts the gift of duty to a higher purpose, and Salmone, at least in the Baptist thread, seeks to subvert the coming of the Incarnate through offering appeasement to insatiable appetite. The Silent Generation as represented by mio padre may be dying off, but one thing which hasn't changed in all these years, keeping tempo on the American scene, is how shallow we are as a nation. Huysmans may be cloying, and claustrophobic, but he doesn't walk away from the threat of annihilation which sensory fulfillment poses, and narratives from a camera should never be the last word.
Hayworth had a troubled life in her later years, and if lacking depth is a flaw, her tormented alcoholic rages seem amply deserved.
Kafka may have been skeptical of the midrash, but he succeeded in becoming a canonical author because biblical guilt carries over in his work. Scripture is two dimensional; Kafka is absurdly abstract in his cockroach as an extended metaphor of patriarchal judgment. Spastic has not read her St. Joseph's edition in a very long time, but remembers enough to know the Gospel of Mark presents Salmone as a collusionist to her mother's will. The queen wants the Baptist silenced, tells Salmone, less a figure of peace, more a hedonistic nullification, to dance for Herod. The rest gives way to Hollywood's variation on Apocrypha which is a disservice in the conflict between faith and rational progression.
In comparison to what we're beset with today, 1953 revisionists were a placid bunch, but the critics should have castigated Dieterle for casting Rita Hayworth as a clean run girl whose innocence is duped in an era of Gnostic flowering which created the second branch of monotheism. Getting a script past the censors is one thing. Transforming Semitic deviance into an American chorus line erases what the metaphysical conflict seeks to teach. Sexual gluttony perverts the gift of duty to a higher purpose, and Salmone, at least in the Baptist thread, seeks to subvert the coming of the Incarnate through offering appeasement to insatiable appetite. The Silent Generation as represented by mio padre may be dying off, but one thing which hasn't changed in all these years, keeping tempo on the American scene, is how shallow we are as a nation. Huysmans may be cloying, and claustrophobic, but he doesn't walk away from the threat of annihilation which sensory fulfillment poses, and narratives from a camera should never be the last word.
Hayworth had a troubled life in her later years, and if lacking depth is a flaw, her tormented alcoholic rages seem amply deserved.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
John Carradine in Milan
John Carradine didn't need special effects prosthetics when guest starring opposite his grandson David in Kung Fu. His hands are gnarled, and he looks the part of a blind elderly cripple. Perhaps, despite his crepe wrinkled face, he did not have his grandson's range. This might have something to do with his training in theater as a Shakespearean, or perhaps vaunted legacy Jewish liberals like Ed Spielman, who created the cult classic martial arts serial for Burbank, weren't around to apply their intellect to give this Don Juan something better to do than lose a battle of wits against Greek goddesses, but Spielman's writers take us through the inevitable paces of rehabilitation law which existed in my childhood days, days when David Carradine was still an on going New Age concern. Kung Fu is a paean for the counter culture of my era. Disillusioned hippies get to see one of their own defeat monopolistic tyrants, whether in China-- Burbank's version-- which isn't all that more stereotypical than Beijing's version in the 21st century where Michelle Yech, for all intents and purposes, is the Asiatic supergirl, linear abstract fairytale heroine skillfully merged into the Chinese tradition, which bears some relation to conventions taught in Egyptology.
John Carradine's con artist may be blind, but the holy priest shows him what he's still capable of discerning, taking grand daddy through the liberal ideology of no pity, which collapses in the condensed span of serial time as John senior marginalizes himself, a frail old man, clearing the path for David's superstardom, which David radicalizes in his seventies, in turn. His last performance, on Mental, was nothing short of a fait accompli, a near virtuoso rebellion completed in a silent 50 minute arc, with a creative genius rivaling Verlaine's operatic intricacy, as if to pre-stage his ironic, speculative, death in Thailand, an auto-erotic exercise mishandled, taking a life long capitalization of body art a bridge too far; perhaps seemingly preferable to his grandfather's multiple organ failure, but David never sold his audiences short. Caine might as well have been the living embodiment of the Jesus Prayer as he was an adherent of the Tao, and in more neo-realism applications, if David was going to be a ruthless bastard, he lived that murderous abandon to the point of enthrall. What woman wouldn't want to make love to this projection of apex masculinity?
This liberalism, in its apogee, foretells the doom of its own exhaustion, even if a palsied quadriplegic removes the personal experience from the equation, and the level of expectation. For example, taking a downgrade of 250 per commission to 15 dollars for Examiner posts was a resentment generating exercise, but Clarity Media promoted her to an AXS writer, doing original articles, 5 to 10 USD. Had she persevered, rather than giving the automated snags the finger, it would have generated more revenue than these exercises. Impulse control only aggrandizes how the deck is stacked, but is no less countermanded by the evidence that it is. Burbank's idealism hasn't altered the social realities on our ground game, whatever our nostalgia for its morality plays. It represents another reason to solidly remain in Toomey's camp, the relatively invisible tea party heir who bestowed mercy on Stony Brook, to little avail. Do I expect to get past the gateway to utilize his legislative agenda for my own?
John Carradine's con artist may be blind, but the holy priest shows him what he's still capable of discerning, taking grand daddy through the liberal ideology of no pity, which collapses in the condensed span of serial time as John senior marginalizes himself, a frail old man, clearing the path for David's superstardom, which David radicalizes in his seventies, in turn. His last performance, on Mental, was nothing short of a fait accompli, a near virtuoso rebellion completed in a silent 50 minute arc, with a creative genius rivaling Verlaine's operatic intricacy, as if to pre-stage his ironic, speculative, death in Thailand, an auto-erotic exercise mishandled, taking a life long capitalization of body art a bridge too far; perhaps seemingly preferable to his grandfather's multiple organ failure, but David never sold his audiences short. Caine might as well have been the living embodiment of the Jesus Prayer as he was an adherent of the Tao, and in more neo-realism applications, if David was going to be a ruthless bastard, he lived that murderous abandon to the point of enthrall. What woman wouldn't want to make love to this projection of apex masculinity?
This liberalism, in its apogee, foretells the doom of its own exhaustion, even if a palsied quadriplegic removes the personal experience from the equation, and the level of expectation. For example, taking a downgrade of 250 per commission to 15 dollars for Examiner posts was a resentment generating exercise, but Clarity Media promoted her to an AXS writer, doing original articles, 5 to 10 USD. Had she persevered, rather than giving the automated snags the finger, it would have generated more revenue than these exercises. Impulse control only aggrandizes how the deck is stacked, but is no less countermanded by the evidence that it is. Burbank's idealism hasn't altered the social realities on our ground game, whatever our nostalgia for its morality plays. It represents another reason to solidly remain in Toomey's camp, the relatively invisible tea party heir who bestowed mercy on Stony Brook, to little avail. Do I expect to get past the gateway to utilize his legislative agenda for my own?
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
The Taste of Ginger in the Encroaching Dark
The largest of the war programs, begun three months after the outbreak of the Civil War, also evolved into an old age program-- Raymond Richards, Closing The Door to Destitution
At the risk of alarming Blogger's gate keepers, I thought I'd be dead when I reached this point in my personal fortunes, and, amazingly, I am not; not yet, but I am driving on a trick wire. One thing goes awry, like my old micro bake oven kicking in, and I've had it. I cannot rely on my relatives supporting me with checks forever. In tandem with this, my freelance pitches have foundered. I am working, but I cannot think of new markets, have trouble comprehending how Burry bet against credit default swaps and made money for his sometimes irascible investors. I even went so far as to trouble Timothy Taylor to explain this in a post, and the plodding economist finally ignored my email, perhaps not knowing how to explain bear markets. Buy low, sell high. My financial acumen goes that far, but I will be damned if I can grasp how failing subprime mortgage loans made a very few very wealthy, nearly killing me without trying-- not that Michael Lewis doesn't have command of his subject in The Big Short. I just do not see how bankruptcy for indigent failures like me drives investment. Independent press authors wrote openly about living off accumulating debt in the Small Press Review when Len Fulton still printed his tabloid monthly. I lived off my Discover Card awhile in 1996, but sank so far under I am afraid of applying for credit again, and certainly can't claim commissions. To boot, I'm out of nicotine, and will have trouble handling the pathological rage seeping into Riverside's infrastructure. Getting past the month of January is going to be a tickle, and not of the salmon pink variety, and yet, despite this, I'm unwilling to implement my suicide. Not just yet. Maybe I hit on something and a merciful editor gives me a small advance toward a kill fee, though it would have to be a fast transfer.
Entertaining the notion of seeping into places has always entranced me, in terms of its literary motifs, which is why a loosely joined interlocking episode film like the 1995 Four Rooms merits the attention of piss water. The film may have been based on Roald Dahl's unsparing success entertaining children darkly, but the dowager saw it as an overlay of suburban spoofs like Bewitched and The Addams family, and those series too, benign as they were, stitched over the questions we asked in our nuclear households, "Is this all?"
Whether one rooted for Elizabeth Montgomery or preferred Lee Remick, the comedy actress did not have Remick's range, which was good enough to support Richard Burton.
In terms of sour mafia films, Johnny Cool inhabits its place with malingering urine odors, yet it is fascinating to watch Silva waltz his little rancid dance. Montgomery comes exceedingly close to doing something interesting at the intersection of good breeding horny for brutality. It is, in fact, one of her best studio roles. She almost saves the film, but not quite. Nomenclature fails us at certain points of comparison, and Tim Roth would go on to better success as the sinister epileptic in The Deceiver two years after Rooms falls flat, and yet cannot quite share the mantle for emulating Brit Pack menace in maturity as does Christopher Walken, who drew Richardson into a web of evil which subsumed her.
I was never in a place where I dreamed of an assassin's infamy, and do not mean to make light of the UK's concern over Colborne, but his arrest is reminiscent of an episode of Mister Ed. A horse is a horse of course, and the thought of taking pot shots at the Prince of Wales, as if succession actually changes things, is ludicrous, and yet, this is the age in which we live, isn't it? Time to check my mailbox, and humiliate myself trying to buy a box of cat food with quarters.
At the risk of alarming Blogger's gate keepers, I thought I'd be dead when I reached this point in my personal fortunes, and, amazingly, I am not; not yet, but I am driving on a trick wire. One thing goes awry, like my old micro bake oven kicking in, and I've had it. I cannot rely on my relatives supporting me with checks forever. In tandem with this, my freelance pitches have foundered. I am working, but I cannot think of new markets, have trouble comprehending how Burry bet against credit default swaps and made money for his sometimes irascible investors. I even went so far as to trouble Timothy Taylor to explain this in a post, and the plodding economist finally ignored my email, perhaps not knowing how to explain bear markets. Buy low, sell high. My financial acumen goes that far, but I will be damned if I can grasp how failing subprime mortgage loans made a very few very wealthy, nearly killing me without trying-- not that Michael Lewis doesn't have command of his subject in The Big Short. I just do not see how bankruptcy for indigent failures like me drives investment. Independent press authors wrote openly about living off accumulating debt in the Small Press Review when Len Fulton still printed his tabloid monthly. I lived off my Discover Card awhile in 1996, but sank so far under I am afraid of applying for credit again, and certainly can't claim commissions. To boot, I'm out of nicotine, and will have trouble handling the pathological rage seeping into Riverside's infrastructure. Getting past the month of January is going to be a tickle, and not of the salmon pink variety, and yet, despite this, I'm unwilling to implement my suicide. Not just yet. Maybe I hit on something and a merciful editor gives me a small advance toward a kill fee, though it would have to be a fast transfer.
Entertaining the notion of seeping into places has always entranced me, in terms of its literary motifs, which is why a loosely joined interlocking episode film like the 1995 Four Rooms merits the attention of piss water. The film may have been based on Roald Dahl's unsparing success entertaining children darkly, but the dowager saw it as an overlay of suburban spoofs like Bewitched and The Addams family, and those series too, benign as they were, stitched over the questions we asked in our nuclear households, "Is this all?"
Whether one rooted for Elizabeth Montgomery or preferred Lee Remick, the comedy actress did not have Remick's range, which was good enough to support Richard Burton.
In terms of sour mafia films, Johnny Cool inhabits its place with malingering urine odors, yet it is fascinating to watch Silva waltz his little rancid dance. Montgomery comes exceedingly close to doing something interesting at the intersection of good breeding horny for brutality. It is, in fact, one of her best studio roles. She almost saves the film, but not quite. Nomenclature fails us at certain points of comparison, and Tim Roth would go on to better success as the sinister epileptic in The Deceiver two years after Rooms falls flat, and yet cannot quite share the mantle for emulating Brit Pack menace in maturity as does Christopher Walken, who drew Richardson into a web of evil which subsumed her.
I was never in a place where I dreamed of an assassin's infamy, and do not mean to make light of the UK's concern over Colborne, but his arrest is reminiscent of an episode of Mister Ed. A horse is a horse of course, and the thought of taking pot shots at the Prince of Wales, as if succession actually changes things, is ludicrous, and yet, this is the age in which we live, isn't it? Time to check my mailbox, and humiliate myself trying to buy a box of cat food with quarters.
Does She Understand The Implication of Her Posts?
I only logged on an hour ago to look up the dates on gen x, and I fit either as a young boomer, like my aunt, who is ten years my senior, or a gen elder. It is stupendous to consider that I'm both. When I crossed the 300 follower mark on social media I knew it would drop, given I tread dangerous waters.
I don't care. That is one primary difference between Cheryl and I, the successful memoirist who interacted with me 13 years ago as a P&W subscriber, our only bridge to each other being her heroin needle. She pulled herself back with a mercurial irreverence in her authorial voice which has earned the woman her middle brow redemption, and I am genuinely happy for her recognition, but meant what I tweeted to her about posing for a photograph with Oprah.
Never, never and a day could I ever be so conventional for the sake of sales. My notoriety, if it comes, is up through the dark side. But the true tragedy of this country: Cheryl Strayed can milk recovering addiction. I snort nothing, probably will never recover substantial gainful activity, and my minority building manager humiliates me with impunity, and any whites coming to my defense would face the culturally ingrained African deceit. Trudy Richardson has 50 variations on her rationalization for attacking me. There is no door number three with the real reason: I signed my own death warrant with this rental corporation when I was all of 23.
I never realized.
I don't care. That is one primary difference between Cheryl and I, the successful memoirist who interacted with me 13 years ago as a P&W subscriber, our only bridge to each other being her heroin needle. She pulled herself back with a mercurial irreverence in her authorial voice which has earned the woman her middle brow redemption, and I am genuinely happy for her recognition, but meant what I tweeted to her about posing for a photograph with Oprah.
Never, never and a day could I ever be so conventional for the sake of sales. My notoriety, if it comes, is up through the dark side. But the true tragedy of this country: Cheryl Strayed can milk recovering addiction. I snort nothing, probably will never recover substantial gainful activity, and my minority building manager humiliates me with impunity, and any whites coming to my defense would face the culturally ingrained African deceit. Trudy Richardson has 50 variations on her rationalization for attacking me. There is no door number three with the real reason: I signed my own death warrant with this rental corporation when I was all of 23.
I never realized.
Whispers in The Dark
Thus many a weighty discussion ensued while weeding the garden, paring a turnip, or serving tea.--Kakuzo Okakura, The Book of Tea
No one actually dies of congestive heart failure, certainly not Stanwyck, who survived her Bitter Tea lead by nine years. Lust for life is broken by marginalization as we lose relevance, and pathology experts may scoff, but disease is mainly an issue of status and stress. Take the pressure for territory away, stigma, and all that. This points to why the monastic lifestyle lends itself to longevity, why we're all hot for cosmopolitan tyrants, despite protestation to the contrary. Eurasian matings were tolerated slightly better than African Caucasian sex, where they occurred in the last century, due to the fact that, with the appropriate grooming, it was difficult to tell the difference. David Carradine certainly had no problem submerging European individualism to Asian methodology, leaving him hot literally in the throes of death, the fusion which gave him prominence ultimately catching him up.
Frank Capra is absolutely shameless in how he utilizes the Chinese civil war to create this lust charged romance, but who wouldn't be aroused by it must be dead alive. Spastic knew Stanwyck had a hot to trot career, but rarely viewed the sizzle of her controversial rise. Damn, how what we leave to the imagination opens so many possibilities, even in the yearnings of post menopausal dryness. The juicy plasticity of menstruation is actually missed after all, the bloating, the inconvenience of diarrhea, trade off right back for this level of taunt seduction which blames Christianity for Mao, but more than that, the kinetic lure between Western and Eastern cousins. Though we now have the technology to meddle in it, and the evolutionary advance is, at times, infinitesimal, the liberal to progressive spectrum starts howling bricks if anyone dares assert that Nubians, who led to Semitic peoples, Asians, and Europeans, advance the original African model. Not by very much, but if evolutionary science is driven by adaptation, well, if nature is allowed to take its course, Africans and Native American Indians will eventually breed out of the human population. Intelligence being conditioned by geology and environment, Asians and whites adapted smarter, which is why we will never move past the damnation of liberal paternalism. Humanity allows pity and empathy en masse to virtually ensure global catastrophe. The ruthlessness Asther mimics prior to Mah li's seditious activity sealing his fate isn't far off from Eastwood's nuanced arrowhead in the same direction: Euthanasia is the better part of valor, especially when decline passes its plot. The exotic sex along for the ride is compensation of our ancestors watchful spirit. This doesn't mean the CPC won't kill us all if it isn't careful, dancing on the bleached bones of Danish silent film relics.
No one actually dies of congestive heart failure, certainly not Stanwyck, who survived her Bitter Tea lead by nine years. Lust for life is broken by marginalization as we lose relevance, and pathology experts may scoff, but disease is mainly an issue of status and stress. Take the pressure for territory away, stigma, and all that. This points to why the monastic lifestyle lends itself to longevity, why we're all hot for cosmopolitan tyrants, despite protestation to the contrary. Eurasian matings were tolerated slightly better than African Caucasian sex, where they occurred in the last century, due to the fact that, with the appropriate grooming, it was difficult to tell the difference. David Carradine certainly had no problem submerging European individualism to Asian methodology, leaving him hot literally in the throes of death, the fusion which gave him prominence ultimately catching him up.
Frank Capra is absolutely shameless in how he utilizes the Chinese civil war to create this lust charged romance, but who wouldn't be aroused by it must be dead alive. Spastic knew Stanwyck had a hot to trot career, but rarely viewed the sizzle of her controversial rise. Damn, how what we leave to the imagination opens so many possibilities, even in the yearnings of post menopausal dryness. The juicy plasticity of menstruation is actually missed after all, the bloating, the inconvenience of diarrhea, trade off right back for this level of taunt seduction which blames Christianity for Mao, but more than that, the kinetic lure between Western and Eastern cousins. Though we now have the technology to meddle in it, and the evolutionary advance is, at times, infinitesimal, the liberal to progressive spectrum starts howling bricks if anyone dares assert that Nubians, who led to Semitic peoples, Asians, and Europeans, advance the original African model. Not by very much, but if evolutionary science is driven by adaptation, well, if nature is allowed to take its course, Africans and Native American Indians will eventually breed out of the human population. Intelligence being conditioned by geology and environment, Asians and whites adapted smarter, which is why we will never move past the damnation of liberal paternalism. Humanity allows pity and empathy en masse to virtually ensure global catastrophe. The ruthlessness Asther mimics prior to Mah li's seditious activity sealing his fate isn't far off from Eastwood's nuanced arrowhead in the same direction: Euthanasia is the better part of valor, especially when decline passes its plot. The exotic sex along for the ride is compensation of our ancestors watchful spirit. This doesn't mean the CPC won't kill us all if it isn't careful, dancing on the bleached bones of Danish silent film relics.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Talking Shop
The last pitch I submitted on which an editor was amenable hovered around 09-10, on hearing loss. Byline only, until I mentioned my Inquirer clip. Then the woman offered me 250, which illustrates guidelines are negotiable. Then I blew it, and haven't forgiven myself since, but I blew it because my parameters fell apart, and I lost my sense of direction, which was more or less how does hearing decline due to aging fit into deaf culture? I was too vague, and these days, exhausted.
Do I go back into all that research and try to salvage an article? Approach the same editor after submitting what amounted to a bad term paper? I knew what querying was in high school, and had I applied myself and skinned my knees bloody then, perhaps I might have survived the digital transition. I was happy at AccessLife. I do not let my audience know that often enough. Some columnists wanted to sue the owners when the resource site crashed, but not me. I was reporting, and they paid me a decent commission without stiffing me. They could have, but Florida isn't all about Stand Your Ground and George Zimmerman. I had the best boss I ever had in Dave
Examiner.com was another matter. 15 dollars after nine months of reviews is worse than the efforts I've posted to this account for absolutely nothing, and though they promoted me to an AXS writer. I hit a wall uploading event content with the appropriate tags, and told the poor editors, scraping by themselves no doubt on a 10k dime, "fuck you". I cannot return to that level of obscenity, and I'm currently sweating a spec piece as per this communique, and do not have the tears to weep if I am losing myself to a fugue state, which is how Jean-Claude Le Marre put the 05 Brothers in Arms together.
In my study of films for this account, simply on my own, I've learned that the western genre is about the underlying anxieties of America's golden age, or an expose on corruption, or familial dysfunction as it was handled back then, just as The Quick and the Dead offered us the insider's game on how glamorizing the cowboy became Hollywood. Le Marre seems to be making the same play in this carefully groomed progressive tale, which has no credibility whatsoever. You cannot inject TMZ's vision of 21st century diversity into the 19th century, even if you have embittered free blacks eaten alive by revenge and third degree burns.
Do I go back into all that research and try to salvage an article? Approach the same editor after submitting what amounted to a bad term paper? I knew what querying was in high school, and had I applied myself and skinned my knees bloody then, perhaps I might have survived the digital transition. I was happy at AccessLife. I do not let my audience know that often enough. Some columnists wanted to sue the owners when the resource site crashed, but not me. I was reporting, and they paid me a decent commission without stiffing me. They could have, but Florida isn't all about Stand Your Ground and George Zimmerman. I had the best boss I ever had in Dave
Examiner.com was another matter. 15 dollars after nine months of reviews is worse than the efforts I've posted to this account for absolutely nothing, and though they promoted me to an AXS writer. I hit a wall uploading event content with the appropriate tags, and told the poor editors, scraping by themselves no doubt on a 10k dime, "fuck you". I cannot return to that level of obscenity, and I'm currently sweating a spec piece as per this communique, and do not have the tears to weep if I am losing myself to a fugue state, which is how Jean-Claude Le Marre put the 05 Brothers in Arms together.
In my study of films for this account, simply on my own, I've learned that the western genre is about the underlying anxieties of America's golden age, or an expose on corruption, or familial dysfunction as it was handled back then, just as The Quick and the Dead offered us the insider's game on how glamorizing the cowboy became Hollywood. Le Marre seems to be making the same play in this carefully groomed progressive tale, which has no credibility whatsoever. You cannot inject TMZ's vision of 21st century diversity into the 19th century, even if you have embittered free blacks eaten alive by revenge and third degree burns.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Pin Cushions, Pitch Black
Natasha Richardson, in my estimation, never really seemed to fit in her films, except for The Handmaid's Tale, and in that laughably histrionic Margaret Atwood vehicle, none of the big names fit, because it was a turbo charged warning which was so grandiose that it metamorphoses its own mockery. Often the industry does this intentionally. Sometimes my own heaviness achieves this by accident. Alpha and Beta is a case in point. I showed it to one of the agency aides, in my nine year revolving door with the system, before I let Mary Johnson have it for her now defunct site, and I expected that Esmin the easy Jamaican soul would have been offended. "You're funny!" she said, laughing, on her scan of the final page. I wasn't trying to be. My world had shattered, and I was desperately trying to glue the egg back together, and in a rather convoluted sense, this entire account is a sort of vomit on my ruptured idealism. I screamed in Linda's voicemail, in my nervous breakdown, during that fresh turn of the century, (think I'm recovered?) "I believed in you!" And that is the truth. I thought she represented a triumph of integration.
Today, I am in fact much closer to Karl Shapiro's defense of the notorious Tropic of Cancer, which I am still reading. Miller is, for me, a stop and start nihilist, and though he is terrific with oral cadence, and a necessary voice, he isn't a great writer, hardly as canonical as his defenders would like. Henry James achieved more with his attenuation in the relic of the Victorian age than any of the leftists who mushroomed in the thirties. Miller is so raw he makes the throbbing radioactive vein in my chest seem cowardly, when I discuss which minority [substitute nigger bitches if you are in the she needs lithium like her mother category] exploited me in what fashion. They were not all uncouth brassy caste stricken Medicaid recipients, but a substantial minority of all those women in my revolving door have taken their toll. With my every transfer a feat of engineering physiological memory, I'm damned unless my remaining intellect can pick up my body after my next mistake, can guilt trip my way out of my corporate landlord before I lose myself, and I am doing that, at only fifty three, numb with apathy and avoidance, resilient only because of a corrosive-- well, I understand, in certain respects, the destructive attractions of the jihadists, though for me decapitation is lame. Everyone can breathe easy there.
So it perplexes me. Natasha Richardson cannot internalize, like Jodie Foster, who was a great actress because she internalized identity conflict. Ms Foster is not Ellen. DeGeneres radiates dyke like a wallowing hippo. Jodie Foster doesn't fit the categorical LBGT mold. Oh, I am not challenging her private intimacy so much as complimenting what will soon be lost, and that is the ambiguity of the outsider. It is what has made the child actor with whom so many of us came of age a powerhouse. Richardson, by contrast, is a two dimensional doll for thirteen year olds, hard to cast in the appropriate venue, but it is her role in Past Midnight which triggered my recent distress, conjoined with Benitiz's outreach. The soldier did not do anything wrong, exactly, and I never understood Hang Outs and now, duh, it is a chat scroll, but I am done whoring myself for nothing and should have ignored him. If I can find a divorcee like Cecil Morales who has the intellectual affinity for which I am starved, which is why I cannot forgive Josie Byzek, then yes, I'll take him, but I do not want anymore PC fantasy, as such. I was never shallow enough.
Natasha often paid a heavy price for similar psychological risks, despite the fact she'll never have a legacy beyond historical relevance, unlike Vanessa.
Today, I am in fact much closer to Karl Shapiro's defense of the notorious Tropic of Cancer, which I am still reading. Miller is, for me, a stop and start nihilist, and though he is terrific with oral cadence, and a necessary voice, he isn't a great writer, hardly as canonical as his defenders would like. Henry James achieved more with his attenuation in the relic of the Victorian age than any of the leftists who mushroomed in the thirties. Miller is so raw he makes the throbbing radioactive vein in my chest seem cowardly, when I discuss which minority [substitute nigger bitches if you are in the she needs lithium like her mother category] exploited me in what fashion. They were not all uncouth brassy caste stricken Medicaid recipients, but a substantial minority of all those women in my revolving door have taken their toll. With my every transfer a feat of engineering physiological memory, I'm damned unless my remaining intellect can pick up my body after my next mistake, can guilt trip my way out of my corporate landlord before I lose myself, and I am doing that, at only fifty three, numb with apathy and avoidance, resilient only because of a corrosive-- well, I understand, in certain respects, the destructive attractions of the jihadists, though for me decapitation is lame. Everyone can breathe easy there.
So it perplexes me. Natasha Richardson cannot internalize, like Jodie Foster, who was a great actress because she internalized identity conflict. Ms Foster is not Ellen. DeGeneres radiates dyke like a wallowing hippo. Jodie Foster doesn't fit the categorical LBGT mold. Oh, I am not challenging her private intimacy so much as complimenting what will soon be lost, and that is the ambiguity of the outsider. It is what has made the child actor with whom so many of us came of age a powerhouse. Richardson, by contrast, is a two dimensional doll for thirteen year olds, hard to cast in the appropriate venue, but it is her role in Past Midnight which triggered my recent distress, conjoined with Benitiz's outreach. The soldier did not do anything wrong, exactly, and I never understood Hang Outs and now, duh, it is a chat scroll, but I am done whoring myself for nothing and should have ignored him. If I can find a divorcee like Cecil Morales who has the intellectual affinity for which I am starved, which is why I cannot forgive Josie Byzek, then yes, I'll take him, but I do not want anymore PC fantasy, as such. I was never shallow enough.
Natasha often paid a heavy price for similar psychological risks, despite the fact she'll never have a legacy beyond historical relevance, unlike Vanessa.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Ultima Preda: Chances of Fortune
"I take the side of the animals though," Terrence Hill, Eastwood's dialectical absudist
There are reasons Natasha Richardson interests me as an industry standard-bearer, particularly when juxtaposed against Jodie Foster, the child tom boy who never played lesbian but still challenges gender in subtle fashion, even as a forceful straight heroine who will do what she has to for an imperiled daughter or son. Sequenced into this, Past Midnight is your standard plot point thriller, nothing particularly special about it or Richardson's performance, except that it has the visceral undercurrents that are pertinent to the faux feel good economy of the first Clinton presidency. As an aside, I have no reason to give a flying fuck if Hillary prevails, as the Obama administration managed to kill me; I simply didn't realize this when I supported Barack in the Pennsylvania primary in 2008. If I thought I was a gasping fish out of water in my very early forties, I was under a misapprehension, as I may be hanging on nearly a decade later, but just that, despite consumption of fish oil; Hillary, it is sort of a naturalized anathema. The husband was sexually intriguing, liked women too much, and it remains an embarrassment that his seminal fluid became an impeachment vote while Saudi Arabia's bin Laden was brewing his spectacular blow. There is enough blame to go around for 9/11, but morally Clintonian narcissism was a nearly fatal distraction, so I cannot quite forgive the 42nd president, and think the left is incredibly stupid to elevate his wife for her public injuries in relation to Bill's philandering, but that is the United States, in a nutshell: a pretty woman who wants to engage in social justice becomes a social worker, sets eyes on Rutger Hauer, who cannot possibly be guilty in his role as a slightly more attractive genotype of Anthony Hopkins-- just as Clancy Brown is a tinsel variation on Ron Perlman, who had the courage to humiliate himself as second in rank in The Quest for Fire. Natasha's Laura preens off compliments, picks up her torch, and gets drawn into a threat which would keep most women under psychiatric care for the rest of their lives. Pluralism rarely takes account of the toll in its insistence on the inherent intrinsic value.
We never get to see the aftermath. Films aren't very good at evolving, or in this case, devolving characters, this is why Victor Hugo could write a tome like Les Miserables and we have flawed great classics that do embody full lives of our projected alter egos, even if they are ponderous reads, but Past Midnight strikes chords in terms of how liberalism crushes the spirit of the noble crusade, and ties in with the ambulatory carelessness of Richardson's 2009 death. Yes, on the surface, this seemingly content and happy starlet with her authentic Hollywood romance was simply the victim of a mishap. Beneath the surface, she really wasn't thinking about her age and the risks of learning to ski at 45. Foster, as a more conflicted woman, would have been more instinctually wary. The greater the talent, the better the intuition. Spastic was never held at knife point by a rural slasher with womb triggers, but the dowager has been subjected to everything else short of attempted murder, and yet, even in victimhood, remains, surviving with rage addicted tenacity, while Natasha's vivacious privilege becomes the suddenly absent, perhaps more to her fortune than the pondering with which we cling to temporal circumstance. As a figurine, a paper cut out of the Clinton era, she manages to let the pieces of her part in this film fall into place.
There are reasons Natasha Richardson interests me as an industry standard-bearer, particularly when juxtaposed against Jodie Foster, the child tom boy who never played lesbian but still challenges gender in subtle fashion, even as a forceful straight heroine who will do what she has to for an imperiled daughter or son. Sequenced into this, Past Midnight is your standard plot point thriller, nothing particularly special about it or Richardson's performance, except that it has the visceral undercurrents that are pertinent to the faux feel good economy of the first Clinton presidency. As an aside, I have no reason to give a flying fuck if Hillary prevails, as the Obama administration managed to kill me; I simply didn't realize this when I supported Barack in the Pennsylvania primary in 2008. If I thought I was a gasping fish out of water in my very early forties, I was under a misapprehension, as I may be hanging on nearly a decade later, but just that, despite consumption of fish oil; Hillary, it is sort of a naturalized anathema. The husband was sexually intriguing, liked women too much, and it remains an embarrassment that his seminal fluid became an impeachment vote while Saudi Arabia's bin Laden was brewing his spectacular blow. There is enough blame to go around for 9/11, but morally Clintonian narcissism was a nearly fatal distraction, so I cannot quite forgive the 42nd president, and think the left is incredibly stupid to elevate his wife for her public injuries in relation to Bill's philandering, but that is the United States, in a nutshell: a pretty woman who wants to engage in social justice becomes a social worker, sets eyes on Rutger Hauer, who cannot possibly be guilty in his role as a slightly more attractive genotype of Anthony Hopkins-- just as Clancy Brown is a tinsel variation on Ron Perlman, who had the courage to humiliate himself as second in rank in The Quest for Fire. Natasha's Laura preens off compliments, picks up her torch, and gets drawn into a threat which would keep most women under psychiatric care for the rest of their lives. Pluralism rarely takes account of the toll in its insistence on the inherent intrinsic value.
We never get to see the aftermath. Films aren't very good at evolving, or in this case, devolving characters, this is why Victor Hugo could write a tome like Les Miserables and we have flawed great classics that do embody full lives of our projected alter egos, even if they are ponderous reads, but Past Midnight strikes chords in terms of how liberalism crushes the spirit of the noble crusade, and ties in with the ambulatory carelessness of Richardson's 2009 death. Yes, on the surface, this seemingly content and happy starlet with her authentic Hollywood romance was simply the victim of a mishap. Beneath the surface, she really wasn't thinking about her age and the risks of learning to ski at 45. Foster, as a more conflicted woman, would have been more instinctually wary. The greater the talent, the better the intuition. Spastic was never held at knife point by a rural slasher with womb triggers, but the dowager has been subjected to everything else short of attempted murder, and yet, even in victimhood, remains, surviving with rage addicted tenacity, while Natasha's vivacious privilege becomes the suddenly absent, perhaps more to her fortune than the pondering with which we cling to temporal circumstance. As a figurine, a paper cut out of the Clinton era, she manages to let the pieces of her part in this film fall into place.
Pakistan Is A Scorpion
I just had a chat, not so much strange, as disconcerting, with an alleged contractor for the US Marines on Google Plus, and I was polite, but bewildered. I am too soldered up with naive scar tissue to play cyber fantasy games, anymore. I used to, but got too sucked into it, and cursed myself for logging on to see how Hangout connections worked.
What the fuck am I supposed to say to men younger than I with my drying punta, to take a term from Barry Unsworth, the great mimic? Of whom I was not cognizant of decease, by the way, and thought the novelist still living.
I miss sex, being a naturalized trollop, I do, but I also know it is too late for me to find liberation with a man, on Viagra or not. My affairs were hurried trysts, without orgasm, frigid woman ripe to get her head twisted by homosexual vultures and straight mentally ill molesters alike. Some of which I've detailed, perhaps not well enough for my viewers to understand the sense of violation these inappropriate behaviors from my clients imposed on me.
He is a Hispanic widower from Ohio on the ground in Syria, and my sympathy, if he wasn't bluffing, walked hand in hand with an interior tantrum: I am fucking bored and don't want to be doing this. Everyone wants a photograph. I directed him to the photo I uploaded on Medium with my Afghan column, an incongruous image placed there because I did not want to run afoul of permissions.
Since I had lashed out at my former manager the way I did fifteen years ago I assumed it was due to bisexual susceptibility, and challenged myself accordingly, but never went in search of an experiment. The women who actually did hit on me made me feel three things: the mixed race woman who dared to do what she did triggered a need for self-immolation and a homicidal urge to give her a lethal hematoma. This is the reality of state intake systems. Like Cosby's alleged accusers, who couldn't gain traction, I have to live with the knowledge that I could have subjugated myself for the benefit of Miss Eddie's indulgence; she would have died if she had forced her pass much further than she did, and it can always happen again. The only response from the ambulatory world is to go through another 50 minorities with whom I do not wish to engage; we should be able to do better than this, which is why I fight Presby's intimidation tactics so forcefully. Eviction notices are more humane than 22 years of harassing intimidation to pair me with women who exploit me.
The client? Sharon was an amputee. I was tired. It was past ten in the evening. I was at the Darby Project Share in my small manual Quickie in which I wasn't all that maneuverable, supposed to use my skills as an advocate, but people self-involved in mental aberration, I've learned, could care less, and try to take advantage, and that is what Sharon did, whipping out her arm behind my back and running her finger up an erogenous zone. My back flexed involuntarily, but her hit wasn't arousing, and in fact what was being gauged was my susceptibility to collapsing boundaries, much like what Annabella Scoirra faces as the vulnerable therapist against Deborah Unger. Scoirra raises her palm to halt her patient. With Sharon, all I could do was retreat inward because of where I was, and woke with the memory Monday morning, angry. This is what I've been subjected to all my life: finger fucked in the Home of the Merciful Savior, assaulted under my mother's blind shadow. You know the rest, but unlike Chris Cooper, doing the repressed fanatic in American Beauty, chewing cunt isn't on my secret Happy menu. If it was I'd have a few bodies on my belt by now.
Yes, I feel provoked, and shouldn't have responded to the fellow's invitation. My post title comes from Lynn, a reporter I once posted with, echoing what all Americans knew after nine eleven.
What the fuck am I supposed to say to men younger than I with my drying punta, to take a term from Barry Unsworth, the great mimic? Of whom I was not cognizant of decease, by the way, and thought the novelist still living.
I miss sex, being a naturalized trollop, I do, but I also know it is too late for me to find liberation with a man, on Viagra or not. My affairs were hurried trysts, without orgasm, frigid woman ripe to get her head twisted by homosexual vultures and straight mentally ill molesters alike. Some of which I've detailed, perhaps not well enough for my viewers to understand the sense of violation these inappropriate behaviors from my clients imposed on me.
He is a Hispanic widower from Ohio on the ground in Syria, and my sympathy, if he wasn't bluffing, walked hand in hand with an interior tantrum: I am fucking bored and don't want to be doing this. Everyone wants a photograph. I directed him to the photo I uploaded on Medium with my Afghan column, an incongruous image placed there because I did not want to run afoul of permissions.
Since I had lashed out at my former manager the way I did fifteen years ago I assumed it was due to bisexual susceptibility, and challenged myself accordingly, but never went in search of an experiment. The women who actually did hit on me made me feel three things: the mixed race woman who dared to do what she did triggered a need for self-immolation and a homicidal urge to give her a lethal hematoma. This is the reality of state intake systems. Like Cosby's alleged accusers, who couldn't gain traction, I have to live with the knowledge that I could have subjugated myself for the benefit of Miss Eddie's indulgence; she would have died if she had forced her pass much further than she did, and it can always happen again. The only response from the ambulatory world is to go through another 50 minorities with whom I do not wish to engage; we should be able to do better than this, which is why I fight Presby's intimidation tactics so forcefully. Eviction notices are more humane than 22 years of harassing intimidation to pair me with women who exploit me.
The client? Sharon was an amputee. I was tired. It was past ten in the evening. I was at the Darby Project Share in my small manual Quickie in which I wasn't all that maneuverable, supposed to use my skills as an advocate, but people self-involved in mental aberration, I've learned, could care less, and try to take advantage, and that is what Sharon did, whipping out her arm behind my back and running her finger up an erogenous zone. My back flexed involuntarily, but her hit wasn't arousing, and in fact what was being gauged was my susceptibility to collapsing boundaries, much like what Annabella Scoirra faces as the vulnerable therapist against Deborah Unger. Scoirra raises her palm to halt her patient. With Sharon, all I could do was retreat inward because of where I was, and woke with the memory Monday morning, angry. This is what I've been subjected to all my life: finger fucked in the Home of the Merciful Savior, assaulted under my mother's blind shadow. You know the rest, but unlike Chris Cooper, doing the repressed fanatic in American Beauty, chewing cunt isn't on my secret Happy menu. If it was I'd have a few bodies on my belt by now.
Yes, I feel provoked, and shouldn't have responded to the fellow's invitation. My post title comes from Lynn, a reporter I once posted with, echoing what all Americans knew after nine eleven.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
But has Meshach Taylor Ever Visited Santiago?
The most fierce is someone with nothing to live for.-- Steven Segal
Page views from the Russian Federation have surpassed those from the U.S. for the first time, and if spastic desired a nihilistic worldview fed by relentless commercial footage of starving Latino and African children with clubbed feet, the dowager might suspect her besieged suicidal personality-cult driven Slavic viewers to be harbingers of ill design; if she wanted to pique their interest even further, she'd confess to having considered behaving like Timothy Hutton in The Falcon and The Snowman, in his kiss and tell with the KGB, but real life isn't a movie, even one based on a 20th century traitor buried in dusty library shelves. My only value to the FSB is my rage coated in the facade of my spastic demeanor, which looks the savant. I have no trade secrets to lure Russian agents into assisting my hollow apocalyptic blood lust, and don't give a farthing about Obama's nominal Christian lip service concealing his so called Muslim sympathies, or the persistent conviction of his birther detractors-- though it is interesting, none the less, to consider what the authorities would do with a quadriplegic whose undercurrent of hate is so deep and so virulent and so utterly futile in these times of proto-Fascist resurgent stirrings, hardly clever enough to be dispassionately ruthless in her once intense thirst to live so fully as was never to be. I've never been in love you know, not really, despite never having not gotten over a one John P Tassoni. I fell for him as an underclassman, yes, but who the fuck was I kidding? Even when I put my foot in my mouth with my developmentally delayed emotions when we were lying apart from each other on the bunks, and told him I liked him, I knew. No happiness in a lover for me. Ever. That has pretty much been the case, lesbian panic considerations aside. I fucked husbands who looked like my father and trapped myself. I let an asshole like Frank-the-ex manipulate me and almost married a tragically sick pig of a motherfucker. If this is why formulas are droll yet comforting in their schemes, well, to be blunt and lacking for polish, Criminal Minds is a joke, sometimes bordering on the fantastical, and yet, when you allow for vulnerability, even American serial conventions occasionally penetrate.
One of the later episodes, after Paget, but during Tripplehorn's fill in, the guild writers want to humanize the methodology and give Joe Mantegna a back story, so David Rossi meets his old Vietnam Sergeant Scott, whose disparity against Rossi is supposed to teach the audience a studious moral lesson not to fall for the malevolent attractions of Social Darwinism, the primordial killer here being a fireman, everyone's hero, who thinks he's eliminating vermin, but not to be too incendiary to draw NAACP protests, the writers have him stab an angelic street singer first, then a sketch artist, before the minorities were then victimized, careful to make the pathology equal opportunity, and yet, this one episode had a powerful resonating quality, like Henry James turning his fabled screw inwards, until it wrenches our tears, the plot emanating the downfalls of people like me, who should have been the poster child of Pennsylvania's vocational success, always running from world weary horror of her own making, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe liberalism simply made me believe I had parity with ambulatory white privilege. I don't know if anything can still enable my happiness, but leaving the threat section 202 housing poses to my dignity would be the beginning, loosening the grip of a corrosive scourge.
Chile is such a strangely drawn country, attributable to the Spaniard coping mechanism. Life is a dream as much as it is the repression of right wing dictatorships. Simplicity itself.
Page views from the Russian Federation have surpassed those from the U.S. for the first time, and if spastic desired a nihilistic worldview fed by relentless commercial footage of starving Latino and African children with clubbed feet, the dowager might suspect her besieged suicidal personality-cult driven Slavic viewers to be harbingers of ill design; if she wanted to pique their interest even further, she'd confess to having considered behaving like Timothy Hutton in The Falcon and The Snowman, in his kiss and tell with the KGB, but real life isn't a movie, even one based on a 20th century traitor buried in dusty library shelves. My only value to the FSB is my rage coated in the facade of my spastic demeanor, which looks the savant. I have no trade secrets to lure Russian agents into assisting my hollow apocalyptic blood lust, and don't give a farthing about Obama's nominal Christian lip service concealing his so called Muslim sympathies, or the persistent conviction of his birther detractors-- though it is interesting, none the less, to consider what the authorities would do with a quadriplegic whose undercurrent of hate is so deep and so virulent and so utterly futile in these times of proto-Fascist resurgent stirrings, hardly clever enough to be dispassionately ruthless in her once intense thirst to live so fully as was never to be. I've never been in love you know, not really, despite never having not gotten over a one John P Tassoni. I fell for him as an underclassman, yes, but who the fuck was I kidding? Even when I put my foot in my mouth with my developmentally delayed emotions when we were lying apart from each other on the bunks, and told him I liked him, I knew. No happiness in a lover for me. Ever. That has pretty much been the case, lesbian panic considerations aside. I fucked husbands who looked like my father and trapped myself. I let an asshole like Frank-the-ex manipulate me and almost married a tragically sick pig of a motherfucker. If this is why formulas are droll yet comforting in their schemes, well, to be blunt and lacking for polish, Criminal Minds is a joke, sometimes bordering on the fantastical, and yet, when you allow for vulnerability, even American serial conventions occasionally penetrate.
One of the later episodes, after Paget, but during Tripplehorn's fill in, the guild writers want to humanize the methodology and give Joe Mantegna a back story, so David Rossi meets his old Vietnam Sergeant Scott, whose disparity against Rossi is supposed to teach the audience a studious moral lesson not to fall for the malevolent attractions of Social Darwinism, the primordial killer here being a fireman, everyone's hero, who thinks he's eliminating vermin, but not to be too incendiary to draw NAACP protests, the writers have him stab an angelic street singer first, then a sketch artist, before the minorities were then victimized, careful to make the pathology equal opportunity, and yet, this one episode had a powerful resonating quality, like Henry James turning his fabled screw inwards, until it wrenches our tears, the plot emanating the downfalls of people like me, who should have been the poster child of Pennsylvania's vocational success, always running from world weary horror of her own making, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe liberalism simply made me believe I had parity with ambulatory white privilege. I don't know if anything can still enable my happiness, but leaving the threat section 202 housing poses to my dignity would be the beginning, loosening the grip of a corrosive scourge.
Chile is such a strangely drawn country, attributable to the Spaniard coping mechanism. Life is a dream as much as it is the repression of right wing dictatorships. Simplicity itself.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Genealogy of Insidious Threat
Al Baldasaro has a point, which by reason of association, I am grudgingly admitting Donald Trump does as well. Unless there is classified information about the threat of sedition during the last days of Roosevelt's administration to which we aren't privy, he had Japanese Americans interred as he walked the country into the Asian Pacific theatre without much evidence that Japanese Americans would rise up for their Emperor back home. When it was over, sure, recrimination simmered, reparations were bandied about, but I certainly don't recall Japanese militias rising up to slaughter clueless Protestants busy buying Buick's under Eisenhower.
But since this is the century of digital device, we're all militant victims, even ISIS terrorists with no limits. Pedestrians like Michael Gerson and David Brooks decry Donald's demagoguery, on the one hand, and then vent spleen. "God help us is they get their hands on bio-chemical weapons." This is what Brooks said on the Newshour, doing his job.
Now, of course, things aren't that simple, and people were wrongly abused after they were rounded up under Ashcroft, in the heady winter days of 2002. Reactionary Islamists were matched with reactionary American military personnel, and here we are, how many terrorist acts later. The Obama Administration was liberal with the Tsarnaev brothers remember. And way back in 1987, my long missed friend Tom Reid and I had dinner with an Iranian on a foreign student visa who gave me the heebies, acted out like a repressed homosexual, or spastic made the young man a tad frenetic. It was a bizarre sharing of fettuccine alfredo, as bizarre as the fact that HUD forces me to live with two Afghan refugees of the Taliban, and no one wants the specter of actual camps for hostile aliens, since we'd all have to foot the bill, but don't kid yourself. As diametrically opposed as the noted activist Cassie James and I are, the woman I insulted after she returned from England, we know Fascism is never really far below the surface, unjustly so. I may be wrong about this, but believe Trudy Richardson rationalized attacking me with the Department of Health and Human Services using a "threat of violence" argument with my almost deranged father's sister.
What threat of violence? One black woman after another exploits me, their white counterparts either indifferent or guilty of bad judgment, and my confrontational anger toward Trudy's dissembling crap is all of the sudden violent? Is there a secret video where I slash the radials on her automobile? The corrosive nature of my bitterness comes from what I've had to sustain in 30 years with this landlord and Philadelphia's corrupt welfare praxis. It is a more justified trigger than what motivated Timothy McVeigh, but more limited in the scope of its unsated vengeance, limited by the fact that I have no command and control over a militant crew willing to disrupt the paradigm. Systems that keep up Presbyterian Homes always win, until public anger builds to the point that a sea change occurs. In terms of IL corruption, that will be a long time coming.
In terms of ISIS, however, proactive authoritarian crackdowns seem necessary, though the price tag is too high in geopolitical terms. Punish Iran and Saudi Arabia. Therein lies the source, along with taking away the fiction of sovereignty from unstable states, which I've already mentioned. The difference between me and the right wing like Paul Ryan, is I'm willing to pay the price for a real war as a trade off against the worse of fanaticism to come.
But since this is the century of digital device, we're all militant victims, even ISIS terrorists with no limits. Pedestrians like Michael Gerson and David Brooks decry Donald's demagoguery, on the one hand, and then vent spleen. "God help us is they get their hands on bio-chemical weapons." This is what Brooks said on the Newshour, doing his job.
Now, of course, things aren't that simple, and people were wrongly abused after they were rounded up under Ashcroft, in the heady winter days of 2002. Reactionary Islamists were matched with reactionary American military personnel, and here we are, how many terrorist acts later. The Obama Administration was liberal with the Tsarnaev brothers remember. And way back in 1987, my long missed friend Tom Reid and I had dinner with an Iranian on a foreign student visa who gave me the heebies, acted out like a repressed homosexual, or spastic made the young man a tad frenetic. It was a bizarre sharing of fettuccine alfredo, as bizarre as the fact that HUD forces me to live with two Afghan refugees of the Taliban, and no one wants the specter of actual camps for hostile aliens, since we'd all have to foot the bill, but don't kid yourself. As diametrically opposed as the noted activist Cassie James and I are, the woman I insulted after she returned from England, we know Fascism is never really far below the surface, unjustly so. I may be wrong about this, but believe Trudy Richardson rationalized attacking me with the Department of Health and Human Services using a "threat of violence" argument with my almost deranged father's sister.
What threat of violence? One black woman after another exploits me, their white counterparts either indifferent or guilty of bad judgment, and my confrontational anger toward Trudy's dissembling crap is all of the sudden violent? Is there a secret video where I slash the radials on her automobile? The corrosive nature of my bitterness comes from what I've had to sustain in 30 years with this landlord and Philadelphia's corrupt welfare praxis. It is a more justified trigger than what motivated Timothy McVeigh, but more limited in the scope of its unsated vengeance, limited by the fact that I have no command and control over a militant crew willing to disrupt the paradigm. Systems that keep up Presbyterian Homes always win, until public anger builds to the point that a sea change occurs. In terms of IL corruption, that will be a long time coming.
In terms of ISIS, however, proactive authoritarian crackdowns seem necessary, though the price tag is too high in geopolitical terms. Punish Iran and Saudi Arabia. Therein lies the source, along with taking away the fiction of sovereignty from unstable states, which I've already mentioned. The difference between me and the right wing like Paul Ryan, is I'm willing to pay the price for a real war as a trade off against the worse of fanaticism to come.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Aphasia
Many scholars lake to make safe nods to multicultural orthodoxy by implying that human races do not exist.-- Nicholas Wade, Chapter 4, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History
There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?
Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.
Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.
Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital endangerment.
There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?
Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.
Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.
Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital endangerment.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Exploring the Option
Mmm. Part of Act's problem is the fact that weapons manufacture is a money making industry, however astute the analysts are in assessing potential conflict. Certainly the Russian Federation can reignite the Cold War, but as the ruthlessness of the IS group illustrates, the technical ease of mobility, excepting the invalid class, threatens all state models, none of which are as secure as they seem, not even Canada, with its territorial expanse equivalent to the US, which points to how science fiction writers like Daniel Keys Moran may not be so far off the mark.
His Last Dancer franchise, for those not in the know, was about forced global hegemony under the UN, clones, and cyborg AI's gradually taking over. Unwittingly, spastic purchased the last novel in the series, and know only that the United States was the last sovereign territory to fall, defeated by French forces, (oddly enough). A little too melodramatic for my taste, and I could not enter into all the concluding story lines, but for a wildly vacillating future dystopia, Moran's dismal voice was a lens over my own. For all we know, France may indeed be the first to advocate the death of territorial sovereignty. If the third world war is an advent, however, I am not sold on Putin's paranoia or Xi Jinping's muscle flexing being the primary trigger to put an end to the global leadership of the US. Libya might have a domino effect on Egypt, Erdogan may push to expand Turkey's regional dominance, as it may be under a nationalist Muslim banner, but is neither Sunni nor Shi'ite, moving my pieces on the board with the same fallacy toward predictable scripts, but one thing is certain: State governance is being outstripped by meta data, which presents its own vulnerability.
His Last Dancer franchise, for those not in the know, was about forced global hegemony under the UN, clones, and cyborg AI's gradually taking over. Unwittingly, spastic purchased the last novel in the series, and know only that the United States was the last sovereign territory to fall, defeated by French forces, (oddly enough). A little too melodramatic for my taste, and I could not enter into all the concluding story lines, but for a wildly vacillating future dystopia, Moran's dismal voice was a lens over my own. For all we know, France may indeed be the first to advocate the death of territorial sovereignty. If the third world war is an advent, however, I am not sold on Putin's paranoia or Xi Jinping's muscle flexing being the primary trigger to put an end to the global leadership of the US. Libya might have a domino effect on Egypt, Erdogan may push to expand Turkey's regional dominance, as it may be under a nationalist Muslim banner, but is neither Sunni nor Shi'ite, moving my pieces on the board with the same fallacy toward predictable scripts, but one thing is certain: State governance is being outstripped by meta data, which presents its own vulnerability.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Apricot Canning
"But you are human, human as I could make you."-- William Hurt, before embracing the garrulous conservative approach.
The
British android series Humans doesn’t
bring anything new to the table. In the SO2 climax, Laura’s mildly insistent
argument to the actor performing Hester was an apologia to the viewing audience
for the fact that we can only approximate what we hope sentient machines will
be like. The actress in Ex Machina does
a little better, merely observing the death of her creator. The geek who freed
her had scruples, in the movie’s initial inclination toward sympathy. The end
is ambiguous, mildly chilling—but we still don’t really comprehend the issues
inherent in AI creation. Forbes had an interesting backstory piece about Bell
Labs technical secrets leading to the behemoths of our 21st century
anxieties: Apple, Google, Facebook, and the government’s drive to break
AT&T into component spinoffs might serve as a warning to the Big Three.
What we might also consider, however, is that we don’t need Hal, Arnold
Schwartzenegger, or Spielberg’s sentimental AI romance to be alarmed at the
human digital interface already having something of a negative impact. Computer
processing as it already exists sets off sequential events with detrimental
results. Do we want drone technology and drone kills to eliminate human pilots?
Or facial recognition software to turn the planet into a quantum prison?
Despite William Hurt’s ostensible cameo, allowing the audience to pit the
British no nonsense sensibility against AI’s grandiosity, comparing David with
Odi, and their inadvertent threat, Humans is more or less an English domestic
quarrel with diversity and its economic caste system. Leo Elster, if not an
anemic beatnik, looks like an exhausted punk who’s lost the nerve to be crude. Niska
is the outraged feminist who goes butch, making a rather huge leap,
conceptually, into simulated incest. The writers don’t really trouble
themselves with how a self-aware android would intuit penetration as a
violation, or even why Mia and Hester pursue sexual objectives, proletarian as
they are, the caretaker and exploited chemical worker. The actor who embodies
the Beatrice/Karen composite puts in a sturdy performance as a woman divided
between domestic tranquility and despair, the least autonomic of the
prototypes, hence improbable.
Since
Asimov inflicted readers with the moral dilemma of robotic awareness in the mid-20th
century, machines are either victimized children or a malevolent efficiency
model. In Terminator, the machines are DOD systems which eliminated most of
human civilization, then came up with time travel to ensure the resistance did
not survive Siri’s destruction. Granted, the saga is simply an action thriller
with characters to root for, but we never ask if machines designed for combat
would be so relentless, and we might wind up with something quite different if
we bring these things to life, an alien mindset that doesn’t mirror and magnify
human behavior. I am not saying I was unmoved by the story line of the series,
but we’ve seen it all before, trapped by our own anthropomorphic tendencies. If
Terminator offers a sliver of hope against the hubris of the military
industrial complex, and The Matrix is a futurist parable warning us not to be
too caught up in technical optimism, Humans has faith we’ll remain true to our
core values in the age of Google, with a Zuckerberg-like CEO trying to make
happiness just that much less effortless. Uh huh.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Travesty Optimization
Applying the proportionality test to both negative and positive rights may undermine any margin of appreciation of the [sic] state authorities. This gives rise to the problem of over-determination.-- Dual authors Klatt and Meeter, The Constitutional Structure of Proportionality, p 86
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Begrudgingly, Foot and Mouth
The Norwegian adaptation of Christensen's novel is kinetic enough, and I certainly appreciated the dripping excrement in the boys shared bedroom during episode four. Our European counterparts are always braver, and it signifies that this was the best shit scene I've ever seen on video. It beats Death at a Funeral, and Styron's 98 Shadrach, which was less about the might of grand nigger burden and more about family clasping hold, even if we're invariably eclipsed in that battle against the dark, so spastic has to eat soap. It is a relevant series, the Half-Brother, pity the post war working class doomed to their station.
Speaking of which, my reactionary pain shall not gravitate to Donald Trump, but that very same reactionism supports his right to be ugly, all the same. If the angry Caucasian working class want their spleen with the casino realtor mogul, they have a right to it. Wapo's contributors have been all over the map on this, offering cautious respect, and alternately comparing him to Putin, and yesterday, to Hitler. There are times it is useful to ignore established news content, and this is one of them. On the off chance that Trump can beat Clinton, his term in office would be paralyzed by SCOTUS litigation, and he would wind up impeached, and the federal government would cease to function. Yours truly would wind up a hate crime, barring some cleverness, as in spinning my drying vagina around a libertarian erection.
My anger at Charlie Sheen's cover-up is germane, and if it is an outcry against a certain fundamental unfairness, so be it. 10 million may not be what it once was against the backdrop of Google Apple Silicon uber wealth, but it is still an astounding amount of money for a performer to engage in a desperate evasion; alternately, the sexual partners purportedly suing him have no real standing to claim personal injury. If they fucked him consensually, that is simply a fact of life, the kind of promiscuity Salon enjoys quantifying as liberating, positive-- not that I haven't weighed a submission to the publication.
I am scrambling to create employment, dared to contact the National Review with a slightly antiseptic tone, as they produced David Brooks, not my favorite analyst.
Speaking of which, my reactionary pain shall not gravitate to Donald Trump, but that very same reactionism supports his right to be ugly, all the same. If the angry Caucasian working class want their spleen with the casino realtor mogul, they have a right to it. Wapo's contributors have been all over the map on this, offering cautious respect, and alternately comparing him to Putin, and yesterday, to Hitler. There are times it is useful to ignore established news content, and this is one of them. On the off chance that Trump can beat Clinton, his term in office would be paralyzed by SCOTUS litigation, and he would wind up impeached, and the federal government would cease to function. Yours truly would wind up a hate crime, barring some cleverness, as in spinning my drying vagina around a libertarian erection.
My anger at Charlie Sheen's cover-up is germane, and if it is an outcry against a certain fundamental unfairness, so be it. 10 million may not be what it once was against the backdrop of Google Apple Silicon uber wealth, but it is still an astounding amount of money for a performer to engage in a desperate evasion; alternately, the sexual partners purportedly suing him have no real standing to claim personal injury. If they fucked him consensually, that is simply a fact of life, the kind of promiscuity Salon enjoys quantifying as liberating, positive-- not that I haven't weighed a submission to the publication.
I am scrambling to create employment, dared to contact the National Review with a slightly antiseptic tone, as they produced David Brooks, not my favorite analyst.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Oklahoma City
it strains belief to suppose that this appalling crime was the work of two men--any two men. I believe it came about because of foreign involvement. I also believe our government might have prevented the whole thing. --Stephen Jones, Others Unknown
To take a cue from a titular local, and change direction when the geopolitical tilt is in a certain head wind, I do believe that reverberations remain in the wake of McVeigh's and Nichols' attempt to schism federal cohesion, though I am altogether uncertain that federal agents involved in the back end of building the case against the co-conspirators would have sat on the knowledge of foreign handlers. As McVeigh's defense lawyer, Jones is still advocating for his doomed client, attempting to shift the burden. If there is a burden to shift, I think it is domestic, close-lipped, bound in the code of western frontier silence, and now is as good a time as any to imagine there are stones still to be upturned.
According to Hollywood's pro-forma logic in Arlington Road, which isn't new, as utilized the same device in the more placid Parallax View, sating Warren's liberal hard on, government commissions accept the patsies created for them by black ops. Jeff Bridges moves from point to point, believes he's uncovering a home grown coup devised by Tim Robbins, and instead becomes the fall guy shielding the shadow syndicate, and nothing works that smoothly. If it did, Chinese authorities wouldn't debase themselves through the use of brute force for the sake of central planning.
But what Jones and the studio system do tap into is our underlying knowledge of civil service competency. It doesn't exist, and as such, all governments go to great lengths to assure us otherwise, hence, there is our cover up, proof of how debilitating it is to make it appear that Hillary Clinton actually deserves her authority.
To take a cue from a titular local, and change direction when the geopolitical tilt is in a certain head wind, I do believe that reverberations remain in the wake of McVeigh's and Nichols' attempt to schism federal cohesion, though I am altogether uncertain that federal agents involved in the back end of building the case against the co-conspirators would have sat on the knowledge of foreign handlers. As McVeigh's defense lawyer, Jones is still advocating for his doomed client, attempting to shift the burden. If there is a burden to shift, I think it is domestic, close-lipped, bound in the code of western frontier silence, and now is as good a time as any to imagine there are stones still to be upturned.
According to Hollywood's pro-forma logic in Arlington Road, which isn't new, as utilized the same device in the more placid Parallax View, sating Warren's liberal hard on, government commissions accept the patsies created for them by black ops. Jeff Bridges moves from point to point, believes he's uncovering a home grown coup devised by Tim Robbins, and instead becomes the fall guy shielding the shadow syndicate, and nothing works that smoothly. If it did, Chinese authorities wouldn't debase themselves through the use of brute force for the sake of central planning.
But what Jones and the studio system do tap into is our underlying knowledge of civil service competency. It doesn't exist, and as such, all governments go to great lengths to assure us otherwise, hence, there is our cover up, proof of how debilitating it is to make it appear that Hillary Clinton actually deserves her authority.
Another Hack Day
Frying my brain, I applied to be an upload writer once again at an automated upload site and failed their entry test with a 60% correct answer ratio. They want 70%. I preferred speed, simply getting it done, and this is what the digital age has reduced us to, never mind the 34 years I've spent slogging through the small presses. I really used to believe my CV amounted to something, and without logging in, discovered my mostly aggregated content at Examiner.com is still there, laughing with insane raspy squirrel vocalizations, the site applied to didn't want to know anything about me. Researching pitches. I have ceased querying everyday, wondering what the point is if I cannot afford guild/union fees. Writer's Market rarely lands me anything usable. I'll share something stark: I hit Reason Magazine with a pitch about McVeigh's legacy, tying it into Arlington Road thanks to this esoteric account with my disturbing negations, and supposed I could jump through security clearances necessary to correspond with home grown Oklahoma anarchy and actually received a no thanks! I mean we know enough to be ignored, right? How dark is that? Maybe the editor wanted to keep me on his good side, but it is still an idea I'm turning over, negotiating with myself how to toe the line without simply delving into hermeneutic prognostication.
But I can't keep hitting the same publication due to libertarian arousal. Kimmy is on my lap, pestering me to watch her eat. I need a break. Maybe I am simply a stupid obnoxious bitch. McVeigh went after indiscriminate targets. I prefer targeted assassination, but as Gary Sinise told a corrupt Nicholas Cage in another conspiracy film, there is always an adjustment in every operation.
But I can't keep hitting the same publication due to libertarian arousal. Kimmy is on my lap, pestering me to watch her eat. I need a break. Maybe I am simply a stupid obnoxious bitch. McVeigh went after indiscriminate targets. I prefer targeted assassination, but as Gary Sinise told a corrupt Nicholas Cage in another conspiracy film, there is always an adjustment in every operation.
Continuing Currency, Apocalypse Thrall of ISIS in a 4/5ths Moon
"I failed as a father," -- Martin Sheen, an Anger Management cameo no longer as ironic in its original air date.
Oh, I do not know. As a good lieutenant, I've never been much of a herd animal, never prefaced children, and cannot enter the vacuum of this particular feminine privilege which makes most women diffident with my attitude and in social media, it's almost an unstated requirement to gain access to the repository. Not that this is a complaint. Given that a France 24 anchor found my heartfelt response to GQ Magazine the night of the Paris attacks, a Monday and a world away by now, I have a new found respect for the extraordinary collapse in communication technology to level the field-- not that this incident will get me jobbers-- but here I am, cripple extraordinaire facing down a corrupt housing classification on sheer will-- and my landlord's perplexing inability to boot my racially antagonistic but courteous in context ass out the door, and I get quoted on international television. Worth starving for? I don't hate my building manager and her scions for being black with a lesser intelligence than mine. I hate that hers and their employment is contingent upon threatening me with re-incarceration, that she doesn't have half my education, struggles to keep up with my defiance of her trained for cruelty, and she is presumably Philadelphia's definition of the lower end pluralistic black middle class, while I'm living hand to mouth, owing over $23k on this damn brain. I kicked up with the sloth-indolent receptionist too. "Why not just evict me?" She couldn't comprehend that in my view this was kinder than 22 years of harassment, threatening letters under my door on a daily basis, and continuing assessment team escalation-- yet I get quoted on an international 24/7 news feed. Irony, indeed, not that I'm a huge footprint, just as likely to tell the glamour veneers to fuck off, which douses me down a bit, as I could have had over a thousand followers by now, but that I take risks, indulge provocation. Hush money for this iconic entertainment scandal to the tune of 10 million has earned my prevalence for the caustic bite. What kind of society is it where a smart quad has to engage in extraordinary rendition just to earn 23k until 36, but the son of a man best noted for playing a fake president doles out that kind of hush money for a disease that made its way from the bush to gay sex hostels and then invariably found its way to the street?
My dead brother was mildly psycho, an angel dust rapist. His life haunts me, for that shame of it, and yet in the Hollywood bubble, Charlie Sheen eats his own hype like coprophagic poultry. It is difficult to pity Sheen for his antics in recent years, but perhaps it should have been him against the unpleasantly brittle boned Michelle Pfeiffer in Hollander's slate grey, clinical interior Vancouver of the equally unpleasant arc of Personal Effects. His ethics are more in tune with beating the shit out of retards.
If my small conservative base suspects I am branding a white hot liberal tong here, no, not really. I've seen the bottomless pit of the deranged who die like rabid dogs, and A-listers like Sheen make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Bedouin sanitarium for consumptives. Does the man have any sense of personal responsibility whatsoever? Given his age and self-destructive promiscuity, he will probably be dead on the inside of 72 months.
Oh, I do not know. As a good lieutenant, I've never been much of a herd animal, never prefaced children, and cannot enter the vacuum of this particular feminine privilege which makes most women diffident with my attitude and in social media, it's almost an unstated requirement to gain access to the repository. Not that this is a complaint. Given that a France 24 anchor found my heartfelt response to GQ Magazine the night of the Paris attacks, a Monday and a world away by now, I have a new found respect for the extraordinary collapse in communication technology to level the field-- not that this incident will get me jobbers-- but here I am, cripple extraordinaire facing down a corrupt housing classification on sheer will-- and my landlord's perplexing inability to boot my racially antagonistic but courteous in context ass out the door, and I get quoted on international television. Worth starving for? I don't hate my building manager and her scions for being black with a lesser intelligence than mine. I hate that hers and their employment is contingent upon threatening me with re-incarceration, that she doesn't have half my education, struggles to keep up with my defiance of her trained for cruelty, and she is presumably Philadelphia's definition of the lower end pluralistic black middle class, while I'm living hand to mouth, owing over $23k on this damn brain. I kicked up with the sloth-indolent receptionist too. "Why not just evict me?" She couldn't comprehend that in my view this was kinder than 22 years of harassment, threatening letters under my door on a daily basis, and continuing assessment team escalation-- yet I get quoted on an international 24/7 news feed. Irony, indeed, not that I'm a huge footprint, just as likely to tell the glamour veneers to fuck off, which douses me down a bit, as I could have had over a thousand followers by now, but that I take risks, indulge provocation. Hush money for this iconic entertainment scandal to the tune of 10 million has earned my prevalence for the caustic bite. What kind of society is it where a smart quad has to engage in extraordinary rendition just to earn 23k until 36, but the son of a man best noted for playing a fake president doles out that kind of hush money for a disease that made its way from the bush to gay sex hostels and then invariably found its way to the street?
My dead brother was mildly psycho, an angel dust rapist. His life haunts me, for that shame of it, and yet in the Hollywood bubble, Charlie Sheen eats his own hype like coprophagic poultry. It is difficult to pity Sheen for his antics in recent years, but perhaps it should have been him against the unpleasantly brittle boned Michelle Pfeiffer in Hollander's slate grey, clinical interior Vancouver of the equally unpleasant arc of Personal Effects. His ethics are more in tune with beating the shit out of retards.
If my small conservative base suspects I am branding a white hot liberal tong here, no, not really. I've seen the bottomless pit of the deranged who die like rabid dogs, and A-listers like Sheen make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Bedouin sanitarium for consumptives. Does the man have any sense of personal responsibility whatsoever? Given his age and self-destructive promiscuity, he will probably be dead on the inside of 72 months.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Gladiator Emasculation, Fabricated Sheaths
"She doesn't do anything to make herself attractive," Kathleen Ann Quinlan, in foil against a serial poisoner
Jane Campion aims for piercing through feminine pain in her 2003 In the Cut, a film which miscasts Meg Ryan as a poet teacher and does an abominable disservice to my favorite novel. Writers tend to have detached personalities, but Meg Ryan’s teacher is a swishing slut, pale and effervescent in comparison to her younger supporting lead in Flesh and Bone, taken aback by the metropolitan brutality in which she deigns to thrive, in a narrative with an otherwise predictable bait and switch, with Ruffalo’s edginess lacking the requisite ambiguity for suspense. Why Bacon was cast as the jilted boyfriend is beyond this blogger’s ability to enter into, in reference to Nicole Kidman’s verve as the producer; he may represent a generalized post-9/11 anxiety, in addition to serving as the typical supporting character for misdirected suspicion, but the repugnant turgid aspect to his role doesn’t quite ratchet up the audience sympathy for the imperiled heroine. Damici spoils everything as the Detective Richie long gone into section 8 territory, more meatball than methodical predator.
Despite these posterior impediments, Campion does manage to break past the battery of inured defenses. The lack of a musical score concentrates the sickening stench of the body butchery which hypersexualizes Ruffalo’s Malloy for Ryan’s Avery. Kidman’s iciness cues the damsel backstory, with a nod to the snow white feline sauntering along the alleyway, and Ruffalo cannot save the girl because the girl offered the recognition of the tattoo she recognized to the wrong player. Homage to Doris Day’s Que Sera, as the title track, sears the breasts of every woman who necessarily has to be disappointed with patriarchal dominance, settling for ineffectual decency.
This is an incontrovertibly modern movie, understating drama for a stark view of new century difference, a template perhaps not consciously but certainly genetically related to the 2009 Personal Effects. Hollander may have intended this ensemble view of murder victims to be a marquee vehicle for Ashton Kutchner, but the bad aftertaste Vancouver leaves in our mouths is a sad testament to the fact that studio executives insist audiences have to accept mediocre actors as celebrities. Kutchner doesn’t have Charlie Sheen’s ability to make the camera love him, and the screenplay relegates the disabled to indigestible burdens: the honorable retarded man a scapegoated casualty due to the need to assign blame, a fatherless deaf boy indulging in homicidal impulses to salve his losses. Kutchner may be the duty driven protector, but his cruelty surpasses boundaries, both to the retarded suspect, who he calls “a man like that,” and to his ostensible lover’s deaf son, with whom he deliberately maintains fences. Hollander takes so many shots of the megabird costume he might have well marketed this flick to Henson’s muppet market. Being well made doesn’t always translate into being responsible for your end product, which may or may not be the problem with Ben Carson’s candidacy. I am not the first person to suspect the minority with miracle hands might be gaming the nominating process.
In USA today he calls the racism of the Charleston shooter a disease, and then turns around and associates Sunni extremism with rabies. I don’t necessarily disagree with his rhetoric there, but do acknowledge the sand pit in which he’s trapped himself. Racism is not a disease. It may corrode, and with pronounced virulence, may be symptomatic of physiological decline, but in and of itself, prejudice is not equivalent to illness. To his credit, and despite the mote in my eye, as it stands, he is the only GOP candidate who fascinates me as a journalist in pursuit of a subject, the only one who ignites any semblance of a motivation, but surgeons aren’t generally inclined to be tea party absolutists, as those who administer the brutality of the medical model the disabled have to live, and if Carson isn’t the victim of conflicting mental impulses in his own right, perhaps he is running in the top tier so he can die a black millionaire. Powell did the same thing after he left the Bush administration, but kept it within the confines of accepted parameters. Carson is not, and that is fine, but it may also indicate the death of the American two party system. The lunatic fringe is catering to a hunger for flamboyance, and the democratic left, even if Hillary Clinton prevails, is weak. If Xi Jinping sucks this into his vacuum cleaner, like any good opportunist, I’ll join in with the violinists. With some thinking, I may wedge in a more impassioned post to the doctor later. A long post like this may attest to a spastic with no life, but a power chair turned torture chamber makes a poverty sunken mattress a haven of resignation, with which both Hollander and Campion conclude their problematic dramas.
Jane Campion aims for piercing through feminine pain in her 2003 In the Cut, a film which miscasts Meg Ryan as a poet teacher and does an abominable disservice to my favorite novel. Writers tend to have detached personalities, but Meg Ryan’s teacher is a swishing slut, pale and effervescent in comparison to her younger supporting lead in Flesh and Bone, taken aback by the metropolitan brutality in which she deigns to thrive, in a narrative with an otherwise predictable bait and switch, with Ruffalo’s edginess lacking the requisite ambiguity for suspense. Why Bacon was cast as the jilted boyfriend is beyond this blogger’s ability to enter into, in reference to Nicole Kidman’s verve as the producer; he may represent a generalized post-9/11 anxiety, in addition to serving as the typical supporting character for misdirected suspicion, but the repugnant turgid aspect to his role doesn’t quite ratchet up the audience sympathy for the imperiled heroine. Damici spoils everything as the Detective Richie long gone into section 8 territory, more meatball than methodical predator.
Despite these posterior impediments, Campion does manage to break past the battery of inured defenses. The lack of a musical score concentrates the sickening stench of the body butchery which hypersexualizes Ruffalo’s Malloy for Ryan’s Avery. Kidman’s iciness cues the damsel backstory, with a nod to the snow white feline sauntering along the alleyway, and Ruffalo cannot save the girl because the girl offered the recognition of the tattoo she recognized to the wrong player. Homage to Doris Day’s Que Sera, as the title track, sears the breasts of every woman who necessarily has to be disappointed with patriarchal dominance, settling for ineffectual decency.
This is an incontrovertibly modern movie, understating drama for a stark view of new century difference, a template perhaps not consciously but certainly genetically related to the 2009 Personal Effects. Hollander may have intended this ensemble view of murder victims to be a marquee vehicle for Ashton Kutchner, but the bad aftertaste Vancouver leaves in our mouths is a sad testament to the fact that studio executives insist audiences have to accept mediocre actors as celebrities. Kutchner doesn’t have Charlie Sheen’s ability to make the camera love him, and the screenplay relegates the disabled to indigestible burdens: the honorable retarded man a scapegoated casualty due to the need to assign blame, a fatherless deaf boy indulging in homicidal impulses to salve his losses. Kutchner may be the duty driven protector, but his cruelty surpasses boundaries, both to the retarded suspect, who he calls “a man like that,” and to his ostensible lover’s deaf son, with whom he deliberately maintains fences. Hollander takes so many shots of the megabird costume he might have well marketed this flick to Henson’s muppet market. Being well made doesn’t always translate into being responsible for your end product, which may or may not be the problem with Ben Carson’s candidacy. I am not the first person to suspect the minority with miracle hands might be gaming the nominating process.
In USA today he calls the racism of the Charleston shooter a disease, and then turns around and associates Sunni extremism with rabies. I don’t necessarily disagree with his rhetoric there, but do acknowledge the sand pit in which he’s trapped himself. Racism is not a disease. It may corrode, and with pronounced virulence, may be symptomatic of physiological decline, but in and of itself, prejudice is not equivalent to illness. To his credit, and despite the mote in my eye, as it stands, he is the only GOP candidate who fascinates me as a journalist in pursuit of a subject, the only one who ignites any semblance of a motivation, but surgeons aren’t generally inclined to be tea party absolutists, as those who administer the brutality of the medical model the disabled have to live, and if Carson isn’t the victim of conflicting mental impulses in his own right, perhaps he is running in the top tier so he can die a black millionaire. Powell did the same thing after he left the Bush administration, but kept it within the confines of accepted parameters. Carson is not, and that is fine, but it may also indicate the death of the American two party system. The lunatic fringe is catering to a hunger for flamboyance, and the democratic left, even if Hillary Clinton prevails, is weak. If Xi Jinping sucks this into his vacuum cleaner, like any good opportunist, I’ll join in with the violinists. With some thinking, I may wedge in a more impassioned post to the doctor later. A long post like this may attest to a spastic with no life, but a power chair turned torture chamber makes a poverty sunken mattress a haven of resignation, with which both Hollander and Campion conclude their problematic dramas.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Cromwell's Invidious Frustration With The Unforeseen
For the more delicate and costly articles of food for the sick we relied mostly on the agents of the Sanitary Commission.-- William T Sherman, ushering in the modern era, p 883
In terms of its neo-realism, Surrogates has many issues. Critics ask why humans would desire to be enveloped in a body length sensory console, but as the studio FX for this Willis vehicle illustrates, our physical bodies could not long survive such extended periods of inactivity, unless one has to adapt, as Cromwell's Canter does, to being a mobility impaired tyrant. The plot is also problematic. If VSI hired Stone to kill its founder in order to prevent catastrophe, one that makes the Third Reich seem inept, then you hire a contract killer to penetrate to the source, to make sure the hit is done right. If Willis can do it as Greer in the flesh, one can assume Kodjoe's no nonsense cueball supervisory agent could have found someone methodical and efficient enough to kill Canter before he uploaded the virus. But beneath the surface of its weak story, the industry's kick in the teeth toward itself might generate rancor. Even seeing what we see, and making pneumatic blockbuster allegories reveling in the very psychosis of mortality, we cannot stop the train. We're already plugged in and enhanced automated liars, and even the dowager, courageous as she is with appalling truths about physicality, poverty, and a stacked, corrupt deck, has certain episodes of omission. I do not reveal certain things about Lakisha Doe, not because I know she is online, but because her guilt doesn't deserve that I use it to hurt her. She wasn't a bad assistant as far as really African blacks go; tried to help me, using her money to buy me clothes, but I did not want a nigger surrogate for a daughter, and booted her, doing her a favor, really. Where she is at now with her dental company is better than where she was with me on the waiver system. And I'm sitting here writing this to jack up. God forbid I stay offline for a week and prioritize my many issues. I am sure this is what many followers who've abandoned this voice think. Do what you need to do, but like Rosamund Pike, many of are infected avatars, and mine concurs with Cromwell's final, insidious, implosive, intent. In the alternate timeline of Surrogates' futureworld, Canter would have become an immortal legend, demonized in eternal infamy. The truth of the matter, however, is there are already thousands of people in an extended matrix much akin to sim operators, forced to view the world through lenses with limited periphery. Of course it will not evolve in the manner of the graphic serial brought to life like a plastic surgery bill, but the allegory already lives. Much as Black Mirror's writers already know. Humanity isn't sure what exactly it wants for itself, a homogeneous utopia which removes adversity from our existence, which is what makes us thrive, or to limit our collective altruism for individual circumstances unique to each.
In terms of its neo-realism, Surrogates has many issues. Critics ask why humans would desire to be enveloped in a body length sensory console, but as the studio FX for this Willis vehicle illustrates, our physical bodies could not long survive such extended periods of inactivity, unless one has to adapt, as Cromwell's Canter does, to being a mobility impaired tyrant. The plot is also problematic. If VSI hired Stone to kill its founder in order to prevent catastrophe, one that makes the Third Reich seem inept, then you hire a contract killer to penetrate to the source, to make sure the hit is done right. If Willis can do it as Greer in the flesh, one can assume Kodjoe's no nonsense cueball supervisory agent could have found someone methodical and efficient enough to kill Canter before he uploaded the virus. But beneath the surface of its weak story, the industry's kick in the teeth toward itself might generate rancor. Even seeing what we see, and making pneumatic blockbuster allegories reveling in the very psychosis of mortality, we cannot stop the train. We're already plugged in and enhanced automated liars, and even the dowager, courageous as she is with appalling truths about physicality, poverty, and a stacked, corrupt deck, has certain episodes of omission. I do not reveal certain things about Lakisha Doe, not because I know she is online, but because her guilt doesn't deserve that I use it to hurt her. She wasn't a bad assistant as far as really African blacks go; tried to help me, using her money to buy me clothes, but I did not want a nigger surrogate for a daughter, and booted her, doing her a favor, really. Where she is at now with her dental company is better than where she was with me on the waiver system. And I'm sitting here writing this to jack up. God forbid I stay offline for a week and prioritize my many issues. I am sure this is what many followers who've abandoned this voice think. Do what you need to do, but like Rosamund Pike, many of are infected avatars, and mine concurs with Cromwell's final, insidious, implosive, intent. In the alternate timeline of Surrogates' futureworld, Canter would have become an immortal legend, demonized in eternal infamy. The truth of the matter, however, is there are already thousands of people in an extended matrix much akin to sim operators, forced to view the world through lenses with limited periphery. Of course it will not evolve in the manner of the graphic serial brought to life like a plastic surgery bill, but the allegory already lives. Much as Black Mirror's writers already know. Humanity isn't sure what exactly it wants for itself, a homogeneous utopia which removes adversity from our existence, which is what makes us thrive, or to limit our collective altruism for individual circumstances unique to each.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Reporting correspondant spastique pour le service
"Why can't man be as free to dance in the sunlight in the time that he has?"-- Thomas Gibson
When nine eleven hit, I was here, same desk, asking my fellow writers in Speakeasy if they were okay, before my account was banned a year later. Happily, I haven't been banned from commenting at The Washington Post. I do not personalize disagreements with Eugene Robinson or Jonathan Capehart, haven't worn out my welcome, and in 2001, I was vainly attempting to hold onto my belief in independent living rhetoric. September 11 was surreal. More or less a source of dissonance, even with the knowledge that the Twin Towers was a tourist treat when I lived in Rusk Institute. Fourteen years ago it was simply shock, too much video of debris and passenger jets, and the literature of Islamic radicalism amounted to little more than the standing ovation President Bush received before a joint session of Congress uttering the name of "al qaeda". Everything is big in the US. Big disasters, epic wars, sometimes too lengthy, blockbuster futurist parables about the dark side of perfection which do little more than announce we're already here. These days, anyone who pays attention to foreign correspondents can whip up a pate of the failure of civilization for Arabian-Semitic non-Jewish peoples.
The Paris attacks have hit me profoundly, and like the handful of Americans who volunteered for de Gaulle during the Resistance, I want to apply for a Visa and trot off to France in a fervor of retrenchment, petite ailing almost life long welfare mongrel, not quite at James Cromwell's level of horrific deterioration in Surrogates. Interesting premise, stupid movie. Even I realize we aren't turning back from this evolution to integrated cyborgs.
My sister wants me to be careful with my level of provocation, and surely, if I was confronted with ISIS, I'd fare worse than Kayla Mueller, but I cannot sit here and watch European heritage collapse and fall to its knees as an apologia for thousands of years of imperial strife. This is where I am right now.
When nine eleven hit, I was here, same desk, asking my fellow writers in Speakeasy if they were okay, before my account was banned a year later. Happily, I haven't been banned from commenting at The Washington Post. I do not personalize disagreements with Eugene Robinson or Jonathan Capehart, haven't worn out my welcome, and in 2001, I was vainly attempting to hold onto my belief in independent living rhetoric. September 11 was surreal. More or less a source of dissonance, even with the knowledge that the Twin Towers was a tourist treat when I lived in Rusk Institute. Fourteen years ago it was simply shock, too much video of debris and passenger jets, and the literature of Islamic radicalism amounted to little more than the standing ovation President Bush received before a joint session of Congress uttering the name of "al qaeda". Everything is big in the US. Big disasters, epic wars, sometimes too lengthy, blockbuster futurist parables about the dark side of perfection which do little more than announce we're already here. These days, anyone who pays attention to foreign correspondents can whip up a pate of the failure of civilization for Arabian-Semitic non-Jewish peoples.
The Paris attacks have hit me profoundly, and like the handful of Americans who volunteered for de Gaulle during the Resistance, I want to apply for a Visa and trot off to France in a fervor of retrenchment, petite ailing almost life long welfare mongrel, not quite at James Cromwell's level of horrific deterioration in Surrogates. Interesting premise, stupid movie. Even I realize we aren't turning back from this evolution to integrated cyborgs.
My sister wants me to be careful with my level of provocation, and surely, if I was confronted with ISIS, I'd fare worse than Kayla Mueller, but I cannot sit here and watch European heritage collapse and fall to its knees as an apologia for thousands of years of imperial strife. This is where I am right now.
All Eyes on the Neurosurgeon
The 2009 Surrogates has tracer elements. Part deconstruction of Bruce Willis as the Die Hard action figure, part terminator, and playing a bit on Keanu Reeves angst with The Matrix, and the carnage of Terminator, the dowager confesses she only caught approximately 50 minutes of the second half, unaware that it was scheduled as a Saturday afternoon matinee. While not retracting that certain aspects of the narrative were nonsensical, spastic has flagged it as a non eating up my usage review, noting the shock value of its human operator cinematography juxtaposed against the perfect grooming of the androids providing the perfect vicarious extensions. Does anyone believe Dr. Ben Carson can defeat Hillary?
Spastic agrees with much of what the man says in public, despite previous spurious use of simian epithet in previous post. It was the hesitation behind the bigotry of disaffection, not that this woman has the inside skinny on which of the remaining GOP candidates will prevail. Twenty percent of me which remains committed to advocacy might wish to throw my lot behind this man, despite dowager's impoverishment. I'll have a longer post on this soon. I've come to prefer writing out my posts on Word and then augmenting them in the window, particularly when I wish to push, but like the good doctor, I have my serious, impassioned side, and truly believe, despite Tony Blair's observation about "power shifting rapidly West to East," that the time for comprehensive military engagement has come. Sometimes, civilization has its price. When Islamic State was on the rise, some of us looked on it with muted respect, but never envisioned this yellow liveried barbarity of cowardice this paramilitary force has subsequently displayed. The Iraq War may have helped IS to rise, but the Sunni's need to be punished, the Iranians defanged, and NATO needs to act, and stop playing patsy. Empathy, much as vaunted, fragile, civil liberties, isn't a suicide pact either, to pick up the post-9/11 cry.
Spastic agrees with much of what the man says in public, despite previous spurious use of simian epithet in previous post. It was the hesitation behind the bigotry of disaffection, not that this woman has the inside skinny on which of the remaining GOP candidates will prevail. Twenty percent of me which remains committed to advocacy might wish to throw my lot behind this man, despite dowager's impoverishment. I'll have a longer post on this soon. I've come to prefer writing out my posts on Word and then augmenting them in the window, particularly when I wish to push, but like the good doctor, I have my serious, impassioned side, and truly believe, despite Tony Blair's observation about "power shifting rapidly West to East," that the time for comprehensive military engagement has come. Sometimes, civilization has its price. When Islamic State was on the rise, some of us looked on it with muted respect, but never envisioned this yellow liveried barbarity of cowardice this paramilitary force has subsequently displayed. The Iraq War may have helped IS to rise, but the Sunni's need to be punished, the Iranians defanged, and NATO needs to act, and stop playing patsy. Empathy, much as vaunted, fragile, civil liberties, isn't a suicide pact either, to pick up the post-9/11 cry.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Solidarity
"Socially, culturally, morally, America has taken on the aspect of a decadent society and a declining nation."-- Patrick J. Buchanan, preface to Suicide of a Superpower
It is rather disconcerting to respond to a GQ image of the stadium exodus in Paris just prior to heating up your fish and chips and then find yourself quoted live on France 24 three hours later, rushing to telephone the dying aunt now holed up with dying brother and my immediate progenitor, my father, exhausted with tales of his dying wife, as fed to you by a sister you listen to, mouthing support you do not mean. Louise is dying, the fleeting nurse and more evincing invalid with her rheumatoid arthritis. "Her rectum is falling out of her ass," says besieged sister, and this makes you, as a cripple who wants to kill her apartment manager on any given Sunday, feel curiously more lucid than the rest of my clan: I am now evidently in charge, hanging by a thread while being quoted by France 24, watching the civilized world simply descend, trying to curb my hyperbole, but truly believing that Caucasian moral decency is imperiled, aware that this is a draconian throwback even to the 19th century. I could tell you too, how I took on Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne and the new one, Gail Sims, last week, losing my temper, standing up to Debra, calling her incompetent, a lout, realizing my contempt for these mocha women isn't worth my soul.
Louise has Sundowning Syndrome, to hear my sister tell it, while I continue to accrue a better, diminished, picture of Ben Carson, my mild interest in the black boy who did good in Detroit waning. He fooled Nightline, evidently, those many years ago, the carefully groomed and educated minority now revealing levels of bombast which alarm the establishment, reminding yourself you have little idea who the establishment is. But the generalized anxiety among the fractious conservative class seems to convey "What if Trump or Carson gets the nomination, or worse, becomes president if the edifice of ossified Clinton centrism cracks?"
My response to this is cynicism: So what? Neither the smirking monkey with his evangelical definition nor the mogul-shyster would have the actual power to do much damage, not immediately, in this facade of a democratic republic where a wastrel of a reactionary like me gets quoted on live international television looking for social media filler about the latest attack on Europe which has broken many congruent hearts.
If I in turn had the power to generate hawkish policy, I'd say its time for the third world war. Assassinate Assan Rouhani of Iran, dissolve Syria, expose the Russian armed forces for their ineptitude, and so forth, as withering in rhetorical sentiment as papier-mache, while I was quoted on France 24, trivialized spastic on the margins, preferring to die in battle. Ludicrous, my family decimated by chemotherapy, innocent Western blood flowing in the age of a troubled new century molded by the fanaticism of a nefarious Saudi named Osama. The disintegration of Airbus 321 was tactically effective. It caused a united retrenchment. The attack on Paris, in contrast, will backfire, in expected ways and otherwise. All I can do is regret benighted choices, observe the web of familial disease, crack ghoulish jokes. Consider the hospice industry with disgust. People need to know when it is time to make peace with death, and my stepmother, and my father's sister Marie, and her brother, need to stop receiving extraordinary medical intervention. They will not do it of course, but it would free up resources to ease the stringency of the welfare state we all hate. The brutality of a cause, the brutality of centralized institutional paradigms, these are flip sides of the same coin.
It is rather disconcerting to respond to a GQ image of the stadium exodus in Paris just prior to heating up your fish and chips and then find yourself quoted live on France 24 three hours later, rushing to telephone the dying aunt now holed up with dying brother and my immediate progenitor, my father, exhausted with tales of his dying wife, as fed to you by a sister you listen to, mouthing support you do not mean. Louise is dying, the fleeting nurse and more evincing invalid with her rheumatoid arthritis. "Her rectum is falling out of her ass," says besieged sister, and this makes you, as a cripple who wants to kill her apartment manager on any given Sunday, feel curiously more lucid than the rest of my clan: I am now evidently in charge, hanging by a thread while being quoted by France 24, watching the civilized world simply descend, trying to curb my hyperbole, but truly believing that Caucasian moral decency is imperiled, aware that this is a draconian throwback even to the 19th century. I could tell you too, how I took on Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne and the new one, Gail Sims, last week, losing my temper, standing up to Debra, calling her incompetent, a lout, realizing my contempt for these mocha women isn't worth my soul.
Louise has Sundowning Syndrome, to hear my sister tell it, while I continue to accrue a better, diminished, picture of Ben Carson, my mild interest in the black boy who did good in Detroit waning. He fooled Nightline, evidently, those many years ago, the carefully groomed and educated minority now revealing levels of bombast which alarm the establishment, reminding yourself you have little idea who the establishment is. But the generalized anxiety among the fractious conservative class seems to convey "What if Trump or Carson gets the nomination, or worse, becomes president if the edifice of ossified Clinton centrism cracks?"
My response to this is cynicism: So what? Neither the smirking monkey with his evangelical definition nor the mogul-shyster would have the actual power to do much damage, not immediately, in this facade of a democratic republic where a wastrel of a reactionary like me gets quoted on live international television looking for social media filler about the latest attack on Europe which has broken many congruent hearts.
If I in turn had the power to generate hawkish policy, I'd say its time for the third world war. Assassinate Assan Rouhani of Iran, dissolve Syria, expose the Russian armed forces for their ineptitude, and so forth, as withering in rhetorical sentiment as papier-mache, while I was quoted on France 24, trivialized spastic on the margins, preferring to die in battle. Ludicrous, my family decimated by chemotherapy, innocent Western blood flowing in the age of a troubled new century molded by the fanaticism of a nefarious Saudi named Osama. The disintegration of Airbus 321 was tactically effective. It caused a united retrenchment. The attack on Paris, in contrast, will backfire, in expected ways and otherwise. All I can do is regret benighted choices, observe the web of familial disease, crack ghoulish jokes. Consider the hospice industry with disgust. People need to know when it is time to make peace with death, and my stepmother, and my father's sister Marie, and her brother, need to stop receiving extraordinary medical intervention. They will not do it of course, but it would free up resources to ease the stringency of the welfare state we all hate. The brutality of a cause, the brutality of centralized institutional paradigms, these are flip sides of the same coin.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Costner's Blessing
"I don't want to get on your bad side!"-- the black adder, now burdened with complications of appeasement
Despite its subject matter, Mr. Brooks is not about the impact of psychological pathology on the American scene, unlike ABC's new Wicked City, which is a bit of a toss up-- and in a brevity of an aside-- this spastic's young adulthood wasn't populated with the discothèque remembrance the show attempts to evoke with nonchalance. Reviewers noted certain things about Brooks: Costner loosens up playing against William Hurt, who in the right context is every woman's prime capture if she has ambition toward a fulfilled life, and the director Evans suggests, subversively, that a successful businessman is analogous to being a serial murderer, but there are vectors in this film which come together like blades in a jigsaw, actually sending up celebrity, notoriety, their hanger's on, and what goes on beneath the surface of successful appearances. Demi Moore says something about her tabloid rep encapsulating her brass balls detective who defeats the spree menace of the Hangman killer and his badass girl, offering viewers, perhaps her fans, a sense of the cutthroat approach necessary to say on top. The fact that her cop, Atwood, is insulated by wealth in an estranged familial environment is also a veiled reference, but to what exactly? Pimping to the market is no guarantee? Photographs of women almost nude in revealing pregnancy no longer generate the chatter they did when Demi was still young, before she spent small fortunes on her plastic surgeries, and what Brooks reads in the aberrant behavior of the daughter is a third person limited narration. As an audience, we aren't offered an alternative viewpoint, loose threads to fall where they may. The police may be smart enough to figure that someone was trying to throw suspicion off the daughter, for instance, or, if she killed her father as an eventuality, how would she have planned to get away with it.
The difficulty with Brooks lies in its substrata toward the ironic, confusing us with the reflections breaking off like shards, despite Costner's diabolical pleasure with himself. Brooks neither quite succeeds as a parable about undercurrents, nor as a truism about the urban underclass, such as we are invited to wince away in Henry, portrait of a serial killer, which itself lost its nerve for the sake of its rating. I have not lost mine, I am simply so beset with inevitable unraveling that my caustic invective threatening Google's pecuniary market interests wouldn't help even if I freaked out other somewhat troubled lone wolves, and no, I do not mean I want to rant death on the heads of my perceived tormentors either. I am a failed writer, but my own acuity denies frothing, if not a hideous temper. Another way to say this is Mr. Brooks examines macro-aggression in a microscopic context, and does so unsure of its balance. To hint, with slight mystery to the nuance, why able-bodied individuals destroy themselves against the biographies of quadriplegics who've been beaten, regardless of precocious sensibilities, is unfathomable. Alcoholics can walk, and yet disease themselves into the dependence of mass material victimhood, as do addicts, and the demographics of Caucasian suicides in my age group. PBS had a seven minute segment on whites my age killing themselves due to disenfranchisement, and nothing is as bad as a cripple who has seen the institutional hell she refuses to return to, without being able to find a pathway to safety. If you can walk and drive a car, count your blessings. I am certainly past the ability of spontaneous pleasure when architecture and poverty defeat it. Then again, maybe I can write some lyrics for Louy Fierce, an intriguing possibility between ableism and reconciliation with ferocity of chronic impairment denial of wholeness.
Why did he decide to follow me? The inner voice need not be sated on that puzzling note.
Despite its subject matter, Mr. Brooks is not about the impact of psychological pathology on the American scene, unlike ABC's new Wicked City, which is a bit of a toss up-- and in a brevity of an aside-- this spastic's young adulthood wasn't populated with the discothèque remembrance the show attempts to evoke with nonchalance. Reviewers noted certain things about Brooks: Costner loosens up playing against William Hurt, who in the right context is every woman's prime capture if she has ambition toward a fulfilled life, and the director Evans suggests, subversively, that a successful businessman is analogous to being a serial murderer, but there are vectors in this film which come together like blades in a jigsaw, actually sending up celebrity, notoriety, their hanger's on, and what goes on beneath the surface of successful appearances. Demi Moore says something about her tabloid rep encapsulating her brass balls detective who defeats the spree menace of the Hangman killer and his badass girl, offering viewers, perhaps her fans, a sense of the cutthroat approach necessary to say on top. The fact that her cop, Atwood, is insulated by wealth in an estranged familial environment is also a veiled reference, but to what exactly? Pimping to the market is no guarantee? Photographs of women almost nude in revealing pregnancy no longer generate the chatter they did when Demi was still young, before she spent small fortunes on her plastic surgeries, and what Brooks reads in the aberrant behavior of the daughter is a third person limited narration. As an audience, we aren't offered an alternative viewpoint, loose threads to fall where they may. The police may be smart enough to figure that someone was trying to throw suspicion off the daughter, for instance, or, if she killed her father as an eventuality, how would she have planned to get away with it.
The difficulty with Brooks lies in its substrata toward the ironic, confusing us with the reflections breaking off like shards, despite Costner's diabolical pleasure with himself. Brooks neither quite succeeds as a parable about undercurrents, nor as a truism about the urban underclass, such as we are invited to wince away in Henry, portrait of a serial killer, which itself lost its nerve for the sake of its rating. I have not lost mine, I am simply so beset with inevitable unraveling that my caustic invective threatening Google's pecuniary market interests wouldn't help even if I freaked out other somewhat troubled lone wolves, and no, I do not mean I want to rant death on the heads of my perceived tormentors either. I am a failed writer, but my own acuity denies frothing, if not a hideous temper. Another way to say this is Mr. Brooks examines macro-aggression in a microscopic context, and does so unsure of its balance. To hint, with slight mystery to the nuance, why able-bodied individuals destroy themselves against the biographies of quadriplegics who've been beaten, regardless of precocious sensibilities, is unfathomable. Alcoholics can walk, and yet disease themselves into the dependence of mass material victimhood, as do addicts, and the demographics of Caucasian suicides in my age group. PBS had a seven minute segment on whites my age killing themselves due to disenfranchisement, and nothing is as bad as a cripple who has seen the institutional hell she refuses to return to, without being able to find a pathway to safety. If you can walk and drive a car, count your blessings. I am certainly past the ability of spontaneous pleasure when architecture and poverty defeat it. Then again, maybe I can write some lyrics for Louy Fierce, an intriguing possibility between ableism and reconciliation with ferocity of chronic impairment denial of wholeness.
Why did he decide to follow me? The inner voice need not be sated on that puzzling note.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)