I paid Google, fool that I am, for 24 months with this domain, whether or not I should tell you that, and I'll be incredibly lucky to still be posting that long, unsure if Blogger is penalizing me for my mouth with Adsense or if I just don't know how to link the damn domain back into the ad account. I have to get a customer rep on the phone, and try to promise not to get gunned down for sedition. I am simply a clever twist on the conventional quadriplegic, not the dazzling American right wing militia; symptomatic of how much I've changed, however, the FBI's justification for the kill shot to Finicum doesn't sit well with me, not that I am prepared to gnaw that bone at the moment. I feel that no matter what I do my life is finished, and Presbyterian Homes won. I lost, because my rage toward the corporation is destroying whatever cardiovascular durability I've left, and if I give my notice they've just won faster, because I do not know if I can tap dance my way into any temporary security, and my emotional pain over this is killing me. I hope most of you are better fortified.
Prison, with a shockingly young Viggo Mortensen, is actually a viscerally frightening horror film, vis-a-vis the template body snatchers formula which mushroomed into enough cheap films in order to torture the poor. It works, for me, due to the spiritual habitation of place, and its malevolent vengeance intersecting with blood guilt, just on the edge enough to remain entertaining, and utilizing African intuitive links to the totem to give the grotesque body dysmorphia a tangible quality which makes you want to keep pace. Like District 9, this late Reagan vehicle transcends its tricks. Few in its family tree do. Viggo just has that face, like a grimaced pole cat. My right leg is numb, domestic terrorist spinster extraordinaire. I did not create this account to whine, but I've taken alot out of myself this winter, and need a solution.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Funny Thing on a Timothy Hutton Tether
"Who would want to live in a world without pharmaceuticals?"-- Peter Strauss
The dowager saw just enough (1.7 hours) of American Crime in its first season to now be confused by its second, until reading enough entertainment news allowed Ridley Scott's reprisal role strategy to dawn on a wearied mind; in essence meaning I shall have to stream season one, realizing how much I missed out in my enthusiasm for Felicity Huffman, whose work on Sports Night remains sorely under-appreciated, even to the point that her Desperate Housewives director allowed her to echo her savvy sports channel executive.
While too cautious to offer Scott's bravado a raving endorsement, and perhaps too old, as well, spastic is slowly supplanting NBC's Code Black with Scott's consciously jacked torque ratios. Paid critics call the series brave, spastic calls it catching up with cable television as the models for content slowly collapse and merge, but instead of staying by Tom Reid's battle worn contrivance of a desk to watch the episode, I sat up in bed, writhing in pain most of the evening, and yes, this is the fault of my obstinacy, trying to stay abreast of the online privileges to which I've become used to, and could not get my legs back up on the Jazzy cushion for a significant length of time when I tried to lie back down. I got where I was going, but part of the problem was the metal plate seating of the Jazzy cutting the surgically fused arch of my foot; this would not happen with the Quickie P-200.
Hutton is at once ubiquitous and exceptional as the Everyman American inheritor of Protestant moral sensibility. Those of us who grew up with him cling to the raw repressive exposures of Ordinary People, because it manages to cut across the value systems between the sprouting denominational folly of the Reformation and the Catholic imposition of rational hierarchy. Some of you no doubt laugh at these vulgar descriptions I deploy, as opposed to with me. Is it okay? Perhaps sometimes, and perhaps sometimes it's okay to be undercut. Writing a furious scold to minority ethical lapses in my head juxtaposed against a furious struggle to control my posture with aging furniture and bad equipment. A personal care attendant wouldn't have been around that time of night just because I wanted to use my daybed like a lounge chair, and yet, even a nearly perfect talent like Felicity gets lost in our streaming rush to be in all places at once. In the dowager's estimation, she's a great actress, and nobody's beating the drum.
The dowager saw just enough (1.7 hours) of American Crime in its first season to now be confused by its second, until reading enough entertainment news allowed Ridley Scott's reprisal role strategy to dawn on a wearied mind; in essence meaning I shall have to stream season one, realizing how much I missed out in my enthusiasm for Felicity Huffman, whose work on Sports Night remains sorely under-appreciated, even to the point that her Desperate Housewives director allowed her to echo her savvy sports channel executive.
While too cautious to offer Scott's bravado a raving endorsement, and perhaps too old, as well, spastic is slowly supplanting NBC's Code Black with Scott's consciously jacked torque ratios. Paid critics call the series brave, spastic calls it catching up with cable television as the models for content slowly collapse and merge, but instead of staying by Tom Reid's battle worn contrivance of a desk to watch the episode, I sat up in bed, writhing in pain most of the evening, and yes, this is the fault of my obstinacy, trying to stay abreast of the online privileges to which I've become used to, and could not get my legs back up on the Jazzy cushion for a significant length of time when I tried to lie back down. I got where I was going, but part of the problem was the metal plate seating of the Jazzy cutting the surgically fused arch of my foot; this would not happen with the Quickie P-200.
Hutton is at once ubiquitous and exceptional as the Everyman American inheritor of Protestant moral sensibility. Those of us who grew up with him cling to the raw repressive exposures of Ordinary People, because it manages to cut across the value systems between the sprouting denominational folly of the Reformation and the Catholic imposition of rational hierarchy. Some of you no doubt laugh at these vulgar descriptions I deploy, as opposed to with me. Is it okay? Perhaps sometimes, and perhaps sometimes it's okay to be undercut. Writing a furious scold to minority ethical lapses in my head juxtaposed against a furious struggle to control my posture with aging furniture and bad equipment. A personal care attendant wouldn't have been around that time of night just because I wanted to use my daybed like a lounge chair, and yet, even a nearly perfect talent like Felicity gets lost in our streaming rush to be in all places at once. In the dowager's estimation, she's a great actress, and nobody's beating the drum.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
And then I got mad
The great harmonica of social media. Amusing in some ways, chic progressives feel the heart of me and then read a post like this, which even with my blizzard taut nerves as they are, I did not have to write. Do I really feel this way about black urban norms? After 30 years of being a minority in it, yes. I destroyed myself at my own insistence, for which I cannot forgive myself, and now it's almost too late. I am nearly on the same trajectory as any other Presbyterian resident who gets ground up to a sausage puree-- only I am a little too young, and the building manager, the cheap Oprah imitator preying on my fears, isn't fooling anyone. I've seen Presby put countless residents away, and I shouldn't have had to live under this paradigm, and then a woman like Trudy, who completes a training course in occupancy, gets to terrorize a former career professional with over $30 grand in debt for a graduate education.
Racist? Yes, honest, intimidating, and furious, feeling persecuted for my life. It turns out I knew who the old woman was, by sight, and in a terse, clipped interaction told her to take me off her card list, that I wasn't family and was an atheist, and resented the Matthew quotations, and was trying to leave the corporation. She said okay, looking like the picturesque version of the sharecropper who migrated North. She'll be dead soon. I probably will be too, and hopefully my fury will find a way to punish the city housing authority, and I mean, inflict punishment.
I'll be gone soon, in any case. I'd rather become homeless than die caught between black-Korean tensions with outlier white trash winking about it to each other in code. People shouldn't be forced to live like this, and before Lyndon Johnson they probably weren't.
Racist? Yes, honest, intimidating, and furious, feeling persecuted for my life. It turns out I knew who the old woman was, by sight, and in a terse, clipped interaction told her to take me off her card list, that I wasn't family and was an atheist, and resented the Matthew quotations, and was trying to leave the corporation. She said okay, looking like the picturesque version of the sharecropper who migrated North. She'll be dead soon. I probably will be too, and hopefully my fury will find a way to punish the city housing authority, and I mean, inflict punishment.
I'll be gone soon, in any case. I'd rather become homeless than die caught between black-Korean tensions with outlier white trash winking about it to each other in code. People shouldn't be forced to live like this, and before Lyndon Johnson they probably weren't.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Feasibility Study
It has been an excruciating week, and perhaps I've held off flipping totally out with a strength I did not know I had but I cannot do this again, and I've been more facetious than I've intended, diverting my inner maniac who can only hear her bones snapping like the dried out wishbone of a turkey breast. I don't know. I don't want to be done, but by the same token, camping out at Toomey's regional offices on the verge of hysteria achieves what? I'm like a city Feeney against the black power of Seth Williams, at least in terms of human trafficking in the independent living paradigm, and if the Karina I fired remaining in my life is the new force of Christian moderation on the ferocity of a genuflecting destitution, it is too little too late in hackneyed terms: "Would you want to live here?"
"No," she said, grasping what 22 years in this formerly mixed, now mostly nigger shanty, has done to my health. An old nigger down the hall with nothing better to do puts cards under my door on a cyclic basis, quoting Matthew in her nearly illiterate block letter pen print. I'd spit in her face without a second's hesitation if I knew who she was. The 1997 version of the Outer Limits classic is more sophisticated than the black and white original, with its charming use of tin foil. The black and white, however, has the passion of its conviction, especially due to the irrational exuberance of mutually assured destruction in its time. Today Dr. Simon Holm would be arrested for leading Pegida.
The real me is exactly what the minority staff keeps attacking and threatening: an extremist created through having her welfare destroyed by section 811/202 housing corruption. Oh yes, by next week I'll be snarling less, if I haven't collapsed by then, but my humanity is damned, at least based on the preponderance of evidence.
"No," she said, grasping what 22 years in this formerly mixed, now mostly nigger shanty, has done to my health. An old nigger down the hall with nothing better to do puts cards under my door on a cyclic basis, quoting Matthew in her nearly illiterate block letter pen print. I'd spit in her face without a second's hesitation if I knew who she was. The 1997 version of the Outer Limits classic is more sophisticated than the black and white original, with its charming use of tin foil. The black and white, however, has the passion of its conviction, especially due to the irrational exuberance of mutually assured destruction in its time. Today Dr. Simon Holm would be arrested for leading Pegida.
The real me is exactly what the minority staff keeps attacking and threatening: an extremist created through having her welfare destroyed by section 811/202 housing corruption. Oh yes, by next week I'll be snarling less, if I haven't collapsed by then, but my humanity is damned, at least based on the preponderance of evidence.
Jennifer Rubin, by acclimation?
When Donald Trump first started polling in with his support at 20%, I tweeted to his account, "you had to borrow money from your father for your casino," which in translation means the electorate supporting him doesn't look too closely at how Donald Trump makes a living. Hitherto this assessment, I've taken a rather mercurial pleasure in the stomach cramps he's given to the fourth estate, but this doesn't mean I think he's good for the country. Fareed Zakaria may admonish angry reactionism by asserting that Trump cannot restore the US to what it was, and may be right even if he is often too generic to take seriously. Jennifer is finally closing in on what the media should have been doing about Trump, which is to ask what the fuck has he done other than make contracts? Not much.
I've been reading Jennifer's output for awhile, a few years at least. She is cool to libertarian sentiment, which may mean she's sexually content; she's reasonably hardline, rightly remains suspicious of the ongoing "Iranian revolution," doesn't have any of the glaring demerits of the Clinton biography (Kenneth Starr's report). She's female. Her election would be historic. Wapo's power and street credibility would take a quantum leap. Post election headlines would scream for days: Disability Journalist drafts Jennifer Rubin campaign singlehandedly
And voila. The woman gives me a second tier cushy policy position, scolds me that addressing people with "fuck you!" is not a lead for how Julie Andrews vocalizes chords in The Sound of Music, and between Rubin, Merkel, and I, all our male colleagues wind up emasculated in terror, a new age of Pax Romana ensues before you even know what hit you.
Leers menacingly.
I've been reading Jennifer's output for awhile, a few years at least. She is cool to libertarian sentiment, which may mean she's sexually content; she's reasonably hardline, rightly remains suspicious of the ongoing "Iranian revolution," doesn't have any of the glaring demerits of the Clinton biography (Kenneth Starr's report). She's female. Her election would be historic. Wapo's power and street credibility would take a quantum leap. Post election headlines would scream for days: Disability Journalist drafts Jennifer Rubin campaign singlehandedly
And voila. The woman gives me a second tier cushy policy position, scolds me that addressing people with "fuck you!" is not a lead for how Julie Andrews vocalizes chords in The Sound of Music, and between Rubin, Merkel, and I, all our male colleagues wind up emasculated in terror, a new age of Pax Romana ensues before you even know what hit you.
Leers menacingly.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Does Nate Maingard Love The ANC?
"Even as a civilization we are simpleminded."-- Jonathan Weiner, digital location 3450
The post-Mandela ANC may appear to be more humane than the European legacy which evolved into Botha's apartheid, but what is kept quiet, in a "sssh, keep it under your hat mode, is that ethnic black Africans cannot govern Africa according to the principles of inherent natural human rights developed during the Enlightenment. Why? Because black African societies evolved their mores in accordance with totem identification, survival strategies against exotic parasites and malaria, and not all the might of Europe and China and Russia combined is ever going to change a damn thing about that.
Does this mean I side with Arikaners who created the Orange Free State over sweetheart hotties like Nate, who may be wondering why I'm singling him out when he's given the dowager a great deal of latitude?
Ah. Well, things aren't quite that simple. European aggression lucked out in the New World. Natives had a mass die off, and the Aztecs, who were in the best position to fight back against superior European hardware, miscalculated, and as a result, North America eventually took over global hegemony. But Caucasian emigration failed to successfully transplant itself within mainland China and central Africa, and guilt over the Holocaust has gone so far in the other direction that Muslims created a new Fascism.
Granted, Kerry and his counterparts have simmered things down, but what led to the incarnation of ISIL isn't going to fade away simply because Putin is still trying to fend off Anglican satire of Russian backwardness, pretending Slavs are as European as the continent, which Slavic ethnicity isn't.
Radical egalitarianism is a brutal fiction, and the sooner we face up to it, the better. Leave west and central Africans alone, and you know what? I bet they resolve their societies in their own way, and would have done so faster, with more efficiency, than Carter's medical intervention over the guinea worm. What does this have to do with the price of beans, or power sex with Ray Liotta? You know in your heart that behind his comment to TV guide about kissing his informant extra, we avert our eyes from those pictures, don't want to contemplate the grotesque escapades of Hollywood's underside, and even if we did, buying porno invariably uncovers child sex harems. Capisce?
Doyle, as a contemporary of the Boer War on the side of the Victorian Empire closing ranks on what it had left, still peaks a mild interest over that of his autonomic character who "changed the world". (And in a whisper: I have more followers than Weiner, and he's a professor!) So there!
The post-Mandela ANC may appear to be more humane than the European legacy which evolved into Botha's apartheid, but what is kept quiet, in a "sssh, keep it under your hat mode, is that ethnic black Africans cannot govern Africa according to the principles of inherent natural human rights developed during the Enlightenment. Why? Because black African societies evolved their mores in accordance with totem identification, survival strategies against exotic parasites and malaria, and not all the might of Europe and China and Russia combined is ever going to change a damn thing about that.
Does this mean I side with Arikaners who created the Orange Free State over sweetheart hotties like Nate, who may be wondering why I'm singling him out when he's given the dowager a great deal of latitude?
Ah. Well, things aren't quite that simple. European aggression lucked out in the New World. Natives had a mass die off, and the Aztecs, who were in the best position to fight back against superior European hardware, miscalculated, and as a result, North America eventually took over global hegemony. But Caucasian emigration failed to successfully transplant itself within mainland China and central Africa, and guilt over the Holocaust has gone so far in the other direction that Muslims created a new Fascism.
Granted, Kerry and his counterparts have simmered things down, but what led to the incarnation of ISIL isn't going to fade away simply because Putin is still trying to fend off Anglican satire of Russian backwardness, pretending Slavs are as European as the continent, which Slavic ethnicity isn't.
Radical egalitarianism is a brutal fiction, and the sooner we face up to it, the better. Leave west and central Africans alone, and you know what? I bet they resolve their societies in their own way, and would have done so faster, with more efficiency, than Carter's medical intervention over the guinea worm. What does this have to do with the price of beans, or power sex with Ray Liotta? You know in your heart that behind his comment to TV guide about kissing his informant extra, we avert our eyes from those pictures, don't want to contemplate the grotesque escapades of Hollywood's underside, and even if we did, buying porno invariably uncovers child sex harems. Capisce?
Doyle, as a contemporary of the Boer War on the side of the Victorian Empire closing ranks on what it had left, still peaks a mild interest over that of his autonomic character who "changed the world". (And in a whisper: I have more followers than Weiner, and he's a professor!) So there!
Friday, January 22, 2016
The Strength of Apostasy, a good marina sauce
"A science that strives to understand apostasy as a thoroughly social phenomenon has much to gain by recognizing the members of this curious class [...] for what they are."-- David A Bromley, The Politics of Religious Apostasy, p 116
Ray Liotta's poc-marked projection of shell shocked disembodiment is perfectly diachronic between slumming it with Scorsese in Goofellas, to the complexities of the present day. Nothing is so clearly delineated anymore between our villains, our heroes, our collusions, and though one might grow weary of seeing him parody Machiavellian duplicity until his inevitable murder rectifies the situation, he's done it for so long that he manages to make it a high art in this new high octane series, though we might not take away anything fresh, and J-Lo is as Halle Berry still convincing herself she's the diva cop of yore, retreading Angel Eyes and Enough, as if we haven't seen enough of the tight T-shirt braggadocio to know its keynotes.
Italians have always known this however, even in the classic era. The Republicans assassinate Augustus to "save" the Republic-- in essence to keep power divested, only to initiate the monarchical divine reign of the aristocracy -- which only begins its real death throes in 1945, as opposed to 475 AD.
Perelli's La Piovra, with its grisly lurking cowardice, may no longer be "what it was," according to Wapo, but it is now organic, part of the entire textile which make up Euro-Asian societies as a whole, and it takes a special kind of apostate, one as zealous as Wozniak, to blow the whistle and cleanse procedure once boundaries get too muddied. Did the shock value of the homosexual liaison subvert expectations? Perhaps, but it seemed more like an exploitation fuck which thankfully wasn't overtly faked, the kind which victimizes wheelchair users repeatedly. If we were against Henry Hill in Scorsese's little blood bling, we look at Wozniak, and with secret glee hopes he walks out of a bloodbath with Liotta's trademark "ehnanana" Quite a turn within a quarter century.
Ray Liotta's poc-marked projection of shell shocked disembodiment is perfectly diachronic between slumming it with Scorsese in Goofellas, to the complexities of the present day. Nothing is so clearly delineated anymore between our villains, our heroes, our collusions, and though one might grow weary of seeing him parody Machiavellian duplicity until his inevitable murder rectifies the situation, he's done it for so long that he manages to make it a high art in this new high octane series, though we might not take away anything fresh, and J-Lo is as Halle Berry still convincing herself she's the diva cop of yore, retreading Angel Eyes and Enough, as if we haven't seen enough of the tight T-shirt braggadocio to know its keynotes.
Italians have always known this however, even in the classic era. The Republicans assassinate Augustus to "save" the Republic-- in essence to keep power divested, only to initiate the monarchical divine reign of the aristocracy -- which only begins its real death throes in 1945, as opposed to 475 AD.
Perelli's La Piovra, with its grisly lurking cowardice, may no longer be "what it was," according to Wapo, but it is now organic, part of the entire textile which make up Euro-Asian societies as a whole, and it takes a special kind of apostate, one as zealous as Wozniak, to blow the whistle and cleanse procedure once boundaries get too muddied. Did the shock value of the homosexual liaison subvert expectations? Perhaps, but it seemed more like an exploitation fuck which thankfully wasn't overtly faked, the kind which victimizes wheelchair users repeatedly. If we were against Henry Hill in Scorsese's little blood bling, we look at Wozniak, and with secret glee hopes he walks out of a bloodbath with Liotta's trademark "ehnanana" Quite a turn within a quarter century.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Patricia Highsmith
My darkness isn't as original as that of Hitchcock's appropriated lesbian. Revenge killing over betrayal of trust is as old as the hills. Highsmith utilized more complex repressions and triggers, those which basically sucked good people into suspense-filled, dangerous situations, and by today's standards, faggots are the new angels, except for those Christians who feel the power of apostasy, and thus, even Highsmith's bitterness, which Matt Damon brought to life as Ripley, is passe. What bothers many people about me is the belief that I am capable of the beheading in Oklahoma, at least morally, or that like Cumberbatch, I can go up against a nearly invincible opponent, and shoot a bullet through their skull, while the Catholic laity rejoins harp to homily to ask, "What is this doing to you?"
What it has done is destroyed a time in my life wherein I should have been able to relax with a decent man, visit Tuscany, greet my damn family who stayed at the other end of the pond. Although I may annihilate myself in the process, I am going to dissolve and destroy the Philadelphia disability center. I'll send Tony Stiles the pre-written saga which always leads to these poignant trajectories of destruction.
To steer these insinuations back to the literature and the screen plays themselves, for all of Benedict's attuned energies, and all the mobility of the modern camera, His Last Bow ends on a disappointing, anti-climatic note.
Doyle is... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a master mechanic, conceptually, but his high and corrupted Victorian voice, ushering in the ambiguity of the modern, Edwardian? era gets on my nerves. Sorry.
This be it said, me believes I have the etext in the cabbit patch. I'll check. Someday, if I don't keel from arteriosclerosis triggered by starvation, it is worthy to compare.
What it has done is destroyed a time in my life wherein I should have been able to relax with a decent man, visit Tuscany, greet my damn family who stayed at the other end of the pond. Although I may annihilate myself in the process, I am going to dissolve and destroy the Philadelphia disability center. I'll send Tony Stiles the pre-written saga which always leads to these poignant trajectories of destruction.
To steer these insinuations back to the literature and the screen plays themselves, for all of Benedict's attuned energies, and all the mobility of the modern camera, His Last Bow ends on a disappointing, anti-climatic note.
Doyle is... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a master mechanic, conceptually, but his high and corrupted Victorian voice, ushering in the ambiguity of the modern, Edwardian? era gets on my nerves. Sorry.
This be it said, me believes I have the etext in the cabbit patch. I'll check. Someday, if I don't keel from arteriosclerosis triggered by starvation, it is worthy to compare.
First of Winter
For the time being, I shut off the daily digest from the genesis of Ev Williams efficiency models, and I am considering suspending myself from social media, even to the extent I utilize it, for a time. Contrary to twitter's aggregating argument, that more followers offer solutions, even online, I do not thrive in a mass, and blocked CrimeMonitor for doing what hundreds of you have done since 09, linking to my account as a hook, then walking a way. This time it provoked me, at least as it pertains to the aftermath. CrimeMonitor gets its leverage off of the creation of victims, of which I am a cyclical one, and yet isn't interested in its reverberation, or wants to see smiles decorating the scarred tissues. I may have grown old online, but I'm of a generation which understood what loyalty to a periodical meant. On Medium, the very notion of a contributing identity means nothing, whether it is drugs, mental illness, abuse, software developing optimism, its impact on journalism, its impact on policy. This doesn't mean I won't continue to approach those who create a publication masthead, or that I won't rewrite what I submitted to ModernJourno and others about Serge Kovaleski and hypocrisy, revising past myself until I get it right, but I am still of a boomer age, when a byline in The Atlantic Monthly was a boon. A bunch of engineers in San Francisco cannot write me an application to undue the damages at the hands of a corporation which I've allowed to dictate the terms of my existence for 30 years, only to wake up to it enraged when it was rather late in the day, or write software to undo the damage from years of consumer model apologies for not being proficient at the duties outlined in the position for which you were hired.
When I approached the humanity preservation through Linked In, I was essentially trying to restore myself to the Matrix Research model that, at one time, kept me gainfully employed, but this time as a volunteer, and maybe Courtney Cox did me a favor reminding me I have a significant level of class resentment against a coordinator with less than half my qualifications, who could be my grandchild, shooting me down without even giving me an interview, when the white abuse survivor, Rhett, considered me a promising candidate.
This is why I let myself be a caustic troll, why I say nigger with a reactionary lash. It is bad enough having the brain damage and body I do, hitting the walls of ageism and black entitlement on top of that. Courtney Cox hurt me, and even allowing for her youth, it burns. I wasn't rude to her, or Rhett, but it is perfectly fine for blacks to bitch slap it up, and odious when Caucasian bile builds up as a backlash, to be conveniently targeted by hypocrisy with everyone saying "don't talk like that," even if its an obvious, observable state, with the "like that" right in front of you: Courtney hurt me by questioning my judgment, and at my age, it sticks..
Even if my extended family sent me birthday gifts ahead of Saturday, I'm in serious trouble, and may need emergency food, and yes, I'm entirely to blame.
When I approached the humanity preservation through Linked In, I was essentially trying to restore myself to the Matrix Research model that, at one time, kept me gainfully employed, but this time as a volunteer, and maybe Courtney Cox did me a favor reminding me I have a significant level of class resentment against a coordinator with less than half my qualifications, who could be my grandchild, shooting me down without even giving me an interview, when the white abuse survivor, Rhett, considered me a promising candidate.
This is why I let myself be a caustic troll, why I say nigger with a reactionary lash. It is bad enough having the brain damage and body I do, hitting the walls of ageism and black entitlement on top of that. Courtney Cox hurt me, and even allowing for her youth, it burns. I wasn't rude to her, or Rhett, but it is perfectly fine for blacks to bitch slap it up, and odious when Caucasian bile builds up as a backlash, to be conveniently targeted by hypocrisy with everyone saying "don't talk like that," even if its an obvious, observable state, with the "like that" right in front of you: Courtney hurt me by questioning my judgment, and at my age, it sticks..
Even if my extended family sent me birthday gifts ahead of Saturday, I'm in serious trouble, and may need emergency food, and yes, I'm entirely to blame.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
A very brief message for Tony Stiles Global Media
As I've previously posted in scattered intervals, I have deliberately overtaxed myself this month with my own semblance of vanity which I am sure Amazon Prime appreciates. Why stay with Prime? Because it has taken me less than ten years not to be intimidated to upload my own work for kindle. Within another three months or so I should be ready, though I am wary, and learned, as to the pitfalls of vanity promotion and will attempt to make my collection a viable submission to a midlist press.
Having made this qualification, I cannot put progressives to the sword for engaging in a rigorous asceticism of my own making, but I am going to put them to the sword for what they've done to me, and I am going to write a piece for Tony in my own words, in part with unprintable invective, but I will filter it after the tendencies toward castrating Mexican American lawyer sissies freely ventilates the organ. If Tony thrives on progressive dirty linen, I am going to give the Texan who took on Homeland Security a field day, and if Tony wants to run it for me in the cadence of Palin's perpetual indignation, then Tony can run it that way, and if he can't, I am still a good soldier who is determined to die on her own two feet!
But I have to work very hard to keep an even keel until my younger sister's birthday passes in February, capisce?
Having made this qualification, I cannot put progressives to the sword for engaging in a rigorous asceticism of my own making, but I am going to put them to the sword for what they've done to me, and I am going to write a piece for Tony in my own words, in part with unprintable invective, but I will filter it after the tendencies toward castrating Mexican American lawyer sissies freely ventilates the organ. If Tony thrives on progressive dirty linen, I am going to give the Texan who took on Homeland Security a field day, and if Tony wants to run it for me in the cadence of Palin's perpetual indignation, then Tony can run it that way, and if he can't, I am still a good soldier who is determined to die on her own two feet!
But I have to work very hard to keep an even keel until my younger sister's birthday passes in February, capisce?
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
To continue an imaginary debate
Fareed Zakaria would probably make the objection to me that according to Asian standards, I don't know what misery is, and to a certain extent he's right, but the disabled even in the western hemisphere are closest to third world conditions, and I can't keep bearing this up, even figures from my academic past are a case in point. Louisiana at La Fayette is a long way from the city of Chester, where Jerry McGuire wound up, and his firing from Widener, from the little I know, had some legitimacy. What Liberty did to me doesn't. As a technical matter it was illegal, and it is not conducive to my well-being that I have to live with Liberty board of director members who break the law at whim.
It may be better than a homeless shelter, but not by much. Certainly my lassitude bears some blame for the wrecking ball in my life, but it is like living with a skull fracture I can't repair.
It may be better than a homeless shelter, but not by much. Certainly my lassitude bears some blame for the wrecking ball in my life, but it is like living with a skull fracture I can't repair.
Grammatical Errors
Not that an amateur use of classification matters, but it is not dementia plaguing me yet. With my budget under strain, I am losing the benefit of my fish consumption, which mitigates my mood, and I've a week and a half to go until my shoe string money management returns to normal. I am doing the best I can, but if I threaten you all within an inch of your lives, pitch in and buy me a flavored Vuse capsule.
I'll be forcing myself to a lot of bed rest. It is like a Catch 22. The more strain on my physiology, the less I'm able to work despite how badly I need to push.
I'll be forcing myself to a lot of bed rest. It is like a Catch 22. The more strain on my physiology, the less I'm able to work despite how badly I need to push.
Monday, January 18, 2016
The Price of Lazarus
"He's like ice!"-- Alain Absire, Lazarus, a novel, page 101, 1988 edition
There is a price to autonomic function we dread, such as the discovery that Sweden maintains a royal family in a relatively permissive Marxist society. Who knew? Who even bothers to apply themselves to European parliamentary systems when so few of us are literate in the American primary process? There is a political drama on WYBE, fairly contemporary, partially eschewed; this is due in part, to the fact that, in Sweden, a conservative in the American political idiom means you wind up with the Clintons.
Beneath the surface, the American power couple who've been around too long are scorned by everyone, and everyone knows it, just as everyone knows, come January 20th, 2017, Bill Clinton will have achieved the impossible, essentially doing an end run around the 22nd Amendment. You don't truly believe Hillary will actually run the West Wing, do you? This partially eschewed drama is wearisome, wearing on my skeletal brutishness, its title a pun on the actual Crown Princess Victoria. It is a sequential roller coaster on the political fortunes of Ms. Elkblad, a woman who will invariably climb to the top because of the glaring flaws around her, villainous political advisers, wife beaters. That segment, the Regiscide, the dowager mostly skipped. The Swedish actor cast, a credible veteran, is many things, but a wife beater, no.
However, one never knows about these things, and "The Sacrifice" became relevant out of nowhere. One of the prominent ministers in the social democratic run has Alzheimer's, and she's a secular Jewish liberal to boot, a group which loves to dictate its moral values to hedonists playing dangerous games, and of a sudden, the spastic dowager is caught with her pubic hair in her zipper as European drama serves up a Ronald Reagan dish. All the sudden I mind the mentor of Sweden's perky little idealist, Charlotte, mind the wound of the fundamental unfairness of a woman denied her turn.
There is a price to autonomic function we dread, such as the discovery that Sweden maintains a royal family in a relatively permissive Marxist society. Who knew? Who even bothers to apply themselves to European parliamentary systems when so few of us are literate in the American primary process? There is a political drama on WYBE, fairly contemporary, partially eschewed; this is due in part, to the fact that, in Sweden, a conservative in the American political idiom means you wind up with the Clintons.
Beneath the surface, the American power couple who've been around too long are scorned by everyone, and everyone knows it, just as everyone knows, come January 20th, 2017, Bill Clinton will have achieved the impossible, essentially doing an end run around the 22nd Amendment. You don't truly believe Hillary will actually run the West Wing, do you? This partially eschewed drama is wearisome, wearing on my skeletal brutishness, its title a pun on the actual Crown Princess Victoria. It is a sequential roller coaster on the political fortunes of Ms. Elkblad, a woman who will invariably climb to the top because of the glaring flaws around her, villainous political advisers, wife beaters. That segment, the Regiscide, the dowager mostly skipped. The Swedish actor cast, a credible veteran, is many things, but a wife beater, no.
However, one never knows about these things, and "The Sacrifice" became relevant out of nowhere. One of the prominent ministers in the social democratic run has Alzheimer's, and she's a secular Jewish liberal to boot, a group which loves to dictate its moral values to hedonists playing dangerous games, and of a sudden, the spastic dowager is caught with her pubic hair in her zipper as European drama serves up a Ronald Reagan dish. All the sudden I mind the mentor of Sweden's perky little idealist, Charlotte, mind the wound of the fundamental unfairness of a woman denied her turn.
Travanti Hemlock at the root
"It is therefore no surprise to find that anti-homosexual repression is itself an indirect manifestation--" Homosexual Desire, page 55
I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.
Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.
Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.
Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.
I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.
Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.
Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.
Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Weekend on the Hill, an address to Fareed Zakaria
Mr. Zakaria, I offer my regrets that your children were harassed over the telephone after your column about self-destructive whites who support Trump was spoofed. Aside from the fact that I've traipsed on the hem of the fourth estate long enough to know that energy flags even with a deadline approaching, and aside from the fact that I've had more articles fall apart than I've had published, you wrote a bad column about a statistical analysis of white suicides for those in my age group, suggesting in your last line that people like me take a reality check, and that "Trump can't fix it, no one can." Exactly what kind of observation is that, even with the acknowledgement that Wapo needs to resolve its revenue generation issues just like the rest of us?
That Donald Trump is where he is at the moment in the run for the White House is a testament to more than a few failures of the previous and current administrations. Afghanistan hasn't been a viable nation state for more than 30 years. Bush and cabal didn't resolve that issue, destroyed Iraq as a buffer zone, and Obama subsequently offers seven years of apologias. Usually, national policy has little effect on my stagnant paralysis as a disabled woman, but the ACA is apparently deciding what kind of healthcare I need for itself without my participation, a cripple who's tragedy amounts to the realization that liberal academics who believed her intelligence would be her economic security were wrong. My career in Philadelphia, brief as it was under vocational interference and afterwards, was basically segregated within the public welfare system. Now it is worse than it was in my twenties, for reasons which have run the gamut through this account purportedly about disability in entertainment, which for the most part it is. The social media mockery to which you were subjected probably has its roots in the fact that your ability to brand your writing is too diaphanous, and yet, like many of your colleagues, you're unionized, salaried, to dish up milkweed as some sort of castigation, then the fact that you were trolled becomes its own establishment media item. That is the nature of the business; readers, however, even if they aren't over-educated with the debt to show for it, know when they're having their chain yanked; if they reacted before thinking it through the behavior was inappropriate, but the sensationalism whose maw you feed rather ineptly at times, puts the blame partly at your door.
I'm going to be blunt: I look like shit, and the last time I had a decent repast twice in the same day is beginning to fade from my memory, and I haven't taken the risk to use my aging bath chair since the building manager telephoned Health and Human Services agents to humiliate me last April, so my personal hygiene is under challenge, and if I am more than likely going to go the same way most section 202 housing residents go I've resolved to take my own life, and I am having a harder time than usual this month. I wanted to, determined to, keep my Amazon Prime membership. Why? Burnished comfort of vanity beyond my means? In a few hours I shall with embarrassment drive to Trader Joe's for a loaf of bread on my laundry money, good as my word when it comes to my visceral hatred of entitlements for what I'm subjecting myself to. I wouldn't have the slightest compunction about becoming a domestic militant, if I could, against housing authorities who've treated me like chunnel since I was a graduate student, and intake systems whose use of assurances rapidly germinate their own criminal liability, but even radical libertarian ranchers occupying federal lands in Oregon relegate morbidly angry quadriplegics to entities like Bellevue, particularly if they're now too old to ride stallions on their own as a good method of leg stretching. Most woman of my age probably swooned over Daniel J. Travanti in his heyday, with his cultured moderated pragmatism. I know I did, fantasized over the man as the perfect televised version of my father whom I'd never marry. Progressive multiculturalism destroyed even the humane standard of decency he represented. If you were as astute an analyst as you should be, allegations of fraudulence wouldn't continue to hound you as they do.
That Donald Trump is where he is at the moment in the run for the White House is a testament to more than a few failures of the previous and current administrations. Afghanistan hasn't been a viable nation state for more than 30 years. Bush and cabal didn't resolve that issue, destroyed Iraq as a buffer zone, and Obama subsequently offers seven years of apologias. Usually, national policy has little effect on my stagnant paralysis as a disabled woman, but the ACA is apparently deciding what kind of healthcare I need for itself without my participation, a cripple who's tragedy amounts to the realization that liberal academics who believed her intelligence would be her economic security were wrong. My career in Philadelphia, brief as it was under vocational interference and afterwards, was basically segregated within the public welfare system. Now it is worse than it was in my twenties, for reasons which have run the gamut through this account purportedly about disability in entertainment, which for the most part it is. The social media mockery to which you were subjected probably has its roots in the fact that your ability to brand your writing is too diaphanous, and yet, like many of your colleagues, you're unionized, salaried, to dish up milkweed as some sort of castigation, then the fact that you were trolled becomes its own establishment media item. That is the nature of the business; readers, however, even if they aren't over-educated with the debt to show for it, know when they're having their chain yanked; if they reacted before thinking it through the behavior was inappropriate, but the sensationalism whose maw you feed rather ineptly at times, puts the blame partly at your door.
I'm going to be blunt: I look like shit, and the last time I had a decent repast twice in the same day is beginning to fade from my memory, and I haven't taken the risk to use my aging bath chair since the building manager telephoned Health and Human Services agents to humiliate me last April, so my personal hygiene is under challenge, and if I am more than likely going to go the same way most section 202 housing residents go I've resolved to take my own life, and I am having a harder time than usual this month. I wanted to, determined to, keep my Amazon Prime membership. Why? Burnished comfort of vanity beyond my means? In a few hours I shall with embarrassment drive to Trader Joe's for a loaf of bread on my laundry money, good as my word when it comes to my visceral hatred of entitlements for what I'm subjecting myself to. I wouldn't have the slightest compunction about becoming a domestic militant, if I could, against housing authorities who've treated me like chunnel since I was a graduate student, and intake systems whose use of assurances rapidly germinate their own criminal liability, but even radical libertarian ranchers occupying federal lands in Oregon relegate morbidly angry quadriplegics to entities like Bellevue, particularly if they're now too old to ride stallions on their own as a good method of leg stretching. Most woman of my age probably swooned over Daniel J. Travanti in his heyday, with his cultured moderated pragmatism. I know I did, fantasized over the man as the perfect televised version of my father whom I'd never marry. Progressive multiculturalism destroyed even the humane standard of decency he represented. If you were as astute an analyst as you should be, allegations of fraudulence wouldn't continue to hound you as they do.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Metastisis
The degree of toxic stress I'm shouldering is partly my own intransigence, and perhaps too much so: I can cancel with ATT and get cheaper ISPs, return to a partial supplemental security income, collect the 10 dollars in ETP the state would give me. The resistance doesn't come from libertarian fealty. It is not loyalty to Tony which makes me stubborn. Tony came to my twitter feed. I ran him through search, followed him back, and let John Murphy's later rhetorical question slide about what I "heard." Which means I was nice to Tony's CFO because I value what Tony Stiles represents.
I am torturing myself, to a certain extent, because I still believe I can manage my own affairs better than an income maintenance case manager, still believe I can still sustain employment (although I handled Swarthmore College in such a manner that the interviewer who ignored my questions about clips in email had three lawyers view my profile, Christ) I do intend to get mileage out of that incident as institutional liberal bias, and will hopefully find the right editor, but this is a card close to my chest.
My mother's sister, when she and I talk, says "You cannot work." I'll never accept that, but the system doesn't ease up. It isn't fair that every time I need a new power chair I have to see a primary resident, basically clueless Asian students like Dr. Mann, and then get billed 90 dollars, no closer to an evaluation with a provider who will respect me. Wheelchair users aren't programs. We're Americans, and yet a lobbyist from Jazzy gives a Medicare administrator a good snow job, and suddenly everyone in center city has this generic fuck-witted piece of machinery. It isn't right, and I blame conservatives and progressives. People like myself need the AMA to get the fuck out of our way and streamline things differently. It disgusts me.
I'm on the edge of the tight rope, however, and can't keep this up indefinitely. I did work, all by myself, for five years, and shouldn't be expendable because I'm past 50. I will send Tony a decent photo for my profile after I have change for the laundry. Things are that tight right now.
Can't stop biology, but I am not going back to anything like the homes I've seen, and that's final.
I am torturing myself, to a certain extent, because I still believe I can manage my own affairs better than an income maintenance case manager, still believe I can still sustain employment (although I handled Swarthmore College in such a manner that the interviewer who ignored my questions about clips in email had three lawyers view my profile, Christ) I do intend to get mileage out of that incident as institutional liberal bias, and will hopefully find the right editor, but this is a card close to my chest.
My mother's sister, when she and I talk, says "You cannot work." I'll never accept that, but the system doesn't ease up. It isn't fair that every time I need a new power chair I have to see a primary resident, basically clueless Asian students like Dr. Mann, and then get billed 90 dollars, no closer to an evaluation with a provider who will respect me. Wheelchair users aren't programs. We're Americans, and yet a lobbyist from Jazzy gives a Medicare administrator a good snow job, and suddenly everyone in center city has this generic fuck-witted piece of machinery. It isn't right, and I blame conservatives and progressives. People like myself need the AMA to get the fuck out of our way and streamline things differently. It disgusts me.
I'm on the edge of the tight rope, however, and can't keep this up indefinitely. I did work, all by myself, for five years, and shouldn't be expendable because I'm past 50. I will send Tony a decent photo for my profile after I have change for the laundry. Things are that tight right now.
Can't stop biology, but I am not going back to anything like the homes I've seen, and that's final.
KDP
Perhaps Blogger was right about the personal voice versus the objective post, and writing online less might lead to stronger sinews down the road. I looked up my non-fiction collection, weary with my desire to break past my limitations, and it is small. Only a handful of articles, memoir bits, so I am scrolling through this account to see what I want to pillage, and protest perhaps I should just vanish. Parents of disabled wheelchair users probably cannot read into my emotional pain braided into this canvas not so subtly between the lines without a recoil of moral guilt. When Linda Dezenski referred to them as the enemy when our Usenet posts collided in 1999, I was right there with her, as in Elton John's suggestion, "we'll fight our parents out on the streets," and 13 days into 2016, I'm procrastinating, worn out with trivializing her as a pop out target at base camp. It isn't as if I'm Natalie Portman's Mathilda.
One delights in Jean Reno, who accepts what he is, a working assassin, without the niceties of complicit conscience, but for the child. The Professional hinges itself in unlikely ways. Oldman seems superficial. Preliminary assessment.
One delights in Jean Reno, who accepts what he is, a working assassin, without the niceties of complicit conscience, but for the child. The Professional hinges itself in unlikely ways. Oldman seems superficial. Preliminary assessment.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Floral Arrangements via Higgs Boson
It was not the androgyny on stage that offered up David Bowie as a cultural icon. By the time his few tracks tame enough for commercial radio music it past the tuning fork in the left ear of adolescent rebellion, his eyes transfixed anything he did on film, like an anti-messiah ready to cast you off, a young woman sensed his explosiveness beneath the surface, and thus it is another blade to penetrate the starchy creviced tits only of interest to those who get a kick off the fetish of hustler, remorse for the ignorance of his cancer diagnosis. A Hawaiian red pineapple seems an appropriate transport for Ziggy's star on the walk of fame. It is okay to cry a little, okay to be positive and celebrate how unique his entertainment value was, how courageous his sentiment to turn away honors like a knighthood. He knew better.
This passing caught me off guard.
This passing caught me off guard.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Sushi's Thumping Heart
As a former penny ante reviewer, Steven Hall evinces my generational divide from Ali Spagnola or Ben Landis. I am not very far along in The Raw Shark Texts, and am more likely to conclude from Wiki's summary that since I now know the end I can slough it off in my archives, which I haven't, but I read it as a generic identity crisis which doesn't interest me, as all literature falls under the cult of allusion, and linear narrative doesn't lend itself in a particularly conducive fashion to easter eggs. A British woman from the LNF whose user name I cannot remember, an indicator of serious trouble if my life depended on it, posted to me that she liked the book, but that was long long before I started it.
Hall knows how to build up tension which creates life threatening suspense, and yours truly is not necessarily asserting he's bad at what he's doing, but it seems more or less hyped up correspondences, whatever it challenges about individual identity. I'm only as far along as the busted television, and the heavy handed references to drowning, and haven't caught up any overt parallels to Benchley on my own, one successful author freely ventilated by academics, but the occult enthusiasm for this kind of thing just isn't up my alley. Hyperlink exuberance may give Ev Williams and his predecessors a hard on, but computer technology is just that, a technology. It made certain things possible, detracts from contemplation, and search has certainly amplified my inferiority complex.
Now this guy is another matter. Nakamura is a master story teller, and I yanked your chain however many decades of posts back by pretending I was going to offer up a critical analysis. Consider it a soft lede toward that actuality against the twenty and change in my checking account. I am going to upload to KDP soon, as I have little choice but to utilize Amazon as vending vanity, and if I ask on social media about the timeliness of payments, my empty stomach is the primary impetus.
I was rather dramatically "banned for life" from Beasley's precious tutorial services, and just re-signed myself in, after four years or so. I've no idea why I've done this, as Beasley is from Michigan and posts like Donald Trump's bobble head. I've come to terms with an internalized hatred of public posting software, and suppose this falls under the rubric of because I can. I hate kids, college students fare little better. That's masochism for you.
Hall knows how to build up tension which creates life threatening suspense, and yours truly is not necessarily asserting he's bad at what he's doing, but it seems more or less hyped up correspondences, whatever it challenges about individual identity. I'm only as far along as the busted television, and the heavy handed references to drowning, and haven't caught up any overt parallels to Benchley on my own, one successful author freely ventilated by academics, but the occult enthusiasm for this kind of thing just isn't up my alley. Hyperlink exuberance may give Ev Williams and his predecessors a hard on, but computer technology is just that, a technology. It made certain things possible, detracts from contemplation, and search has certainly amplified my inferiority complex.
Now this guy is another matter. Nakamura is a master story teller, and I yanked your chain however many decades of posts back by pretending I was going to offer up a critical analysis. Consider it a soft lede toward that actuality against the twenty and change in my checking account. I am going to upload to KDP soon, as I have little choice but to utilize Amazon as vending vanity, and if I ask on social media about the timeliness of payments, my empty stomach is the primary impetus.
I was rather dramatically "banned for life" from Beasley's precious tutorial services, and just re-signed myself in, after four years or so. I've no idea why I've done this, as Beasley is from Michigan and posts like Donald Trump's bobble head. I've come to terms with an internalized hatred of public posting software, and suppose this falls under the rubric of because I can. I hate kids, college students fare little better. That's masochism for you.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Nobody's Visible Legend
Is
it too much to infer that the blind man Tommy Lee Jones and his captive come
across before crossing into Mexico, in the 2005 The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, is emblematic of a Tiresias-like prophet, with all the turbulence of
Grecian tragedy? Jones is not much for southern comfort in his later films;
Estrada is no exception, and its opening structure has a satisfying sense of
ridicule about man’s capacity for destruction with the 19th century
technology of projectile weapons. Shooting wild dogs like coyotes, whether for
legitimate purposes or simple sport, has unintended consequences, unraveling
puzzles for quixotic figures like Penkins to piece together in his stark
landscapes, one in which challenging questions about identity and
marginalization are posed, since Estrada himself has very little identity,
other than a dream of paradise, and his bond with his buddy, whose subsequent
tunnel vision might be driven by guilt, just as Norton’s reactionary bile is
driven by fear, and whether or not as the antagonist, this border agent truly
sees the humanity of the “chicano” by the close of the film, I’d argue this is
open ended, despite guilt shredding his psyche to pieces. Unlike the dowager,
Jones is a morally decent conservative, one who posits a true form of
liberality. It is admirable, and partly why we might stand against the border
wall with Mexico.
Who ever made this meme is as whimsical & inspirational as the old Dr. himself. pic.twitter.com/xWi2c0Z0tv— Deplorable Eva (@EvaSofii) September 30, 2017
But this 13 year old vehicle is an unforgiving parable. No
figure like Clint Eastwood’s trainer stands ready to take the consequences upon
himself to alleviate the suffering of a sterile, ailing life. The old man
apparently forgives Penkins, since he lies to the posse of agents on the trail
of our rather dubious hero. Penkins achieves resolution, but what he took to
get there has a gut wincing cost. Although we can assume that a dummy model was
used for the dun pack horse which bucks itself over the escarpment, that was some
significantly brutal ecological footage, nearly equivalent to the courage of
Melissa Leo’s branded, mildly rancid nakedness. Yet Texan mendacity is still
entrancing.
Gravity Tends to Pool
I live on a big blue ball--Waylon Jennings, whaler on the belt
Just how Lawrence Schiller managed to draw such an illicit expression from Tommy Lee in that parking lot, during the filming of Mailer's obsession with Gary Gilmore, is nothing short of miraculous. We've all seen movies about psychopathy in one form or another, and Jones has been around a very long time, but that turn on his face as he is walking into the gas station, resolved upon his own damnation, is as terrifying as Henry Lee Lucas, in his own words, is inadvertently ironic.
In 1979, Mailer turned Gilmore into a cause celebre, that much was impressed upon as an anecdote logged onto youthful synapses, but the teleplay never made it into consciousness. There is no liberal argument for that level of malevolence in the human animal; it is, in fact, a mystery to me how an actor we've been so familiar with in his various hunting modes could, for a few precious moments, depict evil with such transcendent energy that the recoil was visceral. Wolf's team hacked the outer framework to have an ethical debate about human potential which perhaps was arbitrarily hollow. Screen writers cannot hit it out of the park all the time. Whether by design, or not, Schiller and Jones simply turn liberalism on its head with this more canonical adaptation of Mailer's moral wrestling contest. The damnation writ large on Tommy Lee's face is beyond any form of redemption humanity's metaphysical struggle can bring to bear on it. This was a made for television movie circa 1982. It puts any number of composite formula films to shame, in small, telling sequences, in its attempt to inhabit cyclical American tragedies that make our violent propensities an international brand, lapping up our ruthlessness.
As difficult and gruesome as it was to absorb Michael Rooker as Henry, a few grades down on the level of depravity even for my turbulent instances of domestic discord, Jones, as Gilmore gone bad, might have scared me straight if there was any real optimism left to save.
Just how Lawrence Schiller managed to draw such an illicit expression from Tommy Lee in that parking lot, during the filming of Mailer's obsession with Gary Gilmore, is nothing short of miraculous. We've all seen movies about psychopathy in one form or another, and Jones has been around a very long time, but that turn on his face as he is walking into the gas station, resolved upon his own damnation, is as terrifying as Henry Lee Lucas, in his own words, is inadvertently ironic.
In 1979, Mailer turned Gilmore into a cause celebre, that much was impressed upon as an anecdote logged onto youthful synapses, but the teleplay never made it into consciousness. There is no liberal argument for that level of malevolence in the human animal; it is, in fact, a mystery to me how an actor we've been so familiar with in his various hunting modes could, for a few precious moments, depict evil with such transcendent energy that the recoil was visceral. Wolf's team hacked the outer framework to have an ethical debate about human potential which perhaps was arbitrarily hollow. Screen writers cannot hit it out of the park all the time. Whether by design, or not, Schiller and Jones simply turn liberalism on its head with this more canonical adaptation of Mailer's moral wrestling contest. The damnation writ large on Tommy Lee's face is beyond any form of redemption humanity's metaphysical struggle can bring to bear on it. This was a made for television movie circa 1982. It puts any number of composite formula films to shame, in small, telling sequences, in its attempt to inhabit cyclical American tragedies that make our violent propensities an international brand, lapping up our ruthlessness.
As difficult and gruesome as it was to absorb Michael Rooker as Henry, a few grades down on the level of depravity even for my turbulent instances of domestic discord, Jones, as Gilmore gone bad, might have scared me straight if there was any real optimism left to save.
Clay Warner's Anticipatory Erosion
"In the real world, the value of human life is relative."-- Saul Rubinek
I rushed my column, winced at my typographical error in misspelling Kinsley's name, repaired this after the fact, and now I'm sitting, belabored, speculating about whether it's worth getting more pissed off and trying again, as perhaps my point about Donald and Serge was contradictory. Zakaria can rehash white suicides on a subtle curvature, and I cannot even get back in the game, for obvious reasons, and perhaps more effusive ones; debating about whether annoying busy editors with personal slants will do any good. When I wrote about my broken nuptials for Philadelphia Inquirer's Metro section in 2005, I tapped into a national sentiment unexpectedly and felt incredibly gratified, had absolutely no other writers to share my good fortune with, and the residents and managers alike at Riverside said "I read your column," (the good old days) but that I earned the byline caught me entirely off guard.
The situation is now reversed. I feel the media owes my voice for the injustices of my late middle age, and I'm lucky if The Nation responds "this is too national in scope," and I never truly countenanced that my 53rd year would be the beginning of the end, not senile, but livid enough to alarm Google, enough to earn a cautionary note about my lack of reticence, not knowing if I'm capable of killing my former supervisor. Statements such as those, in such a battered intelligence, is relegated to creative non fiction, or the screen writers guild, not an online account, even with an adult content warning, especially as said supervisor is a real person, a disabled woman herself conditioned to humiliate her like.
While my twitter application sat in my wheelchair pouch at eleven am, I had a skittish transfer to the porcelain throne, a rather painful evacuation, and almost did not make it back to the cushion, crooked in my pivot, flexed hand on the bar, better left hand on the arm grip, gasping, trembling a little, urging myself to release my grasp, perhaps a bad day, or conversely, my quality time has a more immediate expiration, but I will not allow authorities to re-institutionalize me, which, in essence, has an inevitable conclusion.
Of the lengthy Sam Waterston arc as the indomitable Jack McCoy, "Genius" is not the most scintillating in the Dick Wolf neural net, but between the lines, the writers were challenging the very essence of regulating human deviation. They did it on the sly, of course, as Wike doesn't off sympathetic victims, especially as a Klan leader incognito with bodies on his conscience isn't something even angry old bitches want to go to the mat for, but Clay Warner does not represent a magnified human aberration, took no pleasure from his actions, and saw his eliminations as rather justifiable. If we dispense with the outer contours of the plot, (creative genius as a subversive threat, and Warner's willingness to dispense with his life) the argument challenging judicial process for an intellectual acuity which correctly assesses bad actors essentially implies that adjudication cannot always achieve an equitable balance. That is one caveat I've been arguing all along, one that creative minds recognize. And with this note in mind, let's return to Sandra Bland.
Spastic believed initial reports indicated she crossed traffic lanes improperly. Now it seems Encinia loses his job over a turn signal. If, among other things, the ACLU and libertarians like my licentious twitter ally Tony Stiles have their way, the US dispenses with civilian police forces, perhaps hiring volunteer eunuchs at a cheaper rate to remove collateral corpses off the asphalt after the weekly LA driveby. What happens? Communities invariably police themselves, the margin for error increases, invariably enforcers naturally reoccur and we're back we're we started. The dowager has no idea why Bland is dead. If it was homicide, it seems the state troopers are going to incredible lengths over very little: not every bigot thirsts to lynch those they hold in contempt. If she hung herself, deflated by a disreputable environment, Encinia is being wrongly punished, because it is a sign of the times that millennials are coddled by the rose colored glasses of their parents. It was a fucking holding cell, not a pleasant place, and I fail to see why correction officers would have harmed her deliberately, or even another prisoner. No evidence was found to indicate this. She would have been released, and had she actually caused a collision, reporters would have decried laxity in state license suspensions. We've gone so far afield we really cannot distinguish anuses from dirt holes.
I rushed my column, winced at my typographical error in misspelling Kinsley's name, repaired this after the fact, and now I'm sitting, belabored, speculating about whether it's worth getting more pissed off and trying again, as perhaps my point about Donald and Serge was contradictory. Zakaria can rehash white suicides on a subtle curvature, and I cannot even get back in the game, for obvious reasons, and perhaps more effusive ones; debating about whether annoying busy editors with personal slants will do any good. When I wrote about my broken nuptials for Philadelphia Inquirer's Metro section in 2005, I tapped into a national sentiment unexpectedly and felt incredibly gratified, had absolutely no other writers to share my good fortune with, and the residents and managers alike at Riverside said "I read your column," (the good old days) but that I earned the byline caught me entirely off guard.
The situation is now reversed. I feel the media owes my voice for the injustices of my late middle age, and I'm lucky if The Nation responds "this is too national in scope," and I never truly countenanced that my 53rd year would be the beginning of the end, not senile, but livid enough to alarm Google, enough to earn a cautionary note about my lack of reticence, not knowing if I'm capable of killing my former supervisor. Statements such as those, in such a battered intelligence, is relegated to creative non fiction, or the screen writers guild, not an online account, even with an adult content warning, especially as said supervisor is a real person, a disabled woman herself conditioned to humiliate her like.
While my twitter application sat in my wheelchair pouch at eleven am, I had a skittish transfer to the porcelain throne, a rather painful evacuation, and almost did not make it back to the cushion, crooked in my pivot, flexed hand on the bar, better left hand on the arm grip, gasping, trembling a little, urging myself to release my grasp, perhaps a bad day, or conversely, my quality time has a more immediate expiration, but I will not allow authorities to re-institutionalize me, which, in essence, has an inevitable conclusion.
Of the lengthy Sam Waterston arc as the indomitable Jack McCoy, "Genius" is not the most scintillating in the Dick Wolf neural net, but between the lines, the writers were challenging the very essence of regulating human deviation. They did it on the sly, of course, as Wike doesn't off sympathetic victims, especially as a Klan leader incognito with bodies on his conscience isn't something even angry old bitches want to go to the mat for, but Clay Warner does not represent a magnified human aberration, took no pleasure from his actions, and saw his eliminations as rather justifiable. If we dispense with the outer contours of the plot, (creative genius as a subversive threat, and Warner's willingness to dispense with his life) the argument challenging judicial process for an intellectual acuity which correctly assesses bad actors essentially implies that adjudication cannot always achieve an equitable balance. That is one caveat I've been arguing all along, one that creative minds recognize. And with this note in mind, let's return to Sandra Bland.
Spastic believed initial reports indicated she crossed traffic lanes improperly. Now it seems Encinia loses his job over a turn signal. If, among other things, the ACLU and libertarians like my licentious twitter ally Tony Stiles have their way, the US dispenses with civilian police forces, perhaps hiring volunteer eunuchs at a cheaper rate to remove collateral corpses off the asphalt after the weekly LA driveby. What happens? Communities invariably police themselves, the margin for error increases, invariably enforcers naturally reoccur and we're back we're we started. The dowager has no idea why Bland is dead. If it was homicide, it seems the state troopers are going to incredible lengths over very little: not every bigot thirsts to lynch those they hold in contempt. If she hung herself, deflated by a disreputable environment, Encinia is being wrongly punished, because it is a sign of the times that millennials are coddled by the rose colored glasses of their parents. It was a fucking holding cell, not a pleasant place, and I fail to see why correction officers would have harmed her deliberately, or even another prisoner. No evidence was found to indicate this. She would have been released, and had she actually caused a collision, reporters would have decried laxity in state license suspensions. We've gone so far afield we really cannot distinguish anuses from dirt holes.
Pricks to the price of loyalty
"He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering and sorrow than by age." -- Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, digital location 2116
A short message thread with John Murphy posed an interrogative "Have you heard of Tony Stiles?" The apparently attractive young man is looking for acolytes to join in Tony's campaign against human trafficking, a rather noble, if daunting sentiment. Mr. Murphy benefits from the price of loyalty, and indicated Mr. Stiles had the humane decency most of us profess to have, as altruism is deemed beneficial. Murphy followed me a short time, then ceased, my failure to hold his interest a metric of some sort, perhaps that I alternately flirt with libertarian ideas, then turn and critique them, or maybe I'm just a downer, and he is a more upbeat promoter for his employer, one who hasn't eviscerated him.
Such evisceration, a knife to the heart carried as an entrapment, taken to its logical conclusion, often leads to the emotional implosion of Kenneth Halliwell, the prototype of homosexual rage against itself. Prick Up Your Ears was about abandonment against the growth of a dead playwright's horizon. Fusing that with an agenda to send a message to reform a paradigm leads to the same interior crawlspace. If the inability to let go, and the blunt force trauma of destitution moves in the direction of vengeance, the trigger for it eliminated, there is an emotional recoil against the punishment inflicted, and escaping Halliwell's fate becomes an odds game: accepting a bad act that removes you from your innocence, however inflicted with injustice, and then beating the law, which is achievable, but rarely successful.
The emotional investment of a good lieutenant is not the same as a homoerotic set of coordinates exposed and deemed unacceptable, although emotional fraying can conflate the two, but I was John Murphy 23 years ago, motivated by a leadership I wanted to promote, to elevate, to see it as a public conduit, and misjudged that of which it was capable. Not that the scar remains fresh, nor even palpable, as the 23 years have beaten against the brute strength, now swimming with oblivion, waiting to see if there is enough left for the veracity of vindication, or if I fade past midnight like so many quadriplegics looking at a sixtieth decade like a death warrant, or a veritable concentration camp.
Come spring I need to give my notice, another daunting endeavor, but a necessary therapeutic tool; I'll need to trust someone's transitory generosity on the heels of this event. We'll see, but I couldn't give Mr. Styles the personal loyalty which she once had at her disposal. The price of grief, and blow after blow after blow. Impotent even to support my immediate family.
A short message thread with John Murphy posed an interrogative "Have you heard of Tony Stiles?" The apparently attractive young man is looking for acolytes to join in Tony's campaign against human trafficking, a rather noble, if daunting sentiment. Mr. Murphy benefits from the price of loyalty, and indicated Mr. Stiles had the humane decency most of us profess to have, as altruism is deemed beneficial. Murphy followed me a short time, then ceased, my failure to hold his interest a metric of some sort, perhaps that I alternately flirt with libertarian ideas, then turn and critique them, or maybe I'm just a downer, and he is a more upbeat promoter for his employer, one who hasn't eviscerated him.
Such evisceration, a knife to the heart carried as an entrapment, taken to its logical conclusion, often leads to the emotional implosion of Kenneth Halliwell, the prototype of homosexual rage against itself. Prick Up Your Ears was about abandonment against the growth of a dead playwright's horizon. Fusing that with an agenda to send a message to reform a paradigm leads to the same interior crawlspace. If the inability to let go, and the blunt force trauma of destitution moves in the direction of vengeance, the trigger for it eliminated, there is an emotional recoil against the punishment inflicted, and escaping Halliwell's fate becomes an odds game: accepting a bad act that removes you from your innocence, however inflicted with injustice, and then beating the law, which is achievable, but rarely successful.
The emotional investment of a good lieutenant is not the same as a homoerotic set of coordinates exposed and deemed unacceptable, although emotional fraying can conflate the two, but I was John Murphy 23 years ago, motivated by a leadership I wanted to promote, to elevate, to see it as a public conduit, and misjudged that of which it was capable. Not that the scar remains fresh, nor even palpable, as the 23 years have beaten against the brute strength, now swimming with oblivion, waiting to see if there is enough left for the veracity of vindication, or if I fade past midnight like so many quadriplegics looking at a sixtieth decade like a death warrant, or a veritable concentration camp.
Come spring I need to give my notice, another daunting endeavor, but a necessary therapeutic tool; I'll need to trust someone's transitory generosity on the heels of this event. We'll see, but I couldn't give Mr. Styles the personal loyalty which she once had at her disposal. The price of grief, and blow after blow after blow. Impotent even to support my immediate family.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Pizzo
"Intuitive improvisation is the secret to genius"-- Christopher Walken, playfully Zorin
On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."
Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.
I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.
On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."
Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.
I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Our Herd Mentality, Incredulous
Some of you really heed Oprah Winfrey, don't you? The same women who find the anger of a homily disabled woman intimidating, flock to a former beauty queen, well past her heyday as she is, because she is a prominent, vivacious television personality who provides so many points of self-recognition. Being a shadow Empress, it seems to spastic, has gone to her head, if her onslaught of Weight Watchers commercials is any indicator. Howard Stern used to have fun with her super-laden domesticity, and The New Republic published a rather deft, nuanced critique of her strange genius, before the rich gay boy who got lucky took over the publication, and I wrote said deft and nuanced contributor when still an active subscriber, paid deft contributor a compliment before subordinating a clause, which I remember, "but she's a television host."
Which for me about sums it up, not denying her talent, even her occasional bouts of self-depreciation, and her vulnerability with her sycophants. But to pass herself off as almost a contemporary transcendentalist has a repulsive quality to it. She is the prototype of the African American matriarchal female who may be able to defy her age, and be wealthy enough not to die of Natalie Cole's health problems, but her affluence can only do so much with biological reality, although it can do wonders for a group dynamic which apparently sees fit to dispense with the ability to think for itself, or still views her as a trend indicator.
There is no such thing as a best body for a woman who tends to be thick. Obesity is what it wants to be in some cases, and she is as much engaging in a game of delusion with her own celebrity as she has accused some of her audience in the past of "playing games" with their health. If she fails with this investment we'll all be better of, sadly stupendous as it is.
Since I find her narcissistic evocations discouraging, I'll close the book, nostrils flayed, and never open it again unless for some reason, she provides proximate cause.
Which for me about sums it up, not denying her talent, even her occasional bouts of self-depreciation, and her vulnerability with her sycophants. But to pass herself off as almost a contemporary transcendentalist has a repulsive quality to it. She is the prototype of the African American matriarchal female who may be able to defy her age, and be wealthy enough not to die of Natalie Cole's health problems, but her affluence can only do so much with biological reality, although it can do wonders for a group dynamic which apparently sees fit to dispense with the ability to think for itself, or still views her as a trend indicator.
There is no such thing as a best body for a woman who tends to be thick. Obesity is what it wants to be in some cases, and she is as much engaging in a game of delusion with her own celebrity as she has accused some of her audience in the past of "playing games" with their health. If she fails with this investment we'll all be better of, sadly stupendous as it is.
Since I find her narcissistic evocations discouraging, I'll close the book, nostrils flayed, and never open it again unless for some reason, she provides proximate cause.
Friday, January 1, 2016
The Delirium of Italy
"The mind of man had thought of everything, except for that which was beyond its comprehension." The opening narrator.
One wakes with mind on the verge of mental collapse after ingesting oxidant rich salad, now a luxury, and realizes borderline corrosive throbbing is tied to the freight train engines. As far as I'm aware, the constant vibrating, before the age of 50, never added to agitation, but now I understand the residential distress with it. Management suggested the tenant's council contact Jim, but not even WPVI can alter the fact that tracks run behind the buildings of this so called optimal city location. Harryhausen seemed to grasp this urban dissonance in 20 Miles to Earth. The film opens like a third world apocalypse recovery operation, since, after all, if the lord of animation wants to vacation in Rome, the studio can sign on Sicilian fishermen to clamber around Hollywood's quaint variation on man's destruction of its own toys. Then the plot veers into the territory of the great and chilling Andromeda Strain, which is one of the best science fiction films the US ever made about the destructive potential of viruses, and then it slowly turns on exotic life form in a capsule transforming into a mythic Titan. The battle with the elephant still provokes the child's love of pachyderms into a lethal protest: Okay, kill the motherfucker now for mortally wounding an African poacher's main source of sustenance.
Both the script and the direction of 20 Million toy with expectations, one of the few films of its kind to transplant the Godzilla monster into the Old World passing the buck to the American superpower, warning its redeemer of its own potential folly, but it seems to be a film within a film, with Roman provincialism suggesting an alternate route which Juran declined to pursue, all for the sake of the commercial success of bread and circuses.
To the extent that Zakaria is rehashing the statistician generated news item, I want to remind my ambulatory readers of one thing: My academic mentors and family were correct in my university transfer being a costly mistake, but condemning me to 30 years of being stuck in the same place is a punishment far exceeding the impulse. I had the same expectations of economic self-sufficiency as any ambulatory white individual with a college degree, and the welfare system I've utilized to fail in that career is too punitive. I did not ask to survive with cerebral palsy, to be carved up like ham on an orthopedic assembly line only to be brow beaten the rest of my life by case managers and vindictive rental agents, as I fall out of competitive markets to millennials and their digital graphic expertise. May 2016 be the year of the leap I'll survive just a while longer.
One wakes with mind on the verge of mental collapse after ingesting oxidant rich salad, now a luxury, and realizes borderline corrosive throbbing is tied to the freight train engines. As far as I'm aware, the constant vibrating, before the age of 50, never added to agitation, but now I understand the residential distress with it. Management suggested the tenant's council contact Jim, but not even WPVI can alter the fact that tracks run behind the buildings of this so called optimal city location. Harryhausen seemed to grasp this urban dissonance in 20 Miles to Earth. The film opens like a third world apocalypse recovery operation, since, after all, if the lord of animation wants to vacation in Rome, the studio can sign on Sicilian fishermen to clamber around Hollywood's quaint variation on man's destruction of its own toys. Then the plot veers into the territory of the great and chilling Andromeda Strain, which is one of the best science fiction films the US ever made about the destructive potential of viruses, and then it slowly turns on exotic life form in a capsule transforming into a mythic Titan. The battle with the elephant still provokes the child's love of pachyderms into a lethal protest: Okay, kill the motherfucker now for mortally wounding an African poacher's main source of sustenance.
Both the script and the direction of 20 Million toy with expectations, one of the few films of its kind to transplant the Godzilla monster into the Old World passing the buck to the American superpower, warning its redeemer of its own potential folly, but it seems to be a film within a film, with Roman provincialism suggesting an alternate route which Juran declined to pursue, all for the sake of the commercial success of bread and circuses.
To the extent that Zakaria is rehashing the statistician generated news item, I want to remind my ambulatory readers of one thing: My academic mentors and family were correct in my university transfer being a costly mistake, but condemning me to 30 years of being stuck in the same place is a punishment far exceeding the impulse. I had the same expectations of economic self-sufficiency as any ambulatory white individual with a college degree, and the welfare system I've utilized to fail in that career is too punitive. I did not ask to survive with cerebral palsy, to be carved up like ham on an orthopedic assembly line only to be brow beaten the rest of my life by case managers and vindictive rental agents, as I fall out of competitive markets to millennials and their digital graphic expertise. May 2016 be the year of the leap I'll survive just a while longer.
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