"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.
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