Saturday, February 27, 2016
Lazy Vis-a-Vis a Stuffy Nose, 2, or is it 3?
As proof that I'm capable of changing my mind, at least as it pertains to California as evil empire, I offer Yabberz a qualified endorsement as a community of argument suited to my skeptical temperament. How it helps me with market share depends on how much you like the way Tim Burton put Big Fish and Albert Finney together, but for now, remembering that I cannot debate with users all day, I reply to Mike Horton with a somewhat less pro forma "your welcome," reminding myself not to assume all his users are idiots. I do not really want to post about race relations there, I've taken enough heat here, and my two media threads didn't catch, one was a bubbling pitch and the other was candy man news, but okay (developmental mind roaring faggots). Rejection of gay cultural norms is complex, and most of my life I've feared lesbian predation, which nevertheless didn't protect me from it, and the only reason I got past it: I had no choice, but know it's not for me either, even if a man never loved me. Dragging ass in kitchen for coffee. How am I still functioning?
Friday, February 26, 2016
Told you so!
What did I post about TNR and the ownership of Chris Hughes? What did I post? Perhaps I can yet hope for at least one byline under McCormack, as if my indigence would suddenly go whoosh, as if it doesn't come too late. Told you. Liberals would say this isn't about the homosexual nouveau riche, like the dandy heir apparent, Tim Cook, who can zap me to death through my 5s serial number. And I'd tell progressives to go royally fuck themselves. It was you who told us all that an egalitarian radicalization would allow people like me to play. Name me one, just one, nationally recognized journalist with my type of brain damage who actually got their fucking foot in the door with their condition, rather than acquiring it?
But I got one right, preceding Erik Wemple, fucking A.
I'm sick. I have a cold, and pea soup, consumed.
But I got one right, preceding Erik Wemple, fucking A.
I'm sick. I have a cold, and pea soup, consumed.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Corroded Pretty Pennies
"Dear Brothers and Sisters," a proselytizing Sanders email generated from my involvement with Obama for America, unfortunately
If it comes down to a choice between Trump and Hillary, Howard Gutman was fairly confident, in his analysis, that Hillary prevails by three points, which would mean the electorate cements Barack's legacy and gives the Clintons one more crack at the helm. I loathe both front running brands, if we want to contextualize the fame of both contenders in that manner, but if Donald apologizes to Pope Francis, and I'm able to cast a ballot, I simply cannot return to the Clintons. If it is Rubio and Clinton, I simply won't vote; not a matter of questioning Rubio's credentials. The Senator has a book, financial extensions, raises valid points about the quiet minority of immigrants who are on the Visa applicant list, and so what?
Given a choice, the public knows the Clintons, and presumes they will keep the country steady at the helm. If somehow Sanders manages to draw blood and then it's him and Trump, then maybe my vote matters, and I'd have to go with the bombastic charlatan, if he apologizes to the Pope. One might be critical of the Argentine's leftist leanings, but he is the Vicar of Christ, the head of state, and I demand respect for the prince of the Church, however hard and dark I might be.
On the chance that Bloomberg does enter the race, his track record as an executive has already sold itself, and I'd possibly advocate for his candidacy. I do not always agree with his command decisions, but at least he makes them, and offers his constituency a supporting rationale. Both as a writer and an advocate, my failure has been one of local indifference, because what goes on at the lowest rung is the most primal, and I regret it, since the Commonwealth's rust belt status conveys a certain truism about dilapidation, never quite conscious of the fact, until recently that City Council is merely the cabal out of whom lesser forces spring. Rendell became mayor because he was DA, because Goode literally torched his own fortunes. Nutter became mayor against Street's collusion, and became a no blame minority nanny. Kenney looks like a half-witted superintendent, and this doesn't bode well for the city, I fear. Does the First Amendment trump FCC regulatory authority? Doubtlessly not, as the commissioners are terrified of the decency legion.
If it comes down to a choice between Trump and Hillary, Howard Gutman was fairly confident, in his analysis, that Hillary prevails by three points, which would mean the electorate cements Barack's legacy and gives the Clintons one more crack at the helm. I loathe both front running brands, if we want to contextualize the fame of both contenders in that manner, but if Donald apologizes to Pope Francis, and I'm able to cast a ballot, I simply cannot return to the Clintons. If it is Rubio and Clinton, I simply won't vote; not a matter of questioning Rubio's credentials. The Senator has a book, financial extensions, raises valid points about the quiet minority of immigrants who are on the Visa applicant list, and so what?
Given a choice, the public knows the Clintons, and presumes they will keep the country steady at the helm. If somehow Sanders manages to draw blood and then it's him and Trump, then maybe my vote matters, and I'd have to go with the bombastic charlatan, if he apologizes to the Pope. One might be critical of the Argentine's leftist leanings, but he is the Vicar of Christ, the head of state, and I demand respect for the prince of the Church, however hard and dark I might be.
On the chance that Bloomberg does enter the race, his track record as an executive has already sold itself, and I'd possibly advocate for his candidacy. I do not always agree with his command decisions, but at least he makes them, and offers his constituency a supporting rationale. Both as a writer and an advocate, my failure has been one of local indifference, because what goes on at the lowest rung is the most primal, and I regret it, since the Commonwealth's rust belt status conveys a certain truism about dilapidation, never quite conscious of the fact, until recently that City Council is merely the cabal out of whom lesser forces spring. Rendell became mayor because he was DA, because Goode literally torched his own fortunes. Nutter became mayor against Street's collusion, and became a no blame minority nanny. Kenney looks like a half-witted superintendent, and this doesn't bode well for the city, I fear. Does the First Amendment trump FCC regulatory authority? Doubtlessly not, as the commissioners are terrified of the decency legion.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Carmel in the Niger Sky
This consisted of gentle prods, ridicule so faint and unfocused that it always could be given a flattering turn if necessary. [sic] Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky, loc 894
One of the most heuristic of my viewing pleasures was experiencing Peter Falk in Wings of Desire, even if his cameo does indeed feel like a post production interjection in a beautifully romantic and aspirant enterprise. One of his shortest appearances, also his sharpest, radiant with benevolence. It takes such darkness torturing a muzzled poet's spirit to see such light, light we no longer have with the death of presence.
Johnny Cash was doing what any celebrity does in his appearance on the Columbo episode "Swan Song," cashing it the chips. In many ways, this script is one of the more annoying ones, a bit cockamamie, the evidence against the gospel singer pretty much snatching a kid's hand out of the cookie jar, because there was no other way to do it other than through turning the screws on Cash's dark side, whatever items at the site of the plane crash didn't add up. Had the celebrity as nemesis kept his composure, and his broken leg, on a cushion, the forerunners of progressive guilt conscious television would have had a more difficult resolution. This is a reluctant way of admitting Jerry's aesthetic insights into pop culture trump my own, because The Rockford Files remains fresher, more telling on contemporary American angst, than Levinson's morality play, ferreting out the egotism, or giving Johnny Cash his redemption for bilking Ida Lupino's astringent.
To deescalate a little further, as stupid as Kojak is in its hyperbolic urban anxiety, it most aptly captures what the 70's were, if you ignore the plots, and simply breathe its urban exposition. Combine all three shows into an overlaying collage gives an accurate portrait of what haunts my generation: the loss of giants in whom we had moral guides. Of course Cash (and even Falk) had a certain systemic shallowness, the capped teeth, the megalomania, to a degree, but they were touchstones: Falk, Cash, Savalas, with very long genomes behind them. Gardner a little less, because maverick was about as far as his range could go. To transplant myself from this to the black brotherhood was fatal, whether or not my skimming, silent viewers comprehend.
Even if I'm lenient to looks. One of the guards, Anthony, talked to me the week of 5/10/16, perhaps because he felt bad witnessing another brother trash me, and asked me if I was still writing. For once in my life, I was unmoved, as starved for human interaction as I remain. I'll get over Vinnie's death, horrible as it was for me to be forced to use animal control, but something has broken, not to be captured through any blatant expose of a hobbled gimp, trying to outrun his own demons of indulgence.
One of the most heuristic of my viewing pleasures was experiencing Peter Falk in Wings of Desire, even if his cameo does indeed feel like a post production interjection in a beautifully romantic and aspirant enterprise. One of his shortest appearances, also his sharpest, radiant with benevolence. It takes such darkness torturing a muzzled poet's spirit to see such light, light we no longer have with the death of presence.
Johnny Cash was doing what any celebrity does in his appearance on the Columbo episode "Swan Song," cashing it the chips. In many ways, this script is one of the more annoying ones, a bit cockamamie, the evidence against the gospel singer pretty much snatching a kid's hand out of the cookie jar, because there was no other way to do it other than through turning the screws on Cash's dark side, whatever items at the site of the plane crash didn't add up. Had the celebrity as nemesis kept his composure, and his broken leg, on a cushion, the forerunners of progressive guilt conscious television would have had a more difficult resolution. This is a reluctant way of admitting Jerry's aesthetic insights into pop culture trump my own, because The Rockford Files remains fresher, more telling on contemporary American angst, than Levinson's morality play, ferreting out the egotism, or giving Johnny Cash his redemption for bilking Ida Lupino's astringent.
To deescalate a little further, as stupid as Kojak is in its hyperbolic urban anxiety, it most aptly captures what the 70's were, if you ignore the plots, and simply breathe its urban exposition. Combine all three shows into an overlaying collage gives an accurate portrait of what haunts my generation: the loss of giants in whom we had moral guides. Of course Cash (and even Falk) had a certain systemic shallowness, the capped teeth, the megalomania, to a degree, but they were touchstones: Falk, Cash, Savalas, with very long genomes behind them. Gardner a little less, because maverick was about as far as his range could go. To transplant myself from this to the black brotherhood was fatal, whether or not my skimming, silent viewers comprehend.
Even if I'm lenient to looks. One of the guards, Anthony, talked to me the week of 5/10/16, perhaps because he felt bad witnessing another brother trash me, and asked me if I was still writing. For once in my life, I was unmoved, as starved for human interaction as I remain. I'll get over Vinnie's death, horrible as it was for me to be forced to use animal control, but something has broken, not to be captured through any blatant expose of a hobbled gimp, trying to outrun his own demons of indulgence.
Clarence Williams III, Dawn dolls in a playhouse
"In addition to Mod Squad, Aaron Spelling and I picked up two Walter Brennan shows, Tycoon and The Guns of Will Sonnett (a fair sized hit)." --Make Room for Danny, 262
In the stray preoccupations which wool gather at 4:20 AM eastern standard time, as if I was reverting to form to get ready for work at the defunct Institute to whose demise I contributed, catching 3/4 ths of Peggy Lipton's vulnerability, vaguely recalled, if Danny Thomas and Aaron Spelling truly knew anything about counter culture dynamics, it isn't evident in this stock formula series, with Richard Dreyfuss, fresh from his celebrity pairing with Amy Irving, or about to head into it, providing us with the most well mannered recital of a psychotic imaginable-- yes, yes, cable was in its infancy and the FCC and terms of service are staple gun muzzles wiring our jaws, but all Squad did for its audience was cater to appearances, to the point even those sorely scored could feel commiseration for Williams' afro standing at attention.
One of the best serials in the 70's might be Columbo, but that would take Levinson and Falk's morality battle out of context. Aquarius may taken great care with its time capsule authenticity, and may even be more accurate in its undercurrents, as we owe so much to the golden state, but the Manson family was its own thing, analogous to the Mormons under Joseph Smith as being not quite kosher, which it isn't. Manson's followers, being really, really out on a limb, nevertheless was a reversion to an earlier American period of denominational instability under the Protestant tent. As a reformer, Luther certainly never intended to fragment Christianity into shards, but he also didn't do it any favors when it comes to transplantation in the United States. Off the top of my head, I cannot think of a series that really encapsulates my place and time as it was without going off a cliff. All in the Family turned a veteran icon into a cult hero, but Archie was a comic book exaggeration, as was the Jeffersons. Eight is Enough merely reigned in the impossible stupidity of the Brady Bunch. I'd pick The Six Million Dollar Man if I had to, but this, again, contextualizes another set of anxieties, apt, but miscued, since our fusions to technology are playing out a bit differently. We're not augmenting ourselves into a super-race, merely ensuring our essential human extinction. Then again, maybe it's Happy Days, if we take the notion of period piece nostalgia out of it.
A better ad in: The Partridge Family. As a series, it was soft folk song and dance, but it hit the right tenor for significant changes in the nuclear family
Our films, here and there, do a better job, and The Driver, though its minimalism is rigorous and circumscribed, is one of them.
Though golden state vibes are not particularly auspicious to spastic's sentiments, she very cautiously explored Yabberz, and their no-over-the-line fury is reasonable. This doesn't mean I'm tamed, trust me. I know physically I am on thin ice, and economically I'm overwhelmed. I'm simply not a Caesar alpha with his skill set and ability to command an insurrection; to wit, Danielle Allen has an op-ed in Wapo which I'm not reading where she makes a clarion call about Trump's threat to democracy. That is an exaggeration on her part, but in truth of fact, Americans don't know what they mean by a free society. If the first amendment can't withstand what Donald is tapping into, then we aren't an attributable experiment in free exercise.
To the progressive mindset, I've freely admitted I am, within varying flavors, a homophobic bigot, without necessarily vying for a piece of Coulter's turf, since I've been too much inside of a bubble which most of you aren't, as a quadriplegic. Whether I go "too far," for Blogger or anyone else, one, it doesn't matter. Richard Spencer plays up ethnographic separation for money and I'm too old to play follow the leader for a supremacist who would no more lift a finger to get me out of here and let me enjoy my last years anymore than anyone else. I'm damned, rage or acceptance notwithstanding. For Trudy Richardson to deploy HHS to threaten me with Inglis House, after the battle for my life, is something maybe you cannot grasp. I've been 30 years under Presby and seen countless tenants forcibly placed. My intellectual acumen was supposed to withstand this. Trudy didn't scare me, trust me. All she did was make me measure death by cop against my other options.
In the stray preoccupations which wool gather at 4:20 AM eastern standard time, as if I was reverting to form to get ready for work at the defunct Institute to whose demise I contributed, catching 3/4 ths of Peggy Lipton's vulnerability, vaguely recalled, if Danny Thomas and Aaron Spelling truly knew anything about counter culture dynamics, it isn't evident in this stock formula series, with Richard Dreyfuss, fresh from his celebrity pairing with Amy Irving, or about to head into it, providing us with the most well mannered recital of a psychotic imaginable-- yes, yes, cable was in its infancy and the FCC and terms of service are staple gun muzzles wiring our jaws, but all Squad did for its audience was cater to appearances, to the point even those sorely scored could feel commiseration for Williams' afro standing at attention.
One of the best serials in the 70's might be Columbo, but that would take Levinson and Falk's morality battle out of context. Aquarius may taken great care with its time capsule authenticity, and may even be more accurate in its undercurrents, as we owe so much to the golden state, but the Manson family was its own thing, analogous to the Mormons under Joseph Smith as being not quite kosher, which it isn't. Manson's followers, being really, really out on a limb, nevertheless was a reversion to an earlier American period of denominational instability under the Protestant tent. As a reformer, Luther certainly never intended to fragment Christianity into shards, but he also didn't do it any favors when it comes to transplantation in the United States. Off the top of my head, I cannot think of a series that really encapsulates my place and time as it was without going off a cliff. All in the Family turned a veteran icon into a cult hero, but Archie was a comic book exaggeration, as was the Jeffersons. Eight is Enough merely reigned in the impossible stupidity of the Brady Bunch. I'd pick The Six Million Dollar Man if I had to, but this, again, contextualizes another set of anxieties, apt, but miscued, since our fusions to technology are playing out a bit differently. We're not augmenting ourselves into a super-race, merely ensuring our essential human extinction. Then again, maybe it's Happy Days, if we take the notion of period piece nostalgia out of it.
A better ad in: The Partridge Family. As a series, it was soft folk song and dance, but it hit the right tenor for significant changes in the nuclear family
Our films, here and there, do a better job, and The Driver, though its minimalism is rigorous and circumscribed, is one of them.
Though golden state vibes are not particularly auspicious to spastic's sentiments, she very cautiously explored Yabberz, and their no-over-the-line fury is reasonable. This doesn't mean I'm tamed, trust me. I know physically I am on thin ice, and economically I'm overwhelmed. I'm simply not a Caesar alpha with his skill set and ability to command an insurrection; to wit, Danielle Allen has an op-ed in Wapo which I'm not reading where she makes a clarion call about Trump's threat to democracy. That is an exaggeration on her part, but in truth of fact, Americans don't know what they mean by a free society. If the first amendment can't withstand what Donald is tapping into, then we aren't an attributable experiment in free exercise.
To the progressive mindset, I've freely admitted I am, within varying flavors, a homophobic bigot, without necessarily vying for a piece of Coulter's turf, since I've been too much inside of a bubble which most of you aren't, as a quadriplegic. Whether I go "too far," for Blogger or anyone else, one, it doesn't matter. Richard Spencer plays up ethnographic separation for money and I'm too old to play follow the leader for a supremacist who would no more lift a finger to get me out of here and let me enjoy my last years anymore than anyone else. I'm damned, rage or acceptance notwithstanding. For Trudy Richardson to deploy HHS to threaten me with Inglis House, after the battle for my life, is something maybe you cannot grasp. I've been 30 years under Presby and seen countless tenants forcibly placed. My intellectual acumen was supposed to withstand this. Trudy didn't scare me, trust me. All she did was make me measure death by cop against my other options.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Caught Between Two Metaphors and the Antiquity of Scheduled Broadcast
Entertainment media blitzes do more harm than good on occasion. I know so much about The Planet of the Apes reboot franchise, which started in 2011, thanks to the myopia of Charlie Rose, that I am deterred, but Caesar is an apt stand in for the underlying rage of repression which leads to instability, and yet one loves Sam Neill as the very definition of a taciturn dream catch. The films run into each other and will invariably rerun, but both are useful to me. ABC and the CW will heed the siren and replay them as soon as possible. I'm leaning toward the older political satire in full, due to the fact that Rupert Wyatt's pretensions were so laden Rose made fun of them to his face. Caesar, of course, is the ultimate libertarian made legend. Spastics may have the same fervor when appearing before City Council, as Denny O'Brien isn't going to be let off that easily. (Alas, another obscure reference, but a writer in reduced circumstance has two hours of nagging felines prior to meal preparation.)
Friday, February 19, 2016
Cringe
Levels of vengeance are coded comparatively. Delight in Ray Liotta's machinations as Wozniak and distaste for Warren Kole's agent Stahl as overly self-righteous still falls within the parameters of a revenge fantasy, even if we weigh how far we're willing to see a world weary lieutenant go. So far Adi is letting Wozniak hold his own, seasoned enough to process rationalizations and methodology, not quite a full sociopath. Invariably, NBC will have an entertaining antagonist fall. Woz will go too far and even wicked delight will turn against him; J-lo will be scathed but left with the possibility of redemption, because this is still television land. Though it is fair to say dirty cops usually get exposed in the real world. This is why beat reporters exist. The Wilkins case, however, is irreparable, and seems to hinge on some bizarre evolutionary throwback. Stealing newborns occurs in the wild, but cases like this, along with aggression in the elderly, and the gruesome microwaved baby case, veer toward unimaginable unease with the inexorable pressures of primate domestication.
Images of that litigation were never forgotten: the mother testifying on video so as to be shielded from public outrage. Killing a newborn is one thing. Cooking it to death invites bile to rise in the back of our throats. How does an incident like that even happen? Lane's alleged attack is as equally visceral and unfathomable and if found guilty she should be executed, on either a material or metaphysical basis. If we're just a smart bit of meat, the meat doesn't need that mitochondrial DNA perpetuating itself, and if humans indeed have souls, Lane fed hers into a psychosis which is better off dead. Even in the dark side of Mario Puzo's world, the author's intimations about why Vito kills an infant stays within tolerable limits, rather than mere sensational butchery. How poor Michelle Wilkins ever truly recovers from this is beyond anyone's capacity to actualize, even within a world view poisoned by lifelong medical, regulatory regimentation. It would be rather a highbrow solace if NBC allows Wozniak to emerge victorious, the cult hero with blood on his hands, still a Brooklyn capo.
A dowager's bitterness is also in part about her own naivete, so invested in intellectual authority, in literary journal submissions, in independent living paradigms, as a way of life. I was a hot property as a student, and beyond, and now I'm sick of it, an advocate of giving idealists brutishly short lives.
Images of that litigation were never forgotten: the mother testifying on video so as to be shielded from public outrage. Killing a newborn is one thing. Cooking it to death invites bile to rise in the back of our throats. How does an incident like that even happen? Lane's alleged attack is as equally visceral and unfathomable and if found guilty she should be executed, on either a material or metaphysical basis. If we're just a smart bit of meat, the meat doesn't need that mitochondrial DNA perpetuating itself, and if humans indeed have souls, Lane fed hers into a psychosis which is better off dead. Even in the dark side of Mario Puzo's world, the author's intimations about why Vito kills an infant stays within tolerable limits, rather than mere sensational butchery. How poor Michelle Wilkins ever truly recovers from this is beyond anyone's capacity to actualize, even within a world view poisoned by lifelong medical, regulatory regimentation. It would be rather a highbrow solace if NBC allows Wozniak to emerge victorious, the cult hero with blood on his hands, still a Brooklyn capo.
A dowager's bitterness is also in part about her own naivete, so invested in intellectual authority, in literary journal submissions, in independent living paradigms, as a way of life. I was a hot property as a student, and beyond, and now I'm sick of it, an advocate of giving idealists brutishly short lives.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Sobering Pressures
Whatever one feels about John Ridley and his second season, I do not remember high school being as serious for teenagers as we all once were. In my era, drugs were a disruptive issue, but we never had lock downs and aggravated sexual assaults on the grapevine, and this was at the beginning of the Carter Administration, 78-79. In my district, somewhat affluent, like Leyland, bearing in mind this is Pennsylvania we're talking about, as opposed to Indianapolis, diversity was moot. Spastic was the diversity, not African Americans. I did not slam into class conflict and the cultural wars over black and white until the uproar at Widener over Huckleberry Finn and how to teach it. I pitied my academic advisor, Michael Clark, whose memory is one of the few instances of hallowed ground for me, I pitied Mark Twain, his legacy, and his towering achievement being obliterated over a pejorative which in the 19th century was part and parcel of linguistic currency, good and bad. It's a word, and when I use it I don't use it to "take away its power," as some angry black comics do, ones we no longer hear from-- I'll look it up later-- regardless of my context. When John and I had a heated debate at the tables of Cafe Walnut last summer and I said it in anger that was an accident, but I was hurting because a Market Street rent a cop denigrated me for going into my ATM, and I'm lucky I did not end up drawing the police on a holiday; perhaps it is a symptom of degeneration (I looked it up because that was one diagnosis that slipped by in the field) and the actor journalist was right. Taylor's mother had a serious illness, and we would have never seen anything like Pollari's assault on network in my youth. It was brave of ABC, maybe too brave, how easy it is to die like that. I took it, because that was what life was like for my deceased brother and his clique, but I'm amazed ABC allowed us all this brave linguistic honesty, the truth of our volatile dysfunction.
Now I need digestion time.
Now I need digestion time.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Dominic Purcell and Clive Owens Look like matching Duds
Now Gustave is spastic's idea of an unbeatable frontrunner, and I may vote next November simply for the sake of using him as a write in, a crocodile too smart to fall for human entrapment and too tough to die. Sounds like a good December marriage proposal too, now that I'm thinking about it, too tired for anything more than facetious flippancy in the moment. All things being relevant, I am on my way to sunken mattress from Sears and Riverside daybed Number One all the way back to 1994. Dear old dad dumped me from Diamond Park-- Trudy Richardson was probably in the public school system learning her exemplary evasive skills-- yes, a back-handed cut, and if black mothers want my advice please lose your taste for this German derivative. Seriously. "Trudy" denotes an airhead silliness in a girl-- and my mother had to come rescue me the next day. I slept in an armchair and couldn't go to work, if this gives my current viewers any indication why I'm so obsessive about moving on.
I intend to be here at Joe's Coffee for the WiFi access early Friday, with my normal apologetic stance for being a hindrance. I don't know how long my upgrades will take and I may use my pouty invalid expression to get special treatment. I will bring hard copy reading, maybe real paper and real pen, weighing how much of my money I'm going to hand over for bribery purposes. I'll tweet to confirm, rather conflicted as to whether I should bifurcate and trade my older kindle in and just keep the Paperwhite (sigh). Ereaders are now essential brain extensions and I cannot live without them. The two I have cost me about five hundred for the pair. Hard to imagine now.
I cannot give up. I will rematriculate. Fuck building managers, and with that trumpet, that is all to which my pretension aspires to this evening.
I intend to be here at Joe's Coffee for the WiFi access early Friday, with my normal apologetic stance for being a hindrance. I don't know how long my upgrades will take and I may use my pouty invalid expression to get special treatment. I will bring hard copy reading, maybe real paper and real pen, weighing how much of my money I'm going to hand over for bribery purposes. I'll tweet to confirm, rather conflicted as to whether I should bifurcate and trade my older kindle in and just keep the Paperwhite (sigh). Ereaders are now essential brain extensions and I cannot live without them. The two I have cost me about five hundred for the pair. Hard to imagine now.
I cannot give up. I will rematriculate. Fuck building managers, and with that trumpet, that is all to which my pretension aspires to this evening.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Who, me?
I of course post better when I dig up my web sites and take my time in Word, which I still hate but cannot afford the upgrade to Corel, but my aunt just yelled at me that I'm spoiled and I'm going to wind up in the street for upbraiding federal housing contracts with hypocritical corporations which shield both of my building owners, Diamond Park and Riverside. So I wind up in the street, fully cognizant of the fact that social media will not rush to my rescue. I get that, and also get that the street just leaves me for what I am, vulnerable carrion that EMS will scrape up off the surface of something somewhere, eventually, and I get it too that my father has lost everything after nearly sixty decades of busting his hump.
He was a good provider and doesn't deserve the tragedy of his life, anymore than I do mine for being an obstinate fool, but for however long my access to a platform lasts, I am a victim of black corruption, shielded by housing authority statutory requirements. Some weeks ago, my physiology under strain, I roared at Trudy on my cell that I wanted to know what her employer was going to do to mitigate my trauma, and rushed the office, and got a dose of black team tag:
"There is no Diamond Park." What exactly do these women take me for?
They later dropped the gag, but just because hip hoppers are now policing my tweets, this doesn't mean I do not have legitimate grievances with a rental agent which operates withing a classification which by design creates an expendable class (section 202 age requirements) under which I've lived my entire adult life. In 07, whether to strike back at ADAPT activists or not, PHA allowed those rental agents under 202 subsidy to stop accepting ADA tenants. Glorious. If I still had my salary I'd have shaken my booty and gave Ms. Horne the finger on my way out the door. But as a pauper skimming the surface on just over 7k a year, my placement options are even more restricted. I talked to the receptionist at Toomey's Philadelphia office politely this afternoon; his campaign headquarters is elsewhere.
Liberals would say I'm screwing myself by aligning my anger with the Senator's reactionary boundary lines. I doubt it, because liberalism, hiding under piss poor interfaith excuses, seemingly cannot accept accountability. I am a victim of three inappropriate sexual incidents, if you would like to call it that, one toxic environment out of a disability center, an aggravated assault, institutional abuse, and then state assessing agents, twice after a previous manager banned me from the dining service. In exactly what sense is the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania operating to serve my best interests as a disabled woman over 50?
I have four options, as I see it,
1. Stay here in the merry land of African American minstrels and be grateful for a paraprofessional bed bath as an eventuality while I lie to myself about re-matriculation;
2. Hasten my demise in a shelter
3. Go insane at Inglis House
4. Enact my suicide plan
Fifth option suggestions people? Find an Ariel Castro I can live with, perhaps?
He was a good provider and doesn't deserve the tragedy of his life, anymore than I do mine for being an obstinate fool, but for however long my access to a platform lasts, I am a victim of black corruption, shielded by housing authority statutory requirements. Some weeks ago, my physiology under strain, I roared at Trudy on my cell that I wanted to know what her employer was going to do to mitigate my trauma, and rushed the office, and got a dose of black team tag:
"There is no Diamond Park." What exactly do these women take me for?
They later dropped the gag, but just because hip hoppers are now policing my tweets, this doesn't mean I do not have legitimate grievances with a rental agent which operates withing a classification which by design creates an expendable class (section 202 age requirements) under which I've lived my entire adult life. In 07, whether to strike back at ADAPT activists or not, PHA allowed those rental agents under 202 subsidy to stop accepting ADA tenants. Glorious. If I still had my salary I'd have shaken my booty and gave Ms. Horne the finger on my way out the door. But as a pauper skimming the surface on just over 7k a year, my placement options are even more restricted. I talked to the receptionist at Toomey's Philadelphia office politely this afternoon; his campaign headquarters is elsewhere.
Liberals would say I'm screwing myself by aligning my anger with the Senator's reactionary boundary lines. I doubt it, because liberalism, hiding under piss poor interfaith excuses, seemingly cannot accept accountability. I am a victim of three inappropriate sexual incidents, if you would like to call it that, one toxic environment out of a disability center, an aggravated assault, institutional abuse, and then state assessing agents, twice after a previous manager banned me from the dining service. In exactly what sense is the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania operating to serve my best interests as a disabled woman over 50?
I have four options, as I see it,
1. Stay here in the merry land of African American minstrels and be grateful for a paraprofessional bed bath as an eventuality while I lie to myself about re-matriculation;
2. Hasten my demise in a shelter
3. Go insane at Inglis House
4. Enact my suicide plan
Fifth option suggestions people? Find an Ariel Castro I can live with, perhaps?
The Polanski Triad
"The reality of her terror is made palpable by our shared experience. The audience is given insight into her deteriorating world and cannot help but identify with her."--Julia Ain-Krupa, Roman Polanski: A Life in Exile, p.41
There are very few films which actually deal with tenement predicaments as a central motif, and Polanski only succeeded at it, in his attempts, by making his movies into a horror trilogy. When I am well enough, if the dowager has any true resurgence left, nursing a head cold in these leonine winds, a head cold apparently days in the making, I'll buy The Tenant, if necessary, and then bread my meats in a shake-n-bake. I saw the film many times, and know that, as the last in his series, it was about a man desperately attempting to warn himself about losing who he thought he was, after skirting the edges of where he shouldn't have ventured, but I can't remember the entire narrative, just the nail polish scene, the body cast (and don't we know a thing or two about skin yellowing after a year in plaster paris) and Shelley Winters behaving like a fatalistic concierge, which leads us to the issue of gentrification and a basic liberal anger.
Sure, I have the rage of many a disabled activist; I wrote as much in earlier posts, but an overweening level of classification is as evil as too much austerity on the other end of the spectrum, which is why Congress needs to revisit public housing. Like many other Americans, once I was screwed over by former supervisors and a paradigm into which I was indoctrinated with contradictory platitudes, I faced the same problems as the rest of you who lose jobs: harassment by debt collectors, particularly after default, the breakdown of my medical equipment, and months, literally months, of what felt like hostile captivity. Between 99 and 08 my life was almost a living hell, excepting my wedding plans, and now, eight years later, how in god's name am I supposed to find the strength of will to remain competitive, returning to substantial gainful activity? I can't ignore it. Federal law is punitive, regardless of my age and symptoms, and Treasury will, eventually, garnish what little I subsist on. This is why my fury is enough to dissuade Councilmen, even those designated as "special needs," because we do end up feeling like Catherine in Repulsion, protecting our body from scavengers of our innocence, or Mia and Roman overwhelmed by an entrapment conspiracy. We may not have the solution to the problem of stacking ourselves up on top of one another, a plate of pancakes, but it is a living hell when we're shackled to confinement against our will. It did not cost Presbyterian Homes anything to allow me to change my mind, leaving the unit in Diamond Park, right off Temple University's campus, for Riverside's internecine back bite, but it cost me; a career, an extension of a hostile environment, my confidence, self esteem. Any public housing lawyer would say how lucky that is. Yep.
There are very few films which actually deal with tenement predicaments as a central motif, and Polanski only succeeded at it, in his attempts, by making his movies into a horror trilogy. When I am well enough, if the dowager has any true resurgence left, nursing a head cold in these leonine winds, a head cold apparently days in the making, I'll buy The Tenant, if necessary, and then bread my meats in a shake-n-bake. I saw the film many times, and know that, as the last in his series, it was about a man desperately attempting to warn himself about losing who he thought he was, after skirting the edges of where he shouldn't have ventured, but I can't remember the entire narrative, just the nail polish scene, the body cast (and don't we know a thing or two about skin yellowing after a year in plaster paris) and Shelley Winters behaving like a fatalistic concierge, which leads us to the issue of gentrification and a basic liberal anger.
Sure, I have the rage of many a disabled activist; I wrote as much in earlier posts, but an overweening level of classification is as evil as too much austerity on the other end of the spectrum, which is why Congress needs to revisit public housing. Like many other Americans, once I was screwed over by former supervisors and a paradigm into which I was indoctrinated with contradictory platitudes, I faced the same problems as the rest of you who lose jobs: harassment by debt collectors, particularly after default, the breakdown of my medical equipment, and months, literally months, of what felt like hostile captivity. Between 99 and 08 my life was almost a living hell, excepting my wedding plans, and now, eight years later, how in god's name am I supposed to find the strength of will to remain competitive, returning to substantial gainful activity? I can't ignore it. Federal law is punitive, regardless of my age and symptoms, and Treasury will, eventually, garnish what little I subsist on. This is why my fury is enough to dissuade Councilmen, even those designated as "special needs," because we do end up feeling like Catherine in Repulsion, protecting our body from scavengers of our innocence, or Mia and Roman overwhelmed by an entrapment conspiracy. We may not have the solution to the problem of stacking ourselves up on top of one another, a plate of pancakes, but it is a living hell when we're shackled to confinement against our will. It did not cost Presbyterian Homes anything to allow me to change my mind, leaving the unit in Diamond Park, right off Temple University's campus, for Riverside's internecine back bite, but it cost me; a career, an extension of a hostile environment, my confidence, self esteem. Any public housing lawyer would say how lucky that is. Yep.
Morning de clef
Within the annoying habit of tiring oneself out for absolutely no reason, brief observations may be made: We all know Rosemary's Baby is a scathing send up of liberal pretensions, and we all know it has the distinct signature of an auteur who like Mr. Allen after him, got caught up in a grandiose self-importance. (I struggle with the rape and the artistic genius and we'll say fuck it and leave Jacob wrestling the angel on the precipice in perpetuity.) Beyond that, we may get frustrated with the finesse of the satire and finding a language for it. Richard Fleischer offers a sharp contrast to Polanski's invidious mission creep with See No Evil (71), a fast paced thriller that dispenses with analogy-- if Polanski's Satanism is a representative stand in for urban stratification-- and has a dialectical argument which dispenses with the dynamic allure of masochism. Fleischer adamantly keeps his feet on the ground. Mia is still the damsel, but merely an unwitting one, as opposed to Polanski's inimical manipulation of a heroine who has few tools with which to alter her destiny as a modern Pandora.
We'll hold this conceit for a significant length.
We'll hold this conceit for a significant length.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Sudden Slavic Disappearance
The DeVito Douglas partnership is for the most part so orchestrated that it conventionalizes itself, but both DeVito and the ancient crones which comprise the make up of the Southern European Aunts Network know what they're talking about when the masquerade of gas feels like a nose dive in a healthy systolic rate. A moment's peace, deflation, and then all the sudden savage invective decibels against minority building managers gently recoils into its daily knot in the stomach.
What is it exactly that spastic wants in terms of her housing and isn't getting? Every large storied building has tenant issues, private or under housing authority contract. Spastic wants a ground level writing studio where she can be left alone as much as humanely possible, ten thousand leagues away from Presbyterian hypocrisy, which doesn't mean Catholic Social Services is off the hook. Blunt and charming nuns ask me if I have my nursing home facility lined up, which is why I am always screaming with Michael C. Hall's hysteria, even if I'm not the gay mortician, in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps faux fighting President Clinton is a serenade toward an epitaph. His wife is twenty years plus my senior on blood thinning medication with a deer in the headlights astonished look at the country's anger. Would she really be a competent commander in chief? Mozzarella salad in wait, in the genius of Italian gastronomic comfort.
To my Muscovites: I miss being able to make fun of Russian cultural inadequacy. Do come back soon.
What is it exactly that spastic wants in terms of her housing and isn't getting? Every large storied building has tenant issues, private or under housing authority contract. Spastic wants a ground level writing studio where she can be left alone as much as humanely possible, ten thousand leagues away from Presbyterian hypocrisy, which doesn't mean Catholic Social Services is off the hook. Blunt and charming nuns ask me if I have my nursing home facility lined up, which is why I am always screaming with Michael C. Hall's hysteria, even if I'm not the gay mortician, in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps faux fighting President Clinton is a serenade toward an epitaph. His wife is twenty years plus my senior on blood thinning medication with a deer in the headlights astonished look at the country's anger. Would she really be a competent commander in chief? Mozzarella salad in wait, in the genius of Italian gastronomic comfort.
To my Muscovites: I miss being able to make fun of Russian cultural inadequacy. Do come back soon.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Vow to Nominate
For those whom might have forgotten that Americans are governed by constitutional separation of powers, it is Barack Obama's duty to nominate a jurist for the Supreme Court. France 24's feed almost intimates that the 44th president thinks the opposition might yank this constitutional power out from under him. Spastic assumed death in chambers might overtake Ginsberg, or Thomas, not Scalia, a man whom spastic had intended to quote on originalism for the benefit of conservatives who like Cruz: in the parlance of the document "says what it says," Cruz'es nomination as the GOP candidate-- not that spastic assumes the senator prevails on the run-- will cause a constitutional crisis, one not meant to be debated by a SCOTUS in even numbers, as parents with disabled children loosen their dandruff on the supposition that I need a new blog title.
Not really. Entertainment is a big tent, and there is a play in circulation about Antonin arguing with one of his occasionally hired liberal clerks. Have to go boil potatoes and get some hot coffee into me. I have been feeling a little better, ashamedly living off my father, which isn't sustainable. Got a smoothie into me, which reset my pulmonary decline back to normal, unless metastasis has emerged, being of an age where it could. Even adversaries concede Antonin was colorful. Liberals who felt he should resign for litigating policy now have what they wanted, the old fashioned way. My condolences, showered generously.
Not really. Entertainment is a big tent, and there is a play in circulation about Antonin arguing with one of his occasionally hired liberal clerks. Have to go boil potatoes and get some hot coffee into me. I have been feeling a little better, ashamedly living off my father, which isn't sustainable. Got a smoothie into me, which reset my pulmonary decline back to normal, unless metastasis has emerged, being of an age where it could. Even adversaries concede Antonin was colorful. Liberals who felt he should resign for litigating policy now have what they wanted, the old fashioned way. My condolences, showered generously.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Dense in interesting ways
"Hate can be exciting. Haven't you noticed?--George Macready
When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.
Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.
Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.
Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh?
When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.
Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.
Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.
Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh?
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Coronation?
Brief note to Bill: Shut the fuck up and let your wife fight her own battles with the Senator from Vermont. You do not have the privilege of a third leg to stand on with your historical philandering from the governorship of Arkansas to the presidency, not when it comes to throwing charges of "sexism" around. Your daughter, too, Mr. President, had to live with the after effects of the public embarrassment you caused the country: your 'friendship" with Flowers, the Paula Jones case. I studied the judge's ruling there as it pertained to the toxic environment I sustained locally at Philadelphia's independent living center, and realized how despairingly high the bar has to be to receive compensation for toxic humiliation inflicted on a female psyche. You displayed an erection to Ms. Jones to be serviced.
Not something easily forgotten but not legally actionable. You want to know what was happening to me while you were dealing with Bush'es transition team? The day after my former co-worker Debra Russell gave the housing counselor position to the Secretary of the Board's lover, in direct violation of the Commonwealth's guidelines, Louis, my former neighbor from Folsom, overheard my former supervisor lash out at me over the phone: I'm sorry sweetheart! She accused me of wanting to sleep with her because she emailed me graphic responses about her orgasms and I had a breakdown over it. Anyway, Louis picked up the ball, as if we were still doing obscene phone calls from school. Everyone who knew me started calling me sweetheart, sniggering, and I blamed myself and tried to cut my throat, but I didn't. And this is the same center my building manager tried to force me to go back to when she was hired in 2007, Mr. President, despite the fact that the same corporation which employs her was negligent in my aggravated assault in 1993.
I believed in you then, did the things people are supposed to do to recover, tried to be a principled advocate, and served on your SSA committee, though I didn't have time to schedule a White House tour. You do not know the first thing about sexism Bill. You're a callow hillbilly who believes your privileges entitle you to super status, while my family begs me to stay where I am with Riverside Presby because it is "safe". It is killing me to do so. My heart is going into congestive failure, and I have such animosity toward your legacy I'm almost willing to fight for Bernie to give the GOP nominee a better chance. This is why I queried Politico about doing an article on your problematic tenure as First Husband: You'd really return to running the country through the back door, while bookies make odds if you're healthy enough for another two or three ejaculations in the wrong direction. I'm not going to make it through your third term while I argue with Philadelphia's Human Relations Commission on extraordinary circumstances and statue limits: I remember your elated hand slapping after the Jones verdict. I remember Lorena Bobbitt, and my line of vision is waist level. Convenient, wouldn't you say?
Not something easily forgotten but not legally actionable. You want to know what was happening to me while you were dealing with Bush'es transition team? The day after my former co-worker Debra Russell gave the housing counselor position to the Secretary of the Board's lover, in direct violation of the Commonwealth's guidelines, Louis, my former neighbor from Folsom, overheard my former supervisor lash out at me over the phone: I'm sorry sweetheart! She accused me of wanting to sleep with her because she emailed me graphic responses about her orgasms and I had a breakdown over it. Anyway, Louis picked up the ball, as if we were still doing obscene phone calls from school. Everyone who knew me started calling me sweetheart, sniggering, and I blamed myself and tried to cut my throat, but I didn't. And this is the same center my building manager tried to force me to go back to when she was hired in 2007, Mr. President, despite the fact that the same corporation which employs her was negligent in my aggravated assault in 1993.
I believed in you then, did the things people are supposed to do to recover, tried to be a principled advocate, and served on your SSA committee, though I didn't have time to schedule a White House tour. You do not know the first thing about sexism Bill. You're a callow hillbilly who believes your privileges entitle you to super status, while my family begs me to stay where I am with Riverside Presby because it is "safe". It is killing me to do so. My heart is going into congestive failure, and I have such animosity toward your legacy I'm almost willing to fight for Bernie to give the GOP nominee a better chance. This is why I queried Politico about doing an article on your problematic tenure as First Husband: You'd really return to running the country through the back door, while bookies make odds if you're healthy enough for another two or three ejaculations in the wrong direction. I'm not going to make it through your third term while I argue with Philadelphia's Human Relations Commission on extraordinary circumstances and statue limits: I remember your elated hand slapping after the Jones verdict. I remember Lorena Bobbitt, and my line of vision is waist level. Convenient, wouldn't you say?
Esoteric Degeneration
"All of us at one time or another had our lives fall apart."-- Dina Strada
And for spastic to argue tenaciously with the pressures of women issues, not all of us spend our lives under institutional regimentation only to realize there is no way out from under its thumb, not even in that blanketing things left unsaid in our untrammeled collegiate system. We all get sick from time to time, and if we don't die from esoteric degeneration (how is this link for indecipherable jargon?) then either our hearts give way to plaque or our organs consume themselves with cancer, but in what sense of the word do our choices represent our freedom?
Let's take the conventional Robert Frost motif on roads not taken: Joanne heeds Professor Jerry and stays home in Ridley Park. Speculation about graduate work aside, she winds up as a part time librarian or special ed instructor, never sets eyes on the former Linda C Richman, notoriously toxic executive, and the grandson of the nearly retarded monosyllabic Mrs Phillips assaults someone else. Okay, my blood brother still wastes away like a blasted ear of corn, my mother still drops dead, perhaps in front of me, my father still loses everything because the IRS sees him through the lens of a mafia version of Enron (yes, another unclear allusion but it involves taxes and I have no fucking idea why federal agents set off on my father like a wolf pack), so he still winds up back in the hood when we were once almost near a Harvard family level of affluence, and maybe I just snuff out like vanilla, forced into Inglis House without having ever been privy to its horrific impact.
I would have never gone screaming in prose to a mutedly gay lawyer about my toxic panic vis a vis Linda's reign at an ineffectual intake center coupled with an abusive attendant care paradigm, and neither he nor any other elected official can do a fucking thing for me while I sit here evaluating how my 53 year old intestines and increasingly pronounced hearing loss and loss of muscle mass will allow me to navigate back into substantial gainful activity. Uh huh.
Brian, the man, is having a town hall meeting tonight, as he's so carefully drummed into me with two emails and a robo call beneath the bubble of punishment I'm taking in this Jazzy Quantum. I don't go then I don't go. The budget allocation under state Republican austerity doesn't affect me directly either way; the Philadelphia public school system is a cesspool regardless of who does what with it, and Harney County's answer to what remains of American individualism reads more like a travesty of Pilgrim's Progress than a spirited hoorah for the independent underdog. If I do go, even though I'm not unionized and PNI will ignore me as readily as any other established outlet, then maybe I get a story, red meat in pansy land, something.
One of the residents of Riverside with terminal cancer, a bigot named Dominic, disparaged me in a brief give and take: "You bring people down." That maybe true, from the viewpoint of an animal caged in captivity, age 5 and onward.
And for spastic to argue tenaciously with the pressures of women issues, not all of us spend our lives under institutional regimentation only to realize there is no way out from under its thumb, not even in that blanketing things left unsaid in our untrammeled collegiate system. We all get sick from time to time, and if we don't die from esoteric degeneration (how is this link for indecipherable jargon?) then either our hearts give way to plaque or our organs consume themselves with cancer, but in what sense of the word do our choices represent our freedom?
Let's take the conventional Robert Frost motif on roads not taken: Joanne heeds Professor Jerry and stays home in Ridley Park. Speculation about graduate work aside, she winds up as a part time librarian or special ed instructor, never sets eyes on the former Linda C Richman, notoriously toxic executive, and the grandson of the nearly retarded monosyllabic Mrs Phillips assaults someone else. Okay, my blood brother still wastes away like a blasted ear of corn, my mother still drops dead, perhaps in front of me, my father still loses everything because the IRS sees him through the lens of a mafia version of Enron (yes, another unclear allusion but it involves taxes and I have no fucking idea why federal agents set off on my father like a wolf pack), so he still winds up back in the hood when we were once almost near a Harvard family level of affluence, and maybe I just snuff out like vanilla, forced into Inglis House without having ever been privy to its horrific impact.
I would have never gone screaming in prose to a mutedly gay lawyer about my toxic panic vis a vis Linda's reign at an ineffectual intake center coupled with an abusive attendant care paradigm, and neither he nor any other elected official can do a fucking thing for me while I sit here evaluating how my 53 year old intestines and increasingly pronounced hearing loss and loss of muscle mass will allow me to navigate back into substantial gainful activity. Uh huh.
Brian, the man, is having a town hall meeting tonight, as he's so carefully drummed into me with two emails and a robo call beneath the bubble of punishment I'm taking in this Jazzy Quantum. I don't go then I don't go. The budget allocation under state Republican austerity doesn't affect me directly either way; the Philadelphia public school system is a cesspool regardless of who does what with it, and Harney County's answer to what remains of American individualism reads more like a travesty of Pilgrim's Progress than a spirited hoorah for the independent underdog. If I do go, even though I'm not unionized and PNI will ignore me as readily as any other established outlet, then maybe I get a story, red meat in pansy land, something.
One of the residents of Riverside with terminal cancer, a bigot named Dominic, disparaged me in a brief give and take: "You bring people down." That maybe true, from the viewpoint of an animal caged in captivity, age 5 and onward.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Like Stanwyck on Chamberlain
"Innocence must be proven, not proclaimed."-- Vincent Winterhalter
This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?
A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent.
As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.
This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?
A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent.
As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.
Monday, February 8, 2016
TNR, First Peel
"Although I did not share my father's aversion to ugliness--which often led us to associate with stupid people--I did feel vaguely uncomfortable in the presence of anyone completely devoid of physical charm. Their resignation to the fact that they were unattractive seemed to me somehow indecent." --Francoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse, p.8
Scorpion King 3, for a schlock multicultural saga, one which minimizes Eurocentricism to brute force which plods its way though Eastern mysticism, isn't bad for light-hearted distraction, though spastic lost track of the climatic battle with Talus (damn it to hell) because she was busy pruning twitter accounts-- something we'll return to momentarily-- and I wanted to raise an incident from the opening, when Ramusan utilizes elephants to defend his city.
Spastic has mixed feelings about elephants. Padre once rode one at the zoo with Nicky or Stephanie with his legs splayed across the beast, and my mother and I had a pissable laugh moment, even remembering it brings an immediate chuckle-- but when I say mixed feelings, I mean I mourn an ancient, highly intelligent, if inconvenient, herd animal which is apparently doomed, but also, rather powerful, threatening, and a target to be killed and handled with respect, simultaneously. The army of Talus, having breached the wall, spears one of Ramusan's beasts, with an implication of mortal wound, and it upset me, in a militant PETA guerrilla type of provocation, even though I knew it was a movie, and the elephants probably understood they were playing a game at the behest of the huge monkeys who took care of them.
I was trained to study this in film, our sentimentality at our own destructive capacity with other species. There is no hard and fast either or here. Apex predators evolved for a reason, but human conscience and bio-empathy, to use an E.O. Wilson phrase, is one of inherent contradiction between our need to prove time and again our mastery over environment, and our desire to see the majority of mammals as our children, despite consuming them to our taste or eradicating habitat. Environmentalists will invariably lose this battle, and I do not write it lightly. Were it up to me I'd be a male lion breaking the backs of hyenas for sport, in an unadulterated display of power, but since humans are paramount, I'd imagine within a hundred years of my death Africa will have lost its magnificent big game, unless we brutally curtail our own population. That is an exceedingly difficult task, even if we grant our own psychopaths unfettered license.
As to social media, I do not mean to be deliberately hurtful here, but I am increasingly paranoid about mothers with children, and blocked one of my long-standing followers accordingly due to it. I beat my own path, and while mothers are ferocious forces in their own right, I am writing for mature, hopefully literate audiences. High schoolers read at their own risk, and I write this with full realization that I'm rarely "hard core," but I do, euphemistically, tap the brass ring now and then. If I cave in and give myself an FB account, then I may indeed go haywire managing it all, being detritus needs clearing now and again. Mathayus could give Goodell a few pointers about putting two teams in contest that are equally matched in battle. The third and fourth quarters were deplorable. What else is new?
Scorpion King 3, for a schlock multicultural saga, one which minimizes Eurocentricism to brute force which plods its way though Eastern mysticism, isn't bad for light-hearted distraction, though spastic lost track of the climatic battle with Talus (damn it to hell) because she was busy pruning twitter accounts-- something we'll return to momentarily-- and I wanted to raise an incident from the opening, when Ramusan utilizes elephants to defend his city.
Spastic has mixed feelings about elephants. Padre once rode one at the zoo with Nicky or Stephanie with his legs splayed across the beast, and my mother and I had a pissable laugh moment, even remembering it brings an immediate chuckle-- but when I say mixed feelings, I mean I mourn an ancient, highly intelligent, if inconvenient, herd animal which is apparently doomed, but also, rather powerful, threatening, and a target to be killed and handled with respect, simultaneously. The army of Talus, having breached the wall, spears one of Ramusan's beasts, with an implication of mortal wound, and it upset me, in a militant PETA guerrilla type of provocation, even though I knew it was a movie, and the elephants probably understood they were playing a game at the behest of the huge monkeys who took care of them.
I was trained to study this in film, our sentimentality at our own destructive capacity with other species. There is no hard and fast either or here. Apex predators evolved for a reason, but human conscience and bio-empathy, to use an E.O. Wilson phrase, is one of inherent contradiction between our need to prove time and again our mastery over environment, and our desire to see the majority of mammals as our children, despite consuming them to our taste or eradicating habitat. Environmentalists will invariably lose this battle, and I do not write it lightly. Were it up to me I'd be a male lion breaking the backs of hyenas for sport, in an unadulterated display of power, but since humans are paramount, I'd imagine within a hundred years of my death Africa will have lost its magnificent big game, unless we brutally curtail our own population. That is an exceedingly difficult task, even if we grant our own psychopaths unfettered license.
As to social media, I do not mean to be deliberately hurtful here, but I am increasingly paranoid about mothers with children, and blocked one of my long-standing followers accordingly due to it. I beat my own path, and while mothers are ferocious forces in their own right, I am writing for mature, hopefully literate audiences. High schoolers read at their own risk, and I write this with full realization that I'm rarely "hard core," but I do, euphemistically, tap the brass ring now and then. If I cave in and give myself an FB account, then I may indeed go haywire managing it all, being detritus needs clearing now and again. Mathayus could give Goodell a few pointers about putting two teams in contest that are equally matched in battle. The third and fourth quarters were deplorable. What else is new?
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Jason Richwine isn't entirely in error
"Who wants to read about that?"-- Hugh Laurie's Whipples patient
Writers who post off topic with absolutely nothing to convey except to gloat about the agony of a reset recovery might relish the melodrama of being on Gilmore's firing squad, which was apparently comprised of volunteers. The made for television movie only obliquely references Mormonism as a unique cultural artifact, through the interchange of idiolect, given the understanding that Schiller had to make choices, and made some decent ones in the made for television genre, as I organically combat impaction through natural evacuation of wretched colon by combining popcorn cashews with salmon oil and a strong pot of espresso and miraculously did not have a cardiovascular event; as careful as I was to heed the gut after a half century of grandfather fruit picker genetics in my contorted frame, I am lucky I am not dead, though with much less suspense than with past incidents, as nothing caused a slip.
What liberals disdain about the right wing's flirtation with racial disparity, as per my wading into the same pool with gleeful chortle, is that projection is involved, with an assumption of monolithic ethnicity, which of course is never absolute, and I'd never argue that it is, but it is still nevertheless a basic truism that black African societies, native American societies, were static, as opposed to the rest. American Indians, for lack of a better term, never discovered the wheel, for instance, which was part and parcel of European Imperial success against them. Humans are a product of evolution as any other life form, and just as Homo sapiens outpaced their close relatives, they arguably will do the same to their own kind, regardless of Marxist success in slowing the gradual extinction of non-adaptation. There are plenty of stupid Caucasians. My ex-fiance is one of them, though he is a bad example, being half Puerto Rican. Mike Pera is another, Riverside's long term idiotic custodial employee who lies to the building subcontractors. I despise him as much as the rest of Presby's geriatric simpletons who earn their living on the hospice disposal of the underclass. In the same vein, there are plenty of working class Jewish individuals who aren't billionaires or nationally recognized dictators, like Bloomberg, but on the whole, certain groups lend themselves to paternalism, and it cannot last without breaking the back of civilization and its progress, which is why the microcephaly babies should be humanely put to sleep. They don't have the cognition which on balance has caused my hatred of well meaning ambulatory intent to restore the disabled to enriching lives as possible, but presuming some of these chronic children survive their parents, if the State has made such a deft invalid as spastic into a fanatic, what do you think it will do to them? Let them go, and I write that in all sincerity that it is the most compassionate thing for them.
As to the big game, if padre wants the Broncos, then spastic will offer Peyton Manning a set of crossed fingers.
Writers who post off topic with absolutely nothing to convey except to gloat about the agony of a reset recovery might relish the melodrama of being on Gilmore's firing squad, which was apparently comprised of volunteers. The made for television movie only obliquely references Mormonism as a unique cultural artifact, through the interchange of idiolect, given the understanding that Schiller had to make choices, and made some decent ones in the made for television genre, as I organically combat impaction through natural evacuation of wretched colon by combining popcorn cashews with salmon oil and a strong pot of espresso and miraculously did not have a cardiovascular event; as careful as I was to heed the gut after a half century of grandfather fruit picker genetics in my contorted frame, I am lucky I am not dead, though with much less suspense than with past incidents, as nothing caused a slip.
What liberals disdain about the right wing's flirtation with racial disparity, as per my wading into the same pool with gleeful chortle, is that projection is involved, with an assumption of monolithic ethnicity, which of course is never absolute, and I'd never argue that it is, but it is still nevertheless a basic truism that black African societies, native American societies, were static, as opposed to the rest. American Indians, for lack of a better term, never discovered the wheel, for instance, which was part and parcel of European Imperial success against them. Humans are a product of evolution as any other life form, and just as Homo sapiens outpaced their close relatives, they arguably will do the same to their own kind, regardless of Marxist success in slowing the gradual extinction of non-adaptation. There are plenty of stupid Caucasians. My ex-fiance is one of them, though he is a bad example, being half Puerto Rican. Mike Pera is another, Riverside's long term idiotic custodial employee who lies to the building subcontractors. I despise him as much as the rest of Presby's geriatric simpletons who earn their living on the hospice disposal of the underclass. In the same vein, there are plenty of working class Jewish individuals who aren't billionaires or nationally recognized dictators, like Bloomberg, but on the whole, certain groups lend themselves to paternalism, and it cannot last without breaking the back of civilization and its progress, which is why the microcephaly babies should be humanely put to sleep. They don't have the cognition which on balance has caused my hatred of well meaning ambulatory intent to restore the disabled to enriching lives as possible, but presuming some of these chronic children survive their parents, if the State has made such a deft invalid as spastic into a fanatic, what do you think it will do to them? Let them go, and I write that in all sincerity that it is the most compassionate thing for them.
As to the big game, if padre wants the Broncos, then spastic will offer Peyton Manning a set of crossed fingers.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Rectal Dilemma
"I am urban, educated--" Richard Dreyfuss, to his less well preserved romantic lead Marsha Mason, many odd years ago, with far less age spots
Head a trifle low. Spastic isn't feeling well, with unfamiliar stomach upset, perhaps the popcorn, a weakness for Trader Joe's white corn bacon flavor. Maybe I should eat plain bread for a day or two. I am fortunate not to have many problems with spasms and swallowing, but tend to allow cravings to guide me once in awhile, and wind up paying the piper. I asked the TJ crew if they use press agents, and then got a bit simpy. "Would you make a job for me?" What kind of self-pitying inquiry is that, mind? I know better and don't know why I utilized such a strategism, and you might imagine Toomey's people might find the dowager's attempted participation in his reelection a double-edged sword. We shall see. I have some ideas for his operatives, but I have to stabilize and get some laundry done before I pay his regional location a visit, and hold my brutal honesty about my character flaws in check.
Why rally around Pat Toomey? In part it is the fact his staff stroked my ego on first contact, by telephoning me. It reminded me that I'm not without the power of conviction despite how long it's been since I was salaried, not that they helped me with Presby, and only did the standard thing, sending me forms I've yet to send back. I hate HUD, however, and if I wanted national office I'd defund the Dept. of Housing and Urban Development in the blink of an eye. All HUD does is elevate cronyism to a bureaucratic art.
I stopped everything to pay attention to ABC's Madoff, and my subtext was how long Dreyfuss and his channeled mania has been in my face. Can anyone teleport Altoid's?
Head a trifle low. Spastic isn't feeling well, with unfamiliar stomach upset, perhaps the popcorn, a weakness for Trader Joe's white corn bacon flavor. Maybe I should eat plain bread for a day or two. I am fortunate not to have many problems with spasms and swallowing, but tend to allow cravings to guide me once in awhile, and wind up paying the piper. I asked the TJ crew if they use press agents, and then got a bit simpy. "Would you make a job for me?" What kind of self-pitying inquiry is that, mind? I know better and don't know why I utilized such a strategism, and you might imagine Toomey's people might find the dowager's attempted participation in his reelection a double-edged sword. We shall see. I have some ideas for his operatives, but I have to stabilize and get some laundry done before I pay his regional location a visit, and hold my brutal honesty about my character flaws in check.
Why rally around Pat Toomey? In part it is the fact his staff stroked my ego on first contact, by telephoning me. It reminded me that I'm not without the power of conviction despite how long it's been since I was salaried, not that they helped me with Presby, and only did the standard thing, sending me forms I've yet to send back. I hate HUD, however, and if I wanted national office I'd defund the Dept. of Housing and Urban Development in the blink of an eye. All HUD does is elevate cronyism to a bureaucratic art.
I stopped everything to pay attention to ABC's Madoff, and my subtext was how long Dreyfuss and his channeled mania has been in my face. Can anyone teleport Altoid's?
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Brokered Conversions
Michelle Cottle's passive aggressive sniping in her articles, whether for The Atlantic or The New Republic, in old media periodical cross breeding, isn't as evident in her online demeanor when subbing for the old PBS battle axe Mark Shields; spastic was more interested in putting her face to the work, merging body to voice, than the analysis predicating the rise and fall of national political ambitions as our two party system continually fragments in the gilded age of Silicon Valley. I admonished Michelle years ago for a blog post she wrote in incredulous censure of a woman in full dementia she overheard in a supermarket. It was a duplicitous method all writers use, capitalizing on ailments to churn content, but it wasn't the woman's fault if she was disoriented, and Michelle's snippy intonation culminated in assigning blame, and yet, if Ms. Cottle represents one end of the ambulatory spectrum, and spastic the other, just short of a contorted "demon" in the black underclass vernacular, then my own quest for fusion has failed. If I won't play by the rules, as reasonable suburbanites like my mother's sister might ask, then what do I expect? I expect the so called progressives to be honest: the media has a caste system too, and Gwen Ifill, Judy Woodruff, would be incapable of offering me social equality.
WPVI could film me in 1992 using the automatic doors of the Presidential Suites office complex, but it is a form of tokenism, much as my unintended comical interludes on Senator Rickles SSA committee, or some such fellow from Michigan, was tolerated with chagrin a few years later, in Washington DC. It was all I could do not to fuck the black congressional aide under the table, but I had wet dreams of my own about Clinton. The district just does something to the sex drive, regardless of ideology, or fringe element.
Perhaps I will never be a fully engaged journalist again. The field has its own bubble, constantly eschewing itself, constantly exploiting, inundating, telling it slant to engage. I understood its mechanisms from the days when my Ridley High article quoting the superintendent about driving school generated controversy in the senior class. There I was invisible, doing my job, fully matriculated, and I daresay happy, but it's a ruthless way to make a living, and has its elements of sociopathy, as the writers for Hannibal intimated in their first season's work. I signed up to do a meet up with writers in center city tonight, but again, I'm too tired, not there so much for group think. All I do is write. I thought the networking would smooth out my vulgar plumage. Maybe next time, again.
In applying my sentiments to the plight of flagship brands, I'd watch for Chris Hughes to hand off TNR to another legacy holder, even a possible merger with the former satellite voice of Boston. We'll see.
WPVI could film me in 1992 using the automatic doors of the Presidential Suites office complex, but it is a form of tokenism, much as my unintended comical interludes on Senator Rickles SSA committee, or some such fellow from Michigan, was tolerated with chagrin a few years later, in Washington DC. It was all I could do not to fuck the black congressional aide under the table, but I had wet dreams of my own about Clinton. The district just does something to the sex drive, regardless of ideology, or fringe element.
Perhaps I will never be a fully engaged journalist again. The field has its own bubble, constantly eschewing itself, constantly exploiting, inundating, telling it slant to engage. I understood its mechanisms from the days when my Ridley High article quoting the superintendent about driving school generated controversy in the senior class. There I was invisible, doing my job, fully matriculated, and I daresay happy, but it's a ruthless way to make a living, and has its elements of sociopathy, as the writers for Hannibal intimated in their first season's work. I signed up to do a meet up with writers in center city tonight, but again, I'm too tired, not there so much for group think. All I do is write. I thought the networking would smooth out my vulgar plumage. Maybe next time, again.
In applying my sentiments to the plight of flagship brands, I'd watch for Chris Hughes to hand off TNR to another legacy holder, even a possible merger with the former satellite voice of Boston. We'll see.
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