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.