Seepage Encroaches

"I've learned to fear the law," Sam Waterson

De Niro might have reasonably ended his acting career with City by the Sea, a film whose parallels are too contrived even if they are based on verifiable events. Why soften the story? Why not allow Joey LaMarca to be vicious and premeditated? Because Frances McDormand represents the tyranny of feminine insistence? William H Macy brought up something interesting on HuffPost Live, which will feature as many varieties of melanin triggered chocolate libertines with stiff dreadlock expressions as they will acutely ignore disabled voices-- but Macy brought up something which has interested me in my maturity as a writer, which is how those related to predators who engage in the unspeakable cope with it. Similar to my younger brother and I, only worse. Nicholas junior was your typical strung out ape who actually did have the police nearly kill him at gunpoint when they chased him into New Jersey, near Asbury Park, if its drug scene as depicted here still held true for the late Reagan era, but that my brother victimized his father by raping a tenant, and since my aggravated assault under this same rental corporation was similar this is why my antagonism with Richardson is so prevalent. I do hate Trudy Richardson because she is black, but I hate her more because she refuses to be accountable for Presby's negligence. The tenant my brother raped sued my father, and that legal action marked the beginning of the end for our family security. I never sued Presby, and I had a case, hence by any rational measure, I should not still be a tenant with them, even if they did spin off the Diamond Park units. I never sued my erstwhile independent living center either, and I had a case, more than a case, and yes, I am now willing to go to prison for something as abstract and intangible as never having truly received justice.

Whatever my deceased brother's pathology, it was run of the mill, however driven by insatiable brain chemistry. Franco makes it look chic, but in Little Nicky, a title only ever deployed by Adam Sandler's mediocre depreciation, the drug use was chillingly atavistic. Nicky ceased being human long before AIDS weakened him to the point that meningitis wasted him away, his mind mostly vanquished even years before; my mother walked him around like one of Michonne's collared rotters, though we're never quite informed why the walking dead she chained to herself didn't bite her into the zoophytic zone, but the answer isn't so perplexing. She's a lead. But what of the Tunisian attacker in Nice? Does he have a father, a mother, siblings? I am a capo at heart, and what he did, the Tunisian lorry driver, separates him, puts him apart, even from operatives like bin Laden; it was a low cowardice attack. If I strike my enemies, it might entail consequences, and yet be comprehensible. I trusted people like a second family. I let a huge senior rental corporation "off," and they humiliate me in a gift which keeps giving, re: Chris's ogling, but the Tunisian's actions were beyond any form of strategic comprehension; if we presume his family has a conscience, the story of how they live with it and cope certainly seems the new intrigue at hand.

Wheelchair cushion rinsed, about to be put back together, my true challenge not to fear another slip off. But I have to return to using it, as the base of the Jazzy is too hard. Shins and thighs suffer alike, and I'm going to trot around, attempting to sell some bits this week, during the convention, raising a little cash on pity, perhaps. If Erdogan's purges are indicative of what civil unrest might look like under a Trump administration, the worries of the left are too ominous. Entertainment may be increasingly politicized, but authoritarianism is increasingly Hollywood; by that metric, it isn't self sustaining.  See what happens when I lose a background research piece?