What a tale my thoughts could tell

"It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction. [sic]" Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent, location 4-11

Even in incidental moments, slicing the dwindling supply of potatoes to get you through a traumatic riddled weekend, not really paying attention to The Blacklist, the Gordon Lightfoot soundtrack craters you in, as Spader methodically wastes another traitor ally with humane ruthlessness right on the edge, his acting, between the emotional wounds and internalized flippancy, though the opening first season episodes offered a wry subversive bemusement, interest waned with all these mysterious processes swirling around the rouge agent character of Elizabeth, her brutalized psycho husband who apparently survives major cavity wounds. No one is that important, and the brutality offered by the directors doing the captures and the cuts is somewhat complicit, served up as fantastic, with Reddington something of a vengeful deity, except that some clever staff member remembered Lightfoot. This was all it took, for those of us who grew up on the emotive breadsticks of Croce's legacy, one which never envisioned Nigerian swaggering with thickened buttocks on the streets of Rome.

Dowager learned of this social ill through Don Matteo, and has no empathy. Let the Italian government ship their charming red light migrants to Jamaica. If these women want to leave Lagos, then they should stop complaining as to the consequences of marginalized, alien status. I tutored Nigerian students, and liked it better when they were restrained Franophiles absorbing western education for improvement. The difference between Matteo and the progressive video journalists soliciting the pity of privilege, is the mystery drama blames Roman lewdness, its sexual excitement over difference. Reporters on the ground liken them to untouchables, confined to their own foreign ethnicity, who cannot pay them well-- which will take us down memory lane to the fickle years of Usenet.

If I've mentioned JoettaB before, it was perhaps with scant detail. In 2016, coming to its close, I cannot flush out my interaction with her to a very great degree. She tried to help me over the CIL rupture, seemed to have a special interest in unstable males prone to violence, and posted one of my essays about smoking on her website, which I wasn't ready to abandon, then she vanished, and I assume this was due to harassment, or being threatened. "It was not I," the dowager proclaims, hands raised in an exposure of innocence. I bring this up because the general rule of thumb is, if it is posted, then it's published, and first printing rights have vanished, even if it doesn't quite feel that way. Nonetheless, I am including a variation of the piece in my collection, because it is a piece of my early post Matrix history, and the woman's disappearance troubles me, and since I take a hideously long time to gestate, "The Zippo Lighter" may lead me to a commission on addiction. Joetta met Kiefer Sutherland online, and she prided herself on that connection. It seemed a credible boast: He sent her tickets. Whatever her troubles were, I regret the space she left. Given what I face in real life, online nastiness hasn't really penetrated in that way; though it is a stretch, I think she was impaired through MS.

Happy Time with Fuller's Delores

The Freeman appears to be a vigorous, softer version of how The New Republic might have evolved, and yes, it was considerate of them to send me a hand written card for my donation. I declined the free book. I'm tired, but I like them and I especially like Tucker's writing. When not in spastic domestic guerrilla war mode, Jeffrey Tucker is a worthy contender to debate, and perhaps one day I will leap the bar. I cannot halt at one prestige byline, and Fee is sort of a squiggly intermediate. I do not agree with all the contributors (who does?) but Jeffrey deserves praise. Don't be shocked; he aims his barbs with wicked pleasure and actually has inspired me to keep pushing, despite my demons, not that it may be enough. I don't want you to think I weep over rejections. I used to keep handwritten tabs, had hot cycles. I'm simply aging, slower, and have more imperatives about legacy, but as Fee's Communications director, Trump has an untapped brain trust he might tap into--and the man knows his Catholic Latin.

Contact Imports and the fall of Usher

And I know that I'll never be free/
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.

I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.

Listening to Beyonce is not my currency

"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale  of Jackal

Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:

• genocide is politically generated
• resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
• war is an invention of modernity (right)

I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game.

I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades. 

Combat With Maggot Larva

A nozzle shot of bleach corrodes the exoskeleton of flies as effectively as insecticides, without posing harm to kitty-- the home and garden journalist I am never going to be.

The dowager was formerly able to locate Louis Dinapoli on LinkedIn, with his sharp wizened Italian face pinched like many faces beset with osteogenesis imperfecta and the romance of fracturing our skeletal engineering to get to the marrow, but not anymore. It may or may not mean he is dead, my former neighbor, colleague, classmate. He handled brittle bone disease by always pissing me off talking dirty over the phone. Louis and the dowager attended the same segregated grade school, closed long ago, and meeting him again at Liberty in the nineties was at first a surprise side benefit, but fatal confidence misplaced in Linda took care of that. I did not want to sleep with Louis. I broke his nose playing Stratego in his living room, and remorse only takes you so far when no conscious malevolence is involved in the mishap, but Louie haunted me a long time, and I started dreaming about his cast binding breaks, and the Jewish princess may have claimed she was too busy to read my conversations (sometimes overanxious due to economic desperation, which, to go against me, helped no one), but enough seeped in that she made sure he would wind up making fun of me. In confidence, I told brass bitch he would have been a useful Safe Male, as once endearingly categorized by Cybill, whose diminished appearances in public are felt, when dowager pauses to compare the Willis rocket to Shepherd's gin fizz. Louie's deliberate willingness to ostracize me in public hurt like a mother, and this was on Linda, not me, regardless of what she told him. I wanted to approach Louis about occasionally doing the social scene au pair, and instead, once Linda and I fell out, I literally took death by a thousand cuts by my peers, then indifferent abuse at the hands of Liberty's coordinators and attendants, exceedingly difficult to stand up to when in a state of shock for as long as I was, institutional disparagement. Where else would my vitriol have sprouted roots?

Though I may not know where to find him now, you all know his face, impish, wicked, something like Nabil, grey toothed, barbed, vicious.

Dismal Chantments

"Do you think you're never going to die? Well. it's not all sweet music and if you want to see real trouble take a walk through this hospital and you'll sing a love song about warts."-- Mario Puzo, The Godfather, the near last page of Chapter 22 

The local facilitator for Philadelphia's LOTR chapter has a fixation with Adam Kokesh which I do not. I hastily introduced myself to him a year before Justin Jouvenal put his paragraphs together to explain an Alford plea to the readers of The Washington Post, and can add that the authorities in Virginia wasted their time. Kokesh is something of a secular missionary, and his idolizers left me with my normative apprehension in the face of a cult following. I am not that much purchased on libertarian righteousness, and deleted the auto mail announcing Adam's appearance at a community center. I would have been more interested in meeting Tony Stiles in person, but the Black Adder and I also have some friction. Part youth against age, part my diffidence with software developers and computing, part my bitterness with liberalism and general disaffection, so I am not sure I can negotiate a reconciliation between Adder and Mr. Stiles. Adder suspects my liberalism, while liberals want to institutionalize me again as the best thing for me. Can't win, and I threw the last of my savings at Rosenbach Museum knowing that, in no way shape or form returning for their open house later this afternoon, and if you wish to see disaffection as an indictment, it isn't quite that. Scholars treat the Rosenbach with back-handed wonderment, and I am familiar enough with the museum's procedures to grasp at this bewilderment fondly, but throwing my money at them did not get me neither the connections nor the rescue from my entombment, and before Adder and I familiarized ourselves with each other, my first meeting with Liberty On the Rocks was an outcry I've long since sheathed. On to the next bizarre solution, one merging the idiotic with despair..

Honda's Gojira is a historical artifact, and has a few better shots at making the stuntman in the beast appear menacing, but I'm not in the mood. If we put a radioactive Tyrannosaurus up for bidding as secretary general of the United Nations, I doubt the global economic engine would pause to blink. Medium, though I don't know the search politics involved, promoted Truculent Fish on its news feed, perhaps due to Adam's prominence, though I haven't a clue. Kokesh simply doesn't impress me. I get the sense Tony's smarter, though he may be wary of my grafting tendencies-- but I don't know that I consider my profile page an actual published format. I've never been solicited, through Blogger, Medium, or other portal, but I suppose my key Medium pieces can go in my online essays section.

Poster Child Left

I am counting on your support.-- every political email transmission in the country

Some of the international members of the disabled community have found my accounts through social media and attempted to offer support, but let me explain something: No matter how many documentaries on public television Hockenberry appears in, what is rarely discussed is the incalculable damage the disabled community does to itself. I cannot access legal assistance for my trauma in part because that very assistance is tied to Liberty Resources. Thomas Earle, the legally blind variation of the sissy caricature created by the studio system, had not applied to be the center's director when I was the pawn eliminated in the Queen's opening, but he was shocked when I met with him about it, and did he act in any capacity to help me heal from what was the duress of a criminally toxic social shaming? No. No one associated with independent living in Philadelphia has lifted a finger for me, and this is what prominent figures like Hockenberry never touch. The mechanics of his sexual performance? Those can be discussed, under the lid of the magic pill debate. He uses injections; this is common knowledge in the culture, and this is what the Limda Dezenski of 18 years ago would assert: I was asking questions, so she wasn't trying to hurt me by going off on her orgasms in her marital bed. She was trying to help me assert myself. I have already discussed this, but haven't really conveyed the humiliation I suffered under her subordinates. Louis DiNapoli. There is a name. He was an observer, and saw that Linda was betraying me that day at the picnic. Dozens of people watched Linda do her thing, at my expense, and Louis, who was the center's account controller, made things rather ugly, taunting me with epithets, which is why he saw the writing on the wall, and resigned. He beat the great recession. And with all that's been said, been done, where am I supposed to go? I have absolutely no resources to get myself away, for the sake of my health, none: I have to watch an incomplete transsexual unravel, dying on his criminal activities which hurt many other vulnerable players. Steve Gold? He's a patronizing Jewish pig who runs the disabled in action branch in one of the center's side offices, and stopped Presby from bleeding me dry for their dining service in 2005, which, since the building renovations in 07, have been nearly eliminated. Stick a prayer in the Temple Wall for Philadelphia Jewish lawyers. For those of you across the pond, or up north, in my favorite commonwealth, perhaps you have different systems, a reconciliation process, not here.
If I end up taking my life, it isn't because I want to play finger games with my former supervisor's vagina. Of late, I found my way back to my memories of the 24 year old who wanted to get it on, and she had no inclination for cherries. It is simply some experiences are too much to carry, after so much time. I need to vacate my landlord that badly, over the realization that true desegregation is impossible for certain classes, and cruelty from within is worse than any gamesmanship from celebrity moguls. It isn't that I don't appreciate your outreach, but if you really want to help me, I need representation, one skilled enough to get me admissions of liability, as well as a new place to live. Fixed doesn't shrink away from the debate, but it also doesn't go far enough. It is too difficult to accept that a life long sterile environment in senior living is the best I can do, the brunt of pecking order mockery.

If I am going to groom to go trolling for Pat Toomey this week, I have to make it an early morning, and now believe it was the Australian disabled man who blocked me. I warned him. He made me a job offer in message, probably felt badly about it, or his proposal didn't go through.

Grand Bargin

If I feel the need to revert back to form and toss some virulence around here and there in my death spiral, I'll make a gentleman's agreement not to tweet any frothing incivility and then wait to see if Google suspends me with assurances that "no content will be deleted". I've nothing particular in mind other than the knowledge I'm going down in flames. If a cop kills me accidentally, a "disabled lives matter" doesn't seem so satisfyingly chic as the other matters trending. 

Force of Absence

"I mean, you've got the first mainstream African American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice looking guy."-- Joe Biden's sterling liberal? honesty, circa 2007

With her tinnitus in full force, the weary dowager should be rolling back to her sunken coil mattress which may be viewed as a reminiscent freedom in a few weeks, but has strolled back in to contemplate cessation of following SVU regularly with so much of the original ensemble gutted. Peter Gallagher's scar tissue as Deputy Chief Dodd doesn't fill the spaces left by Florek, who seemingly convinced us of world weary NYC skepticism, and as much as can be said for Hargitay's longevity, doing the expected positive spin being quoted "It's like a new show," in reality the remnants of Wolf's formula are more like a funeral dirge; Benson cannot carry the series to it's twilight with the implied intimacy between her and the IAB barker  who was her long time nemesis with Meloni always  burly. Ice -T seems to have nothing to do with himself except to back run Ghost Whisperer, which is referenced for a reason: namely, I am not positive I have a favorite SVU episode. I do savor some of the more acerbic Law and Orders, and when in the mood agree with standard critical sentiment that CI is the best of them, but SVU does have tendencies to make sexual victimization overwhelming, only rarely hitting the right keynotes in relation to the reverberating impact of sexual exploitation. The Hewitt rape stalker episode is one of them, mystified as anyone as to what drug they put Jennifer on to get that raw desperate helplessness seeking any outlet elicited from her sparse range, since she failed in Criminal Minds, a formula serial as nearly despised as the actress. Criminal Minds seeps  a bit of a Chicago mindset to it which I never enjoyed and shall elucidate, if I'm able to keep my online account afloat, at a later date. L&O is more forgiven because it is more New York, or was, with Beltzer and Florek. You do not have to fill the dowager in on what particular womb Noah was ejected from. She doesn't fucking care, but it looms ahead that a freaking curtain call is in order. The show lost its force with Pino's entry after Cold Case. Actors have contracts and it's a business, but milking an urban concept crime drama to the last wrecking ball never made much sense. SVU has little capital on which to retire and return as a special we might eagerly relish from hospice.    

Three Hours to Prepare a Decent Meal

It's the omnipresent constable." -- a sardonic Patrick O'Neal against Peter Falk

Microsoft offered me free antivirus software so I'm installing it, or part of it, wincing at what I paid Norton every cycle, and annoyances like this dart through our thought processes even in very dark places. Given how much I've hammered out on this account, how much further can a poor dowager descend? This spastic is aware of the gravity of making things so much harder by rolling out on these monsters, but if she doesn't go, she will wind up with forcible first response removal at some point, police struggling to put the Jazzy in manual while my hypertension explodes, hitherto merely the roar of a Roman lion. I sent Tony Stiles a copy of the New Jersey law firm prohibiting me any further contact with Philadelphia's notorious independent living center, without explaining things to him, without even realizing he might as well have been a geeky kid brother, given the disc jockey images of him which popped up, but the New Jersey law firm tactic crumpled: I roared into Nancy Salandra's voicemail last week about how I was traumatized and wanted to return to Delaware County, and a more recently minted den mother named Patricia McIntyre dialed my number back in less than 60 seconds but she and I have yet to speak. So much for Roman felines.

I think Agatha Christie's prodigious output is an indication of deep seated unhappiness, aside from pecuniary concerns. I read her more when I was younger, not so much recently. Can't go back into it as readily; there was also a television film about her suicide attempt which limped despite the efforts of Hoffman. In my list of 500 projects I'm never going to finish, I've pondered a murder novel and I've done preliminary research, and I seem to jumpstart myself by starting anew when I'm struggling with preposterous theories which I can see but others may not, as in Walter Hill is a political animal, The Driver is a political film without saying a word about the calamity lurch from Nixon to Ford losing to Carter. I am preparing this for a popular scholastic journal which once upon a time paid well, and I have to get there. Meanwhile, in short order, access to things taken for granted will become my latest logistical issue. 

Should I dare to try my hand at a detective tale, and I do not know that I can succeed, I'd aim not so much for Shakespeare's flirtation with graphic brutality as for the traumatic, and I'd push, to the breaking point, right on the edge between immolation and art. Of course, I can wait, and drag this, and let Presby threaten me more, despite half the shit I have on them, but I'm tired, hate them, and hate my familial indifference. I've hated Riverside since my mother, still living, set me up here, and there have been meanders, but if I ran into Terri Way today I'd throttle her for my passive tolerance of letting her snow me, and in very small ways preferred Diamond Park. Christie, however, did herself push the traumatic when Poirot, and this actor doesn't quite capture my image of Christie's Belgian-- [fuck Miss Marple]-- used his drug tolerance to snare his greatest nemesis. She gave Poirot a denouement surpassing what Doyle gave Holmes.

Bleached Bone to the Left

something in the wind that knows my name-- karen carpenter

I do not want my readers to infer I had an adversarial relationship with Terri Way during her three year employment with Presby. I didn't. We weren't exactly friends, but friendly, in contrast to relations with Trudy Richardson, who trills like a capon with a broken neck, frantically running around the chicken coup, cunning, but vapid, nonetheless morally despicable. Terri was more astute, more adept, and while I am not going to say she was traumatized by the fact that I was attacked by the grandson of a monosyllabic woman of Martin Luther King's era, she was impacted, and transferred out of Diamond Park in 1993, due to how bad it was. Both of us working, I treated her to a beer off City Line while we were both on the clock, regretted it, leaning toward the florid, even back then. I saw her on television for a Blue Cross Blue Shield commercial with Dick Vermeil, subsequent to her departure. That was that, but I let the girl hoodwink me. I know adjudicating Presby for negligence after I was assaulted, while not a mental health panacea, would have given me justice . Tenants of rapes sue their rental agents in civil courts and usually get awarded settlements. What have I gotten? Blatant and hostile discrimination, attacked relentlessly since Trudy was hired, and ableism wonders why it fears my livid bulimic anger, however much caught in a time capsule, like Ryan O'Neal.

O'Neal hasn't responded to my inquiries about The Driver. No reason why he should, and he may not have even seen them. I also promised to go through proper channels, and had best get to his publicist before the embittered actor up and croaks, but if he knew where my analysis of his work with Walter Hill was going, he'd probably be perplexed. Hill was simply positing western values in the burgeoning analogue age of the Me decade, and if references I've read hold, O'Neal wasn't the first casting choice, and yet, this enigmatic fable, distributed in the dawn of Jimmy Carter's measly leadership, is a rebuke to boomers, just as Bryan Fuller rebukes the passive indifference of Muth's generation. Dead Like Me, though it is the most intriguing free broadcast available to me, has its own time capsule quality, endearing, but flawed. Aside from its latter day production problems, one of the reasons Showtime may have cancelled it was its occasional weightiness on modern alienation. It takes a certain amount of bravado, which Mandy Patinkin has in his scene boiling penne, to invite your superior to dinner, and have the gesture all but vanish in a vacuum. Like Muth's Georgia, the only mitigating social extensions I ever had were from my career, and those were wrenched from me. Spending some of my money on the Rosenbach made me feel like an appendage. I grafted more cheaply onto local libertarians and like that better, which illustrates brawn and pretensions mix with volatility, but it's not enough.

When I give my notice to Riverside, I'm rolling away. I'm not coming back, even at the cost  of abandoning kimmy, my library, my soiled linens. It will not change my indifference to domestic cleanliness, nor my aging limits, my unfairness to my father. I'll regret it, and maybe I am damning myself, but Richardson's evil is too much for me to carry without it becoming a criminal  liability. I have no supports I can count on, and know better than to expect intervention. I'd in fact be astonished, but once I'm on the bus, I'm not turning around.

Lack Thereof

If any of my viewers are wondering about my hubris, over the last couple of days I believed a stroke or heart attack to be imminent, because I know I'm giving my notice, maybe even over this weekend, and I know this is huge and I'm probably headed for exactly what I wish to avoid, only worse, feeling faint and mildly nauseous, my intestines refuse to leave me in peace, and perhaps I've lost stability due to cheap calorie intake.

An event may still occur, as I have all the symptoms women my age develop, and I basically cannot access a doctor unless I drive myself to the internal medicine clinic I abandoned two years ago, but it appears to be I am being punished for tortellini and finger snacks. It is almost a musical score. Management puts out inspection notices and the dowager's internal combustion goes bouillabaisse. I could make light of it, but now have to redirect a good portion of my weekend. A paraprofessional from the state would simply leave me bedridden. It might be fine for my mother's sister to say we all fail, and she took care of me once with a portable commode, but for me a half century of this might as well be the brothers from The Vampire Diaries starting in the antebellum South. All I want is to leave Philadelphia, while Thiel can play musical chairs with venture capital.

Viral Transmission

"This is just to test your blood pressure," said Art reassuringly, noticing that the sweating was becoming excessive. As soon as the first slight pressure was applied to the bulb, the man moved. Without warning he screamed in terror and Art was on the floor... The Onion Field, location 459


Joseph Wambaugh's depiction of gay panic is quite different in text than in the screen play adaptation which led to the film, so different even the dowager isn't sold by what is going on in the company Ian keeps on his way to becoming a martyr in the name of law enforcement. In the movie, Ted Danson's Ian is a hastily contrived pastiche, because Wambaugh's underlying concern, as transmuted by the director, is the reverberating impact of justice as a convoluted process. In the book itself, whatever Ellroy's introductory praises, all of Wambaugh's character development seems like a hatchet job, as if he is desperate to imitate Capote and swallows his tongue in the process. This makes Onion Field a fascinating period piece, despite itself, and Wambaugh's hatchet has a nascent driving energy which intimates a command to skip the movie and read the true crime saga in the troubled years of Nixonion paranoia; but the screen writers for the film at least made homosexuality and vice recognizable. Wambaugh, by contrast, seems quite incidentally to border on science fiction.

By 1973 the dowager was growing up in the world, forcibly incarcerated just like Art's patient, and people didn't flip out over a blood pressure cuff due to sexual impulses. They might cry over girls on the ward engaging in mock lesbian teasing, to establish pecking order, as primate groups do, but this curious piece of exposition in the first chapter teeters on the edge of dramaturgic abstract art, as if Michael Rooker's serial killer was introduced on stage by Becket.

If the dowager was inconsiderate to Nick Denton in tweeting her repugnance for Michael Hall's brave and brief exchange with his fictional minority law enforcement officer, it was deliberate, but not quite due to prudent shock. Denton looks ambiguous, the way most radical Britons out of the radical left Labour wing do, and just as most radical Anglo Saxons do, male or female, they reach out to minority short order cooks to make political statements, perhaps covertly, through their sexual liaisons, and Denton does the same thing with his partner, besmirching marriage as a sacrament, defiant and in your face: I'm gay and love a black American. So what? The Western middle class has found a method of appropriating gay difference: elevating homosexual monogamy, even while medical epidemiologists' like Fauci hover in the background. Oh, they don't judge, but they are they failsafes policing sexual adventurism which by normal social standards are still considered criminal, like the use of handcuffs for restraint, for instance. And in a gay cross race relationship, there is always a bit of a hustle going on, cashing in on white privilege. I know it because I've been there, and indeed, could roll out on Market Street in my haggard skirt attire and pick up three black men willing to sleep with me, a broken welfare spastic, but a white broken welfare spastic, nothing more than a reprehensible power play, damning me into abomination territory. I'd like to remind the Holy Father, in this vein, that whatever his Marxist sentiments due to his Argentine background, he is the last Prince on the face of the earth whose statements have world renown impact, and one of religion's remaining functions is to name apostasy for what it is. You are not just a victim's advocate Francis, you carry thousands of years of Roman authority in that burden on your shoulders, and the growing material power of people like Thiel and Denton needs to be countermanded. The battle between them is almost akin to the sins to be plucked out of the Divine Comedy. Denton revels in sexual exposure because he wants to be accepted as a non-deviation, while Thiel blows 10 million on civil tort because he isn't quite gay enough to flout it in a parade, while broken withered crones can't even get a paralegal to do a case assessment on her life long toxic environments and medical model brutality which improved nothing on her original issues wrought by brain damage. Being able to blatantly buy the law simply because an individual created a flicker of a wrestling personality are episodes through which class resentment could trigger serious social unrest.

Bearing Witness

The graduate student who had a major crush on Ward liked me for myself; she was kind to me in an authentic way that was better for me then my too tight cleaving to my former best friend, Susan Davison. Susie-- I made Sue, and then her sister, live for me, because I did not really venture forth and take risks. With B---, the graduate, it was of a gentler tenor of mutual appreciation, and I got caught in the middle, between her and my philosophy professor, because she and I bonded, and she got hurt, with Ward and his open marriage rationalizations. I am not saying anything illegal occurred. B--- was of age, but I became the shoulder on whom she wept, and for that, I cannot forgive the not so spectacular instructor at Widener in his sinecured cocoon. Living his theories was a convenience which disregarded young adults like B--- and I were stupid. Though I no longer wear it, I still have the beige windbreaker she gave me before she departed. She had to go back, as she fell in love with Ward. I knew myself better. I was saturated with Jerry, besotted, obsessed in an unhealthy and dangerous manner. He and I are both circling the drain and I'm still writing it, flavors diminished as they may be, but I knew it was closer to intellectual rape as opposed to being Fallen, as B--- had fallen into a desire David was irresponsible to encourage, and I cannot forgive him. In anger, forgetting my rancor toward John for not seeing the woman I wanted to be for him, I told him in anger what Ward had wrought, and Tassoni and I were not so dissimilar in indignation. Tassoni threatened to go to the tenure committee. I attempted to dissuade him as I did not want to be involved and the woman was my friend. What happened after that?

John heads his own department in Ohio. I am a genocide survivor who pisses off Poets & Writers, the philosopher has a goatee, his protege an unfinished rite of passage, three television series rolled into one.

Bared Fangs, Spastic Werewolf Remembers

The issue at stake for humanity is broader than the climate change that is beginning to gain needed attention. -- Carl Folke, Respecting Planetary Boundaries, Chapter 2

Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.

The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.

My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.

Relative Obscurity

"No one wants to be forgotten."-- Sheryl Underwood

In terms of relevant biographical detail, this care worn and rather haggard quadriplegic in her dismal state, granted not quite as bleak as Holocaust survivors in the Ukraine engaging in humiliating gestures of obeisance to wealthy American Zionists, knows very little about the quirky, xenogeneic focused Bryan Fuller, other than the inferences to be drawn from his screen writing. There are the usual thumbnail facial portraits of him, with a weevil shag bowl of hair, in his generation’s encapsulation of post-beatnik repercussions, with the most recent photographic images suggestive of the fact that his looks have gone the way of the conflated distortions we give to rubbery lips traditional cinematography bequeaths to the insane, and here comes the chastisement, a connection missed, the bridge span unrealized by the time Hannibal was transmuted into a serial and Fuller had a reputation to maintain, a minute reminder to my weary brain to check with my own small social media escarpment and of course Mr. Fuller is on Twitter with a substantive following, because he writes for television, and apparently cut his teeth scripting Star Trek Voyager. Any more astute observer would have done her research here before starting an entertainment blog involving the merger of disability culture and criticism of its conceits only to wind up on the edge of genocide revealed and illegal speech, like taking out contract hits on senior living facility matrons worn out by life as much as any of us, almost like George Trepal.

Trepal is unique on the scales of American criminology, nearly a textbook case of graphic novel theme park diabolical villainy of which Martin Scorsese complains (to the near bewilderment of his audience) in relation to Marvel. Trepal was an expert chemist, a reputed lab cooker, a member of Mensa, along with his ex-wife, and for all that, he allegedly engaged in a meticulous effort to poison his blue collar neighbors[JM1]  the Carrs. One new fact which wasn’t highlighted in the crime documentary about the case was that tensions between Mrs. Trepal and Pyle Carr initialized because Pyle was converting a garage, his property, into apartments for his daughters. This is apparently illegal in Polk County. Libertarians may wish to take note of the fact, and if you’re an undercover detective not so glamorously portrayed as Angie Dickinson on Police Woman, you write a true crime book after the fashion of Wambaugh and his onion field about the enormous effort it took to compile circumstantial evidence against this man in the twilight of the Reagan era. It took agent Susan Goreck two years of chaffing brass serial anxiety over limited resources, just as we would expect in any scripted procedural, to gather enough evidence for her district attorney to expose Trepal as a viper with a yellow belly. Whether she ever fancied it or not, even a former cop has a franchise leg up on the stumbling dowager. She is a crime author who might be said to have the potential for a stark convergence with Fuller, who only once, despite all the pressures of screen writers guild fees and threshold requirements, took his macabre artistry too far. As a stand alone episode, “Ceuf” has little to do with the domestic terrorism of the Boston Marathon bombing, and for those of us who live with the specter of violence as part of our existence, it can be absorbed, but at the same time, as the critics chastised, it aims a little too close to the jugular beneath the surface of American familial discord. The closest Fuller gets to something so existential and bleak prior to this is Course Oblivion on Voyager. As with much of the Trek spin offs, Course Oblivion rounds off an encounter with a toxic protoplasm from an inhospitable demon planet. The protoplasm, mercury like, perhaps inspired by Solaris, after contact with Harry and Tom Paris, develops sentience, and a new species is born all too briefly. The protoplasm becomes Voyager and her crew, and then dissolves conveniently in the middle of nowhere. The episode serves to remind us that not all risk taking leads to victory, that life and consciousness is starkly perishable, and not all mysteries all soluble. As the show isn’t quite ready for cancellation, the real Voyager encounters its own death, and due to network time constraints, forgets what it once did for this living blood. Unfortunately, this is what happens to most of us with transcendental aspirations with too many setbacks knocking us off our perch. The Trepal story is nagging, to my mind worthy of revisionist reexamination, but on its face, a Mensa IQ doesn’t amount to much when it is utilized to torture a once divorced waitress into a coma. Trepal had a unique skill set, a mind that was devious enough to rid the United States of her enemies, and instead he files motions on death row, trying to outrun the clock.

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More of the Earlier Bryan Fuller

"You better mean it!" the widow Chaz to Charlie Rose

How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it  illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.

Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.

Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.  

Food Poisoning, Entrenched

"I'm sorry if you felt ill treated,"-- the undoubtedly committed volunteers of Bacopa

Editors. I did not feel ill treated. Publishing a writer is an arbitrary business, more so in the age of digital do it yourself files, looking at my non fiction collection in despair, just prior to logging on, sick to my stomach, if I growl in illegal and heinous fashion toward Putin's overly long tenure at the helm of the Russian Federation, perhaps I could outwit the FSB assassin (hypothetically, I know the Russians who view me are perhaps only trolling for propaganda) into dumping their plutonium capsules into literary advisors offices. I raised my voice about the poetry editor only because I am a one woman spastic who spent four hours formatting a small selection of my lighter unpublished pieces, and regardless of the fact that I read their guidelines and saw the guidelines I wanted to see, after years in the independent zine morass, it took the poetry editor seconds to ding me. That is the only reason I wauled, and the poetry editor's ranking over seer and I had a polite e-convo. The end, now all the sudden an anonymous voice pricks the scab. Editors. I am sick to my stomach. Unusual, perhaps the carrots. Handled the toilet twice in so many hours just as if I was a decade younger, also unusual, adopted new bathing tactics, however long  this lasts, still tricky. I'd like to blame Hermine, but think my heart is giving out, don't particularly want any saving grace from cardiology.

If I substantially revise my bylines for my wee small volume, whether I do it myself or fast a contest fee, throw in a few of my stronger blog posts, also revised, and in a quixotic move, add my two published short stories in the back, is that fair, to substantially alter the content to suit my aesthetic voice over past editors? Josie Byzek doesn't count here, and if the last picture I saw of her and her partner was Ginny, then perhaps there are a few Protestants left who by definition have to swallow humility when they transform facially into a jackass. Editors. Not to mention names, as I desire to remain on The Freeman's good side, my wauling about that was over my rush rush when I had, apparently, drifted into another topic. I wasn't mad at them, but me, for failing the bar, which is of another kind, as I have nothing to prove in literary terms. My CV is four pages of a lifetime, as I weaken and sicken and need to find a stable space. It will begin to cool in a few days, hopefully. For our purposes, I released myself from the original Gojira in my last hour of holding myself awake, asking what the fuck am I doing I'm not writing a dissertation on Godzilla as a coping mechanism for  Hiroshima; I will, however, study Honda's nightmarish early anime seriously another time. Rodan is sickening, and yet I studied every Japanese male, wondering which of them wouldn't lose face with my shins clamped around their buttocks. Perhaps it is a summer cold. I'm off to bed, after I look up the shit on ISBN numbers.