Unbreakable

"I'm the radical atheist humanist your parents told you to stay away from." Professor McGuire, circa 1985, terminated, arms outstretched, palms splayed upward, curiously reminiscent, Catholic posture

Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.

The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.

The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.

I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.

Decline, Decant, Trip The Steel Grab Bars

For America's giant, dinosaurlike economy — with its small, wealthy head; its big, fat middle; and its long low-income tail — there is a tried-and-tested response to a change in the weather. -- Niall Ferguson

Of all the universities with which I’ve been affiliated, I have no direct connection to Drexel, other than my relatives, who have administrative contracts with the campus, and brief gunrunner visits, dashing my long deceased P-200 to their computer service outlet, and of all the city’s big campuses, Drexel’s is the most utilitarian, but not in the aspirational sense, in its combination of sienna brick-face masonry and steel cordoned pathways, its architecture is unpleasant, and that it seems to have induced, if not sanctioned, George Ciccariello-Maher's behavior is only further evidence of institutional authority erosion. Outstanding teacher my ass. The man is an obnoxious twit who should have thought about his responsibility as a faculty member before he tanked himself in social media’s septic refuse. Jerry was dismissed from Widener for similar reasons, but that was in house, and didn’t become a Reaganite pet peeve as Maher did with Fox.

Professors shouldn’t receive threats for insolence, but one can comprehend backlash provoked by such irresponsible sarcasm. I rode in on the tail end of the initial incident, and after Twitter allowed me to sample his account, I wondered about doctorate degree valuation. Trump may have polarized the country, but he has been an urban celebrity for more than 20 years, elected by those, like myself, never given air by media outlets. Snark by academics in political science, underappreciated, without the lucre of a television deal, aren’t rectifying the wounds the president has caused through scalding barbs of insensitivity.

Inverted Pulcinella

This juxtaposition of proud, cunning thief from the upper class and loud, crass pervert from the servant class is one that is key to understanding Pulcinella's behaviors.-- traditional characteristics

George Ciccariello Maher and Pamela Taylor show an incurious lack of balance, as pertains to their economic interests. Spastic has conveyed nearly a free speech absolutism, to the point of letting vacuous threats against individual enemies stand, but that is easily enough done for a woman who has had nearly every aspiration defeated. If spastic finds a news organization willing to provide a contract, this account may go into mothballs, but she has also been very cautious in her diction about the sitting President and First Lady. I am still a little too smart to give myself tapeworm from raw muscle torn hot and bloody from the rib, and even if  Taylor can be taken at her word about the context of her usage, she had to realize the reactive connotation between "ape" and Michelle's skin color, and writing a post like that on FB?
Statisticians say 1 in 3 people utilize Zuckerberg's Harvard yearbook monster, and everyone else followed suit, mimicking either Twitter or the other behemoth. For a sitting director to exercise that kind of language in a social media post might tell her bosses something about her lack of acuity and ability to compartmentalize.
I defend her. If I should have the right to allow my corrosive, sometimes explosive pain, sock it to the ambulatory world, then she can say what most Europeans feel about blacks. Not all Europeans-- but Pamela's voice is indeed a refection of aspersion, one which forgets the shield of her responsibility to her employer to reflect before she posts. Development corporations do not want to be in the position of defending pot shots at national figures.
Ciccariello is more mundane in the annuals of academic controversy. My mentor went through a similar steam bath with the dean of my college, but if an assistant professor can be so blithely acerbic, should he be teaching at an engineering school like Drexel? I placed his account in my new folder, adversaries, and the administrators removed it. Why is is so wrong, in this context, to acknowledge we have adversaries in the world? I do not know Ciccariello, and assume the real impetus behind his barb is unhappiness with his course load; his case illustrates that accreditation is not always a just winnowing process. With the appropriate sedative, a little preparation, I could roll to his lectern and eat his students for lunch, but alas, most of you look at me and see a savant, a phantasm suitable for Lord of the Rings emaciation. So I have 3 dollars in the bank, intimidating a bingo-eyed African building manage out of her career, willing to go to jail over black authoritarianism punishing me for my inner city victimization.

Caramel Coated Sponges

My concern over Ciccariello isn't entirely hypocritical. I have, perhaps legitimately, felt the wrath of the left in my psychic bonding with Christopher Dorner, Google received abuse host reports, as Google does, and threatened to disrupt my ability to use their host services, with skittish assurances that "no content would be deleted". I did want Christopher Dorner to win in his battle with the LA police, and I wasn't being satirical. Sometimes I am, but not while this man was alive. Did I want him to murder his Captain's daughter? No, and his taunts on that officer's message service foretold the endgame of Dorner's agony, of which I'm envious, while some of you are thinking you need more than lithium.

Fair game, after a lifetime of torture and abuse; if an instructor like Ciccariello can be flippant on social media, as I sometimes am, about politically destructive capacities we're taught to take seriously, even in mitigating bitterness, we've got problems, and I am definitely a contributor. I cannot castigate Ciccariello. I'm not outraged. I don't believe he should be threatened, but he was more stupid than judicious in taunting social media to bite him. It is dumb. With Jerry McGuire, it was only internal, and I wasn't a witness, only the gatherer of anecdotal defiance. The only thing roaring in my ears, was this man, who had a gift, that of making me forget my horribly contorted flesh, had been fired. I was about 21ish, and went into the ladies room, curiously devoid of trannies, unless my broken body was a stand in to gender identity challenges, and howled. I kicked the stalls, burst into tears, and finally went back to class to collect my paper. He was wearing a checkered picnic cloth shirt, my eyes were bloodshot, but he acted as if everything was normal. If he had not, perhaps I would not be in the inner city destroying myself because my internal insurrectionist is driven by hate. 
I am here because my emotional tumult over this man was a boomerang, a fellow now almost like one of Yeats skeletons on a stick, and I went a boom a rang rang, and became a vile bigot. I keep asking myself what it was, why this man. And concede everyone else was right, normal girls aren't driven by such intense compulsion. My answer is the sexual molestation I received at the hands of my mother's men: I saw it in Jerry, and what I saw, I wanted to be vanquished by; that level of hate is intense.

Hostile Take Over, Anathema

Of course there should always be the possibility for another war-- my cynical rebuttal of Prime Minister Abe's grandiloquence

I really have things to do before the housing authority's mandatory paradigm heats up once more after January first, and thus, did not want to take the time for a first draft rant (I actually do have more thematic complications turning the gears behind my cranium), but Yahoo has hurt me with its new security measures. Extraditing myself from a mail account I've had for years, as my twitter inactive brother suggests, is not going to be a game of barefoot in the park sentimentality, and I'm genuinely angry. Though one can imagine an old portal site like Yahoo has a high turn over rate, similar to the revolving door for public housing managers, journalists beneath the top tier, spastic has had a long, addictive, aggressive-triggered relationship to the portal. Now it is serious. Their security changes are interfering with my personal life, and I am wondering if I should talk to a lawyer. Yes, I can export and then deactivate, but I always end up losing receipts and other items I need to keep. A more interesting question is, invoking the raider ICahn, made rich by his consumption, why do we continue to allow Yahoo to limp along on life support? Carrie Fisher's body, if not her psyche, at least, had the temerity to make her exodus at an appropriate time. 
Yahoo we disparage withe an undercurrent of affection, as if the company incorporated itself using Snoopy as a beta stud. Yes, I am concerned with my vulnerability, and its trip wire quality. It isn't as if I haven't known episodic crisis's, and hurling headlong into the next, but I legitimately want some freedom before a form of dementia sets in. I have not turned to a libertarian wardrobe simply to arouse, amuse. My experiences with the welfare state are argument enough against it. Traditional conservatives like Pat Toomey and Paul Ryan can't really look at my struggle with matriculation and be forthright about it, that my exploitation made the careers of quacks and surgeons with a god complex, but I've done my time. The poverty re-enveloping me now is worse than when Liberty initially inducted, then kept me at arms' length after I hit eject. The sheer enormity of what is now economically almost impossible for me to achieve overwhelms me. I shut it down, so as to get off the mattress at all, but when I lose all ability to control my own limitations, it will put undue limitations on my sister, Little Ben, and my brother's a grandfather. Me? I have the compassion of a brave ditz I hired from Craigslist. Once independent living exculpates you, supervisors and their Jeffrey Dahmer jokes aside, replacing that familial relation is unduly difficult.

Another One Bites The Dust

"She needed to be more liberal."-- Theodore Dreiser

I should be quiet when I get like this, knowing it is too late baby, whether I run or not, whether I cancel my Prime Membership or bite the bullet, whether I voluntarily throw myself back into Pennsylvania's mental health system, or not. I know that system well, and know it will not help me. Pacify me? That depends. Help me? No. Therapy cannot circumvent permanent destitution. Therapy, at least in Southern PA, is a secularized New Testament. Forgive. Think of what it would do for you. Declare bankruptcy. This is what I got from an intake counselor circa 2K during my nervous breakdown after I flipped on Linda, who is evidently her same pussycat self, from what I can gather. Linda's casualties sit on one end, and the eel in her sneakers and overcoat jumped ship on a railroad grant. Perhaps I am making things impossibly difficult deliberately, breaking myself faster than Presbyterian Homes would do it for me. When I told NYT on twitter that I am a genocide survivor it was not exaggeration. Section 202 takes broken people in and breaks them further. I have seen black schizophrenics fracture the faces of their grandchildren, rolling back to my unit, face the color of a turnip, screaming for police. I cannot forget that afternoon. I ran from my own mother's insanity to something much worse, whiplash upon whiplash upon whiplash, I purchased the Gladhandler a candy bar.
Who is he? No one, a simple cripple, 70 years old. Follows Erik like a fucking puppy. Sourced me, however, for AccessLife, so I am kind, even if I upload the cart and dump my bleeding scars on a tacit, naive simple bastard who never got laid. He loves his nigger dependence. Wince. Go ahead. Now I'll shut up. Jerry always hated that imperative command. I may just vaguely recall George Michael. I said, oh, must be AIDS. To my regular viewers (do I have any?) I need not continue in that vein. I'll lie down an hour. Pout about losing Mhz on WYBE.

Erosion of Authority

In relation to the Holy Father doing his job, I was very nearly rude Friday morning, when the modest bishop of Rome tweeted

The Lord becomes man to journey with us in our everyday lives.

— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) December 23, 2016

and then bit my tongue. I may prefer that Jorge Mario Bergoglio had more stature, but to behave like a sophist  in the manner of Hebdo Charlie, being so close to the end of my self reliance, has more remorse than reward. It recalled a study I glanced at briefly, about Cervantes needing exile to still be Catholic. During my brother's funeral, I glared at the priest. His homily was dry, circumspect, hasty summary of a turbulent monster boy's life, and I glared at this shepherd, his run of the mill tone. It wasn't personal. Any priest I've ever confessed to is dead, but that day, all things being equal, an exorcist might have had suspicions that a cripple might have needed a cleansing.

When it comes to Donald Trump, we're in another territory, namely, the diminished dignity of his office. I despise the man, and the issue isn't getting myself under surveillance for a vitriolic potty mouth, so much as it might be the price of these libertarian seismic waves: it would cost me nothing to tell Trump to go fuck himself, and no one else has that distinction. Bill Clinton might come close, not that gradations are of any use. It isn't a simple matter of decline, of turning into butt head bitch. Trump is a celebrity jackass whose carnivalesque antipodes have already worn threadbare. The world is undoubtedly at an end, with the bile of repugnance in my throat.

Don your civility, bless the Pontiff, who made due with the modern theatrical circus of godspel in the larnyx of Aretha Franklin. Kick it up, dare to be inappropriate. Go to Christmas mass, be gracious to Philadelphia's lanky shuffling  in their pews. Wear the sneakers the dead pig from the Bronx gave you for a present. Go.  

Prelude to a Double Edge

"She said Americans were too PC to search a man in a wheelchair."-- Stephen Schnetzer

Carrie Fisher's timely medical crisis not only points to a certain coldness in your narrator. It has an interesting parallel to her own mother's death, which may have involved psycho-tropic interaction. The same sort of fatal interaction killed a woman of similar condition who used to live here, briefly my client. She also had cerebral palsy, was 24, and made my problems with anxiety seem pedestrian by contrast. If the door rattled, she was frightened, Cheryl Ward, and she died, probably much like my mother, because practitioners don't know what they are doing. The fabled ambulatory practice at Jefferson,which spastic regrets, equally admitted as much, hence my relative impatience with arrogant asses like Krugman when they pontificate on the percentile at which the US is already in the stranglehold of socialized medicine. The last time spastic listened to anything Paul had to say, the figure he used, lumping the VA and Medicare together, was 60%. I cannot argue with economists on their damn metrics; if we threw them in a jar and let them kill each other, much as has been suggested of poets, we'd all be better off. Ryan has to speak this way, of course, as one day he may become emperor of the last empire, smoldering like a charred forest fire, because policy sometimes runs afoul of individual variance. Joanne Cristinizani was neither as compliant nor as healthy, though less mentally ill, less affluent, than the actress--but the parallel between their cases illustrates physicians over reliance on medication, as opposed to behavior modification. Fisher had a rather optimistic fealty to medical model mitigation of her delusions; the problem with that is cocktails build up tolerance, the body changes, the script ceases to have the same potent effect. She also liked ECT. but might not electroconvulsive therapy, however tame it is, contemporaneously, in comparison to what we saw Nicholson act out in his Cuckoo cult classic, make the aging body more vulnerable?
I am a skeptic of western medical models, as they never did me any favors, but I do not want this skepticism to be misleading. I have seen some really tragically fucked up mental health clients in my day, and they would be eating feces without anti-psychotics, much like drug addicts in Portland Oregon correctional detention centers, but I am poking holes in our complacency towards pharmaceutical miracles, especially when physicians are tone deaf to succinct individual circumstance. The cookie cutter syndrome. I am not the first journalist to highlight it.

Addiction is a predisposition of our complex mammalian biology, but under this large umbrella, the cookie cutter syndrome leaves a certain minority of patients with addictive propensities swinging in the wind; if we stopped putting labels on it (no, it is not a disease, but can destroy brain activity that presupposes empathy and the like) and decriminalized narcotics, we'd solve a lot of problems, shrink incorporating prisons, which would be a good thing.
Note to twitter: I am going to cease following accounts that block me due to this blog, especially when I've done naught to proud union plumbers to deserve it. I push lines. I admit that, and I cannot forgive the disabled community of my generation for hanging me out to dry, and I hate Riverside, hate it, so a Democrat who believes in unions, leaping first, asking questions later, blocks me because of what? Intensity? Blocking is a forming of scolding. I don't do it often. All he and others ha to do was unfollow. I feel like I'm being punished for being inclusive, when I normally wouldn't, and this will remain an issue, although I just gave "in" to the latest six accounts.
I hate what Riverside has done to me despite the episodic violence of my other building. In 94, when my father dumped me here, cursing, I was 31 years old, I think. That is a long time to be ostracized and afraid of vicious seniors. My career was destroyed, and the shit I've gone through would make Hustler rich if they had the nerve for a graphic memoir. I'm trapped, and I'm rolling out of here in a battered power chair this summer come hell or high water, and if Google wants to suspend me, fine, but I'm hanging by a thread, and so intend to push. My entire damn life in this city has been a frayed twine since I got here. It is the holiday, and I haven't seen most of my family sine 05. Poppa stopped by with his ineffectual dismay in 07. All I have to show for everything is eleven dollars in the bank. Blocking me for bad tude when I'm not trolling users is disingenuous, and it irritates me especially when I hold abandonment by newcomers in abeyance.
Don't read me. You don't have to, but I refuse to be a pariah of leftist do gooders, capiscimi? My candle burns lower, but fiercer for it.

Shavuot

"What if they learn to laugh at God?"-- Umberto Eco

It pierced the blood, the actions of Mevlut Mert, pierced the blood in remembrance of fervor, of devout aspiration which even Roman Catholics are taught to hold at arms' length, the passionate conviction of belief, the struggle of belief, which yet provoked laughter, yes, laughter, at the private gatherings of women in ad hoc prayer groups, speaking in tongues, no descent of the Holy Spirit here, just ridicule, before doing a 180 towards atheism, one which would become a life long dissatisfaction with the explanations of mere biological impetus. Frightening, perhaps, that I do not joke, remain inexorably moved, never having imagined I'd live to see an instantaneous warrior, martyring, out maneuvering, circumventing internal security forces, his fire making the rest, left or right, seem paltry. Most true acts of terror have a yellow streak embedded in them, including Osama's spectacular operatives, despite that it was indeed a historical blow,9/11, one that has an indelible infamy whose repercussions reverberate. The points can be plotted: Al Qaeda strikes, Afghanistan becomes occupied territory; Iraq turns into a casualty of an extended ideological argument, a fruit seller in Tunisia ignites sectarian factionalism which no one outside of policy institutes understands, and in a game of superpower volleyball, Libyan and Syrian territorial integrity ceases to exist, and ISIS too, for all its ruthlessness, has an underbelly of loathsome cowardice. Not this young man, whether or not he followed this Gulen who resides in my state, this unknown figure who is Erdogan's favorite bogey figure, a disruptive element within Turkey's own internal tensions. 
Something inside the breast broke, a floodgate, I believe, ready to take up arms for -- for-- what? Rolling to parish, throwing myself on my knees to light a candle for the soul of a twenty two year old man who was trained to be what he was, fully expecting that the military's attempt to depose the yet again discredited civilian power structure to be successful? I grew up with the military taking over the government in Turkey, never saw anything like Mevlut. Informed as to the after effects of calamity? Certainly, there were the bloody pictures of Sadat, the death of Lord Mountbatten, but never this, a direct strike on the residual Soviet hierarchy. The sheer awe of what zeal can do in striking truth to power restored something to me about the divine, left me shaken with its force, with Orhan's narrative voice superimposed, not that I may ever peruse his work again beyond what Snow offered, since there are limits, within my morbid frame, to my multi-cultural pathways, and I'm not the least interested in writing the typical correspondent analysis of Turkey as the nation of crossroads, a bridge. Why would I care beyond the knowledge of Germany's sizable community of Turkish expatriates?
There are certain levels of empiricism beyond intuitive understanding, despite the ready access to the genealogy of events, to the explanations of the divisions between Muslims over successors. Sides not understood are sides not to be taken, but nonetheless, some actions have the potential for paradigm shifts, to permanently alter perspectives, break the order of things, despite a hastily papering over. Times have changed, and repression of such striking dissent is not as easily accomplished as it once might have been. If I can grieve for such a sacrifice, an alien so many leagues away in a Quakertown backwater overrun by waves of ethnicities subsumed by urban blight, how much more will those closer to these roils in Ankara burn the torch of his memory? Send a prayer for his soul, this Mevlut in black. have mercy on it, as Bashar has had none to spare in his bloody desert.

Istanbul, Weather vane

It was not so long ago that Americans such as I witnessed a Russia, if not in the second act of the Bolshevik Revolution, was at the least doubled over by a herniated disk, courtesy of glasnost. It is sufficient, in this context, to weigh the President-Elect's remarks about Putin as not entirely inaccurate. The former KGB clerk is a wily fox, getting bit on his ass by Erdogan's colorful bipolar method of governance. It impresses me immeasurably that Mevlut Mert  martyred himself for a lost cause, for believing in Obama's "red line" that, oh, wait a minute, the Land of Oz was but a poor girl's ennui on the plains of Kansas, and the Ottoman's poor imitation of a secular empire in an equally corroded Islamic mindset needs a dose of political lithium, evidently. I am running up my last few MB, since I have no funds to roll to the ATT outlet where I could work, mind, but have no money now to haggle over wireless upgrades on my old PC's, and since I am running them, don't have a great deal of time, but both Putin and Erdogan are so clever they are out maneuvering themselves. I know the Turkish foreign service did a double take. I know Iran and the Russian Federation are having a slurpee over the beatitudes woven into the price of Syrian stability, but don't ever forget what constitutes true heroism. Regardless of what I do about my personal situation in the next few months, I'm out of time: safe bathroom transfers are the stubborn persistence of bio-kinetic memory, and if I refuse to obey re-certification, I am essentially giving the ambulatory world what it wants: my enslavement so serfs can earn low wage groceries, but like Mevlut, some principles are worth cutting it short, going down on your own two feet. That is rebellion that never forgets, the kind that changes world order. Stand up to the state. This young man did something that could change history faster than 20 truck wild terrorists. 
History may be doomed to repeat, but never in an exact correlation to the heyday of Marxist theory at its worst.

Seedy Undercurrents

Cagliari has been the capital of Sardinia since at least Roman times. travel guidebook, p 1071

If I was stranded on a desert island, one of the most prevalent of literary motifs in American literature, regardless of genre, as Lost in Space owes its analogue optimism to Robinson Crusoe, and on this island, had the ability to steal wireless passcodes, but could only have one serial, I'd opt for Bruno Cremer's Maigret, not solely based on my fascination with Simenon's ability to be unsparing, stripped and terse, with flourishes; there is just an aesthetic appeasement in the France Belgian production, sadly absent from more contemporary grafting of other writers, like Higgins Clark. These mysteries may be done in France, but they feel like hatchet jobs. Cremer transcends this, when it comes to marrying Simenon's exposes to the modern world, and any number of these teleplays can be studied again, and again. Simenon recognizes provincialism, and the people Maigret knew often serve as lynchpins, either as victims or perpetrators. Maigret's schoolboy friend, from the estate where his father was a steward, initiates the action which leads to the death of a courtesan, and that is still the proper term. We can argue about prostitution as a designation, but these are more properly street walkers, risking their lives, and I am not sure what the local LOTR chapter hopes to achieve today in demonstrating against violence street walkers face as par for the course. I certainly cannot say that legalizing whore houses makes whores any safer than a Craigslist notice. I am, never less, confirmed to attend, rather irritated. I had intended to show with useless objects in a shopping bag, a twenty four dollar butane lighter I no longer use, old Glimmer Train issues for five cents, other things. All this takes time to prepare, and hard winter is around the corner, with my disability insurance static, once again, even if a small COLA was restored for 2017. I am going to have to opt out of Medicare shortly, if I do not want SSI-- SSI has stringent overpayment rules, and even if I never sell another article, I cannot live with threats from Social Security. In 1987 they suspended my entitlement, for what I'm not entirely sure, and I had nothing, for months, in the dawn of getting sucked into Presbyterian Homes-- so those of you who marvel at my obstinacy may want to reconsider. I was a kid, a student, and the Social Security Administration halted Supplemental Income because ?-- I don't know. Lack of case management review. I cannot remember how I survived, but now I'm in my mid-fifties, and I fear government more than I hate Thiel for taking a media outlet away from me and others who challenged boundaries.
I rushed another piece on Daulerio's settlement with Bollea's legal team, against my better judgment, but if I go down, I go down fighting. I'm building a dossier. Why, I'm not sure. Nick Denton revolts me. Every homosexual does, but there are degrees, and I'm still a bit bruised over the fact I wanted to save a radical British faggot's successful media model-- but Peter Thiel, there we have revulsion combined with fear. Homosexual psychology cannot be trusted, and I'll never get away with asserting this in mainstream outlets. It will not stop me from trying, notoriety, name recognition, notwithstanding. If Denton had survived, yes, I would have had the utter nerve to tell him he was a radical abomination, and then showed him my CV, and would have expected him to take me seriously, at least under the ADA. Bafflement away.

Kingdoms Come

Self-interest is a rather condemning insulator. The children of celebrities either survive through imitation, like Ivanka Trump, or die in a drug overdose while in a grotesque imitation, like Bobbi Brown. I just remembered my pitch about Bobbi, and would probably have to hold my nose and open a Facebook account to get at my sources. I have no desire to get penalized and banned on the social networking giant, none, whatsoever, but like Ann Coulter, I may have to succumb, at least as a practical matter, but for the life of me can only barely fathom why Peck's son checked himself out. I am starving to death, doomed, spent a life long battle believing what liberals spoon fed me about success and disability, and the obituaries hang little pork chops on a string. Jonathan committed suicide, because of, or despite Father Chisholm's insufferable stridency? In Old Gringo, nearly one of Peck's last supporting roles, the actor mitigates his infallible conviction, since he is portraying Bierce, middlebrow hack, whose legacy mine might one day be reasonably compared to, but it was distasteful, badly done. We're used to the striated laces with which the old lion roars

Though I am not fully ready to take aim at Hollywood and Catholic pageantry, Peck's priggishness is another matter, and as old as Gentleman's Agreement is, I rooted for the realists, thank you very much, though I have never used "kike" as an epithet. I have no idea what it means. For its time, the 47 film was more honest than it had to be, but this was due to the war. Too many Europeans died in that conflict, in addition to the 6 million in the camps. Chisholm was aged, at the end of The Keys to the Kingdom, with its adamant lessons about tolerance and hypocrites, (I had forgotten Vincent Price and he was a breath of fresh air) to look like a Scottish saint. Compare this to his devil may care countenance in 89, against Fonda and Smitts. The elderly, eventually, are drawn to caviler libertarian defiance, even Peck, who probably would have been sworn into office by acclamation, if he had given his handlers the go. It is so much more convenient, merging celebrity and monarchy. The early 20th century Edwardians knew it, or Gambon had some fun with it, if the story of Elizabeth's father has any genealogical accuracy.

Polar Night

"How was your Thanksgiving?"-- my former client Joe, who endorses Wheelchair Taxi

The implication by the radical left that the electors are proactive agents is not borne out by the historical evidence. The 20 electors disputed in the Hayes Tilden battle also resulted in protracted litigation, legislative action. I do no see, as Lessig, or Parker does, a College which actively thwarted a popular vote winner. Bush v Gore simply declared the Florida recount unconstitutional, and with a dwindling set of options, Gore finally conceded in 2000, unfortunately, as the 43 president was a disaster. Just because spastic grows reactive, this does not mean she is a lock step Republican. At heart, she is a terrorist, willing to sow destruction on corrupt human methodologies, but much as Doris Lessing explores in her strange, but real world novel, The Good Terrorist, spastic has an honor code, and a cruel minority manager may deserve what she gets, and section 202 tenants are the residual business of poverty, but the young computer engineering geniuses over 20 are useful to the generations beyond the boomers. I am not sure why my road runner failed reply to Lessig is important to me, but I agree with Fee it needs a fix, and maybe I should turn it into a longer back essay. The left is simply wrong, like the very fact of housing classifications. Section 202. Section 3. Section 811. Our societies learn nothing from the masters, those who have seen the nightmare of collective systems.

Despite missing the first two of the last four episodes of Dead Like Me, it is over, thank goodness. Spastic is free of Vancouver pedestrian gentility. My Comet affiliate is still running the series, and I may review and refresh, but I am off the leash. This may not sound like enthusiasm, but my favorite segments were Callum Blue and the old woman who collapsed with her sugar bowel, and Laura Harris in her Catholic inducements arc. A real Catholic priest, if entering the gateway to reunification with the divine, would not say, "I am as curious as you are Daisy." This is a generic writer's evasion. None of us know anything, but at least a popular horrorist like Anne Rice applied her beliefs about the afterlife in some of her works.

I confirmed to the local libertarians that I will attend their party at Gunner's Run, and I'd like very much to attend, but my budget is scraping the lard barrel, so as of this morning, I'm waffling, and entering a danger stress zone-- first winter storm approaching and I've little funds to stockpile even the basic grains available to the poor. I have a small window, but not much, to make up my mind. I also never meant to imply that local libertarians have to bond with me, it is simply that I have no people in my orbit who please me, who I enjoy, and Black Adder's regulars, and visiting graduates, are the best I can do, even if my obvious depression is an insulator. 

Super Id on the Periphery

"I never molested Dylan."-- Woody Allen, not dispositive, but given the benefit of the doubt by the Grahams, before or after Bezos ate them

Spastic is fully cognizant of the fact that even "established" writers get rejected, but at my age, similar to Kathleen Parker, I should be able to shoot out of the park at a better rate, and why can't I? The after effect of miscreant disability activists. I know British and Canadian cripland occasionally deign to pat attention to me, and I'm going to be blunt: November 1999 was the last time I transmitted an email to the formerly named Linda C. Richman, now Dezenski. I cannot remember every word of that last transmission, but I did tell her I'd like to kill her, and I was never more serious in my life, though the last time I spoke to her, diminished to an ineffectual turnip, my psyche might have been shrink wrapped by a witch doctor. Five years later I would be molested again by a bovine mulatto who makes me look pretty, at least next to Scarlett Johansson. Allen, it seems, knows what to do with this woman so difficult to cast, and then, two years after that molestation, thanks to ADAPT holding HUD at gunpoint, which included the now infantile transsexual, Erik von Schmetterling, whose female nigger nanny, name unknown, received the strident assertion, after Erik saw my finger-- for the uninitiated, the middle finger is an obscene gesture in the States-- "I'd break his neck if I could, he's lucky I can't."

The renovation to the building in 07 took I do not know how many years off my life, and the Quickie decided to expire; for very nearly 13 months, I could not write, barely do anything; Trudy Richardson sees her opportunity, and attacks. On her side of it, I had been missing pisses, until Frank mentioned urinals, which still aren't perfect-- but Richardson's attacks don't seem to do anything but justify my temper to strike her down-- which once again begs the question: If a disabled woman doesn't want to comply, why not evict, whether or not the self-same woman recertifies? I hate a building manager beyond what her character is worth. At least Linda was a worthwhile adversary, a role model I looked up to. I don't quite elevate Richardson, much as Rhys Meyers elevates Johansson in Match Point (05). My only major complaint with Woody's arc is that Woody makes Johansson a little too complicit in her own spiral. I actively pursued married men, and did so before the Internet. How did I manage that? An independent press trade secret. Minorities like Trudy are pests to me, like the mice all my dead males make short work of. Kimmy toys with them, but if they escape her they tend to vanish.

In a longer, more objective post, I want to eviscerate what Jimmi and Erik actually achieved. Very little. Diamond Park, at least, was designed for wheelchair access. Riverside is just a senior living facility with basically stupid, mentally ill, and chronic tenant refuse better off being recycled by predators much sooner than they are. Even with all PHA subjected Riverside's tenants to, in other words, these studios are not user friendly to affective quadriplegics. No small feat, then, that I could once subsidize myself to the tune of three thousand dollars, to then being reduced to scrambling for pennies. I cannot afford to go insane. My Commonwealth made a huge investment in my intelligence quotient. But I am being outpaced by automated upload.

Rhys Meyers made a decent Dracula. One that fucked like a perv, but since we're talking about humanity being afraid of its own atavistic tendencies, it is a soft critique. In this end of life arc by a tarnished genius, the intensity Rhys-Meyers displays, setting him apart even after he solves his problem-- though it is unclear if he'll evade the law forever, is the same intensity which emanates me, apart. I've paid all my life.

Ego

Determined to try to save this before the crucial date, I need to stop rushing publishers after busting my ass overnight. Remind me I made this stipulation before I fling my keys in Trudy Richardson's face and roll back to the father who put me away and let orthopedics create a monster more terrifying than Shelley's creationist fears ever envisioned. ( I actually don't have enough data left before my billing date to sit online with Google Docs to fix my voice, not without an overage.)

Husbandry

Yesterday, I deliberately chose a trashy vehicle like Lake Placid (99) so that I could ballyhoo it. What I really wanted to do was stop worrying about corroding the Quantum further and take a hot shower, springing a leak in Frank's former studio below me. Nelson is in it now, but I didn't. The shower stall is always dangerous; this chair always more difficult, so I carried a barbell in my chest while the Jaws reborn crocodile subverted expectations in a poorly generated computer graphic, and drowned a half ton grizzly. Other than that, though, the dialogue wasn't that bad, and it was really taking aim at the voracious fanaticism of humanity's environmental conscience. Betty White, by inference, is the super predator, once removed. That link might have been slightly sharper, perhaps, but Bill Pullman has the conspiratorial expression down, which makes him useful in these send ups, Platt was the funk, and Gleeson really doesn't like trophy hunting. What no audience really looks at too closely, unless they are a PETA zealot, is the industrialization of apex species. I am not a huge fan of the crocodilan family. My totem is the feline, and human extermination of these distresses. A farmer in Florida trying to save a sick gator is easy to mark as extraordinary, until we take stock of our own veterinary expenses. Clinical breeding and killing of hatchlings for export to China is no different than the mass slaughter of pigs, poultry, and cattle, but evolutionary nullification will invariably be the end result of all this, no matter how many genetic experts we manufacture who learn how to "imitate" ecosystems.

Does spastic have a solution? Yes. End medical treatment once biological viability goes awry. Terminate the disabled, even those with significant intellectual function, and set up a population control agency comprised of authorities according to which entities are the most stable and powerful, be it corporate or some vestige of nation-state. I personally do not think national identity is sustainable, though I grant China and Japan may hold out longer, because their norms predate western civilization.

I can poke a little fun of myself, and this mindset contravenes libertarian individualism, but that is already a foregone conclusion. I am serious that humanity needs to start looking at this in a larger context, now. We're a little egg in an "arm" of a big dust spiral, probably as rare, and unique, as creationists always believed. Space stations are all well and good, but incredibly difficult, and this won't be my problem, but what of my sister's great grandchildren, hmm?

Hyper- vigilance with Lobster Bisque

"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated.

Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me.
"Get out more."
With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches.  Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about.  Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.

In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil. 

Tough Love

Even when I earned what might be considered a decent supplement under my former contracts, I was never much for speed writing, and have since developed a tendency to over-dramatize when I fail, since I believe my zeal usually overrides the weaknesses any voice has. Getting your ass kicked by an admirable editorial voice has positive demerits. I'm trying so hard to return to established media platforms I'm killing myself with the effort, in addition to revising my resume and applying for five jobs in succession. I am not in full blown dementia, not yet. It is my landlord's power, feeding my anxiety, and my age makes me rush. I want to remind my viewers that this monster has been my only landlord since I was forced, naturally, to vacate Temple's campus. I ricocheted to my aunt's row home, which was unsustainable. I am sure Marie remembers, which is why she out dramas me. I have seen horrible horrible things under Presby's stewardship, and I'll never stop being pissed off.

It may be cheap that I denigrate the current bran-brain that runs Riverside. She cannot fight back, but I never signed up to have management virtually move in with me; at Diamond Park's location, it may have been mildly less pressing, but the violence and destabilization make minority collective stricture, responsibility as a social constraint, rather moot when blacks were killing each other and killing the pets of girlfriends on a cyclic basis. I should not have to evict myself simply to get movement, but this is what it is coming to. For the liberals who want me to mitigate in civil objective speak, I hate Trudy Richardson because she never, ever stops. She is like a cobra. If she cannot humiliate me one way, then she has subordinate Debra Horne threaten me through a terminally ill aunt on Prozac. I cannot keep living here. I cannot, because it will become a self fulfilling prophecy. Please, just please help me leave. I'm begging, anyone. I have no money left to speak of. 

Inclusion Paves Stairwells to Hell with Best intentions

"I don't know Stacey." Nate Maingard, fantasy abandoner

Karina Klaus, that is her full name, likes to surprise me, but in elongated chucks. I cannot remember when the fuck I hired her, in desperation. It is in here though, my bloody archives, trying to sustain my Trujillo - like self pity. Wiki's pic is not the man Llosa painted in my head, yet I cannot explicate the difference between the actual despot and Llosa's rapacious appropriation. I worked all night, shopped yesterday a living troll in the spastic flesh, and Karina telephones me, out of the goddamn blue, and I panicked. Nate Maingard, my love, twitter (my hate) Is she reading my posts? I said none of this, told her a parable, texted her about my thirtysomething self reliance. "You're my friend," she said. Yeah, all the way from Eugene Oregon. I can surmise Portland went for Clinton.

She's my friend, Karina, from Craigslist. Get real spastic, the ambulatory world expects you to know your place, accept you can't care for yourself, be nice to Pennsylvania's welfare. That kind of friendship, an itinerant passing, a ricochet of failed consideration. I previously wrote she suggested she and I could live together and she retracted just as quickly. I'm that type of quadriplegic. None of you can handle it, only nigger trash for wages not worth the price. There are worse. My dead ex-, Frank, who was probably correct that this chick is drug suey. I worked all night, to what end? Lessig treated me like a real journalist. I think, or faulty adversary.

She is still with the bum over 50 (for the puzzled, it is buried in my tweets). I recently gave Danita Berg a hard time, and I am thinking of writing a piece about it, my pugilistic stance with the left. She runs a damn literary website for fairies, she isn't a trauma specialist, but I laid into her inappropriately similar, but not exactly the same, as what I did to Stacey, Nate's co-patriot. I never supposed the recording artist knew the hapless engineer. If I really let myself go-- well, I am. In public housing, section 811 or 202, recertification is mandatory. I'm not doing it this year, so nigger Trudy gets what she wants. I either find a solution, or I'll be muzzled by August. The stream will go on, with or without us.
Spooky.

Mining Twitter for provocation and paying absurdist fees

"I've seen men hurt worse and lose more."-- Joseph Cotton, the third man

Trivial detail: Twitter notifications emailed me October 27, 2015. "You have a new follower!" Neil Thomas Stacey, whose thin and languid ambulatory poise rather recently infuriated me, the insulated self-interest. I flagged him down on twitter's web page to get a sense of who I lost, and became angry. Not with a South African civil engineer tossing out pithy trinket tweets so much as with ambulatory blithe assumptions about its privilege. I have, in point of fact, lost hundreds-- maybe decades instead, of followers since I opened a twitter account, including Nicholas Kristof, and as of Sunday, Neil's follow countryman, and my sentimental favorite, Nate. Every bitter bitch needs at least one twinkie for sentimental comfort, and I wanted to chase after Maingard, and suppose I did sorta, trying to explain. He claims he blocked me accidentally and cannot find my account, and it feels like I've lost an adoptive nephew, or the good fuck, worth more than 5 rand, if only, but it is my fault for hating the able-bodied. I went on o small rampage and booted Trump's daughter, Ivanka. How many gulfs can I expect to leap, after all? Why should she bridge my divide? She is a status mogul descendant, tweeting what wealthy blonds tweet about babies, and I am just a spastic, slowly losing, but also failing to see the late Roger Ebert's awe of social media. I also parted from Dale Reardon, a blind Australian who may have believed I wanted back in the throng. Shared experience, all that, in disability land. And no, I need a job, not the segregation of disability empowerment. When I tweeted, "I am saying goodbye to you," however, Dale understood what Stacey could not grasp: Cripples, even smart ones, emotionally invest a little more, and I liked having Maingard as a sugared sex fantasy to show off to the vanquished Karina. Sniffling a little, but over what? That Nate misunderstood the dots I connected to get from A to B? Is a long time follower a relationship? The age of automation gets on all our nerves.

I asked my sister to ask her children who Shelita Burke was. I followed her back, initially, for the sake of the chasm between us, but during my mini-rebellion, all she wanted me for was to prop her label profile, and the humane fascist said no more. Screw the damn numbers. (Ali Spagnola is a different context, one enumerated many posts back in archive.) And I only knew one thing about the Singh before Harjinder found me. A Singh assassinated Indira Gandhi, who overruled her advisers and kept her guard. "How else can we prove we're secular?" She inquired. But I can understand a sect who know what they are, and I followed the proud father foodie back, with respect, even if he too has to work on my profundity.

Short Fuses

"Me? I'm just another cop."-- Falk's first episode

Levinson wasn't that progressive with his Jewish American Maigret. The closest Falk gets to a psychotic homosexual antagonist is McDowell's histrionic chemist, another episode which relies more or less on psychological cheating. Back then we didn't have bomb signature forensics fed to an increasingly mistrustful audience. Falk's audience believed in him, there was no doubt about that, though they may have believed slightly less in Gene Barry.

Spastic recognizes her error, and understands Blogger's indirect data conversation: Barry was the Burke's Law puzzle solver, and what I was looking at was the 67 pilot which I mistook-- at least I think. Barry looks relatively aged in "Prescription," and I'm not so literate on my parents decade that I remember Barry's run as the Playboy bunny captain. The Jack Cassidy pilot is superior, at least with Spielberg's taunt pace. Why can't I be more like screen guild writers and pull a few fast ones?

Chair is charged, three quarters of urine obeyed (unlike poor little kimmy) and stayed mainly in my bursting bladder when I rolled up and transferred without so much as a blink. Christmas present to self shall soon be new urinal. The old one is far too cracked for me to bleach clean. I can hear God fearing nuns recoil at my indifference to coliform. But the moral here: Frank's urinals were always clean. Frank is dead. For a dowager on the midline to sixty, medically, I am fairly stable, meaning the dirty cripple meme may not be as bad as we think. 

I'm so paranoid I am afraid to telephone the Department of Corrections for research. I don't need to see women in scrubs having their behavior controlled. I have documentary footage memory, I have Christ knows how many prison films and Orange Is The New Black articles in my head, along with St. Elsewhere lesbianism yanking Howie Mandel's chain-- but, in returning to a fiction I've always cared about, I was about to use a 21st century facility, an anachronism I would not necessarily wish to justify as a post modern conceit, so I'm pulling a fast one too, of a slightly different tack, so paranoid I am assuming Trudy Richardson has initiated eviction proceedings against me because the rental receipt isn't under the door; we shall see, but if she has, I have a longer window. I believe, passionately, that American public housing will ultimately destroy the country. I mean that, though I haven't been overly forthcoming with prescriptive solutions. We'll get there, and it is one of the reasons I am following Vanessa Calder. Conservatives need to pay attention to what felled disabled women who had the capacity to matriculate. It is not a pipe dream that many of my early teachers saw me as Harvard material, and, though normally, I do not follow trending media, today I shall: 

1. I am sympathetic to eugenics
2. Freaks put on display are going to get blowback. Obstetricians should have euthanized the Smith child, and no one has the right to ask me how dare I say that. I've been to facilities where we die in our surreal primate groupings. 

The upside of facetious

I sometimes lose track, due to seasonal changes, of the additional torments impaction inflicts, and feel easier now. Wednesday morning I thought my symptoms were indicative of stroke, when they were actually reduced diet binding to phlegm, perhaps reduced mammary tissue resiliency. I've lost weight, but not like a happier exercise infomercial. I do not know why I pay any attention to the Social Security Administration. It auto-mailed me me to review my benefit statement approximately 14 days ago. I ignored the prompt, and I'm wasting my usage on mild ire. With that Medicare deductible removed, my monthly budget would be less strenuous, despite the age and condition of the Jazzy. I have not yet acted, mainly because by eight thirty am night owls feather the nest, but I may act in any case, and live my narrowing quality time as I please, eschewing the single payer option, according to my beliefs.

I'm more libertarian than I realized, but we'll leave that for later. I believe I intend to open and monetize a Niume account Friday evening. I will not write "death to faggots," or discuss my pain at independent living centers-- but for some reason, I need to be just as much an esoteric wonk, and shift from deadly tyrannical quadriplegic to archaeologist, of a sort. I'll just give it a try, we'll see. If I fail or get booted, we've been there before. Not the end of the world, nor does this account necessarily have to cease, though rousing Google's ire and living to tell about it is no small feat. But this is the thing: I've exhausted most of what can be asserted about broken bodies and aesthetics. The rest is nuance. Nothing wrong with that, but after 8 years, and behaving like a mini-Idi, perhaps I can take another tack.

For the record, I hate those whom I've felt betrayed by, and when I told Von Schmetterling's caretaker that I'd take him out, during Indian Summer, I was fairly dispassionate. I know all that such an action would achieve is exactly what the building manager desires, my incarceration, as in not her problem any longer, but unipolar activists need to learn that they hurt others unfairly, and Erik's battle with the government nearly took my life, just as Linda Dezenski's mind games with me online did 17 years ago, which is what makes Turkey Day an uneasy time of year: major depressive episode here, a deceased mother there, an intra building renovation that killed its tenants, but hey, what's not to forgive, yah? Oh, yes, Sean Malone had me clapping, in vigorous is he fucking married fashion (I will not write fucking at Niume, maybe they will let me type coitus or what) and he had me clapping just until his conclusion, which asserts expected courtesies, but let me chew on it.⧬