Heron Shrike

Our system is designed to achieve justice, not vengeance. Robby Soave of Reason

 Wechsler's Altered Minds, like Poyart’s Solace, is an exhausted collapse of three dimensional space onto video projection of the same, and they in fact feel like exactly the same film in their genres. It isn’t simply that they are bad films with loosely suggested alternative pathways. You could throw in an interesting revision like Closer To God, a feminine wet dream like Into The Forest, which is a girl power fantasy couched in patented nonsense, and still come away feeling like you’ve seen the same film five times. A Slate contributor with better access than I was onto this years ago. Much like the encroaching mono culture surrounding our vegetable and food crops, your standard movie is synchronized according to the same beats in the script, making it all into mediocre content which doesn’t even shoot for a distinctive sensibility, let alone feel memorable. We still discuss Ordinary People because it took the types evolved within its ensemble and made them frightening, and in some ways unforgettable, something on which the title capitalizes, branded through our skin by Mary Tyler Moore. Hirsch suffers by comparison in this throwaway excuse for suspense, but it is more than that. To reverse the pyramid, since I don’t give a flying fuck about not spoiling it, Hirsch’s character once played Manchurian Candidate games for the American government, so it therefore logically follows that a Vietnam veteran who snapped stalks and tortures the children of his therapist, and a sad dying man reveals all so that recovered memories don’t create another Amityville Horror sequel. Wechsler has no excuse for his story, not even the consequences of napalm. All the guild does in this film is intimate that Authority’s folly reverberates for cheap thrills through the generations. It is a shame, because within his pseudo-intellectualism, Hirsch seems to wish to convey that liberalism without boundaries is lost in a fog. He has done this before in short dramatic roles: an obstetrician diagnosing Tay-Sachs disease, or a newspaper publisher paying lip service to diversity without looking too closely at the familial ugliness beneath. In various ways, Hirsch is a more subtle Woody Allen, taking a piercing, critical look, at the much vaunted Jewish secular liberalism. As experienced through VNA’s Nancy Lotz, Jewish secular liberalism annihilates all in its path, and does so regardless of the fact that the dowager gave as good as she got. These women are impossible, and I mean fucking impossible, willing to carve my flesh into cannibalistic shares for the doorsteps of the Program, only to discover, when the dust of the Sinai clears, that we want the same goals. I had a job offer in October before these technical catastrophes, and now a West African disposes of my fecal puss daily, like a large wildebeest female stricken by parasitic brain spores the dowager has to shoulder without an exotic animal license. I think anyone in reasonable health would have imploded by now, hit the destruct button, though we’re never told why Farrell gets to play survival of the fittest against a rather weary Hopkins. Poyart makes an equally cheap point about euthanasia, hoping his audience will remain perplexed. I am, as I’ve written repeatedly, sympathetic to mercy killing; for those who’ve had enough I believe in its legality. Poyart seems to think those gifted with precognition will settle the matter. The FBI will be just fine with that.

Grace Achieved Through Brutal Contingency

The red-team approach makes sense in the military and in consumer and technology companies, where assumptions about enemy strategy or a competitor’s plans are rooted in unknowable human choices. --Governor Whitman

Early on in my libertarian flirtation, I challenged Austin Petersen in what I hoped was friendly jostling, and he followed me back, then cautioned me on a gaffe which I did not have to make. If I explain this it will come out a bit droll, but nevertheless: I thought I could recycle a political bone out of Bush v Gore, due to a factoid from a Christine Todd Whitman opinion piece that bugged me some odd eighteen years ago, the percentage she cited. Al Gore lost his home state of Tennessee by 6 points, and had he actually carried his home state, the electoral college and the popular vote would have aligned in 2k. It baffled me that the Vice President didn’t carry his base. A local told me they thought Austin was from Tennessee, and I tagged him in error, thinking out loud on Twitter, something none of us should ever do. I explained to him that my synapses were fumbling for a story. I now know he is in quest of Missouri voters. As I’ve warned, droll, and my gratitude that he put me on his feed would have led to a rapid deflection, as he chastised that a block would ensue for off topic tags. I confused him without meaning to do so, and have come to respect him since then. But he and I are nearly polar opposites. He has the promise of his ambition. I have the scars of the welfare state. He is a social liberal. I’m not, wavering as I am, high risk invalid, with a natural inclination to purse my lips in disapproval. This would contrast sharply with his political smile, and, not that I want to shock the left, but I can see what they see: libertarians are about the alchemy of turning flax into gold. Cryptocurrency busts and the Apple fetish in Steve Jobs lifetime has the glint and weakness of chrome to it, but the left also blinds itself to the brutal truths libertarians like Austin aren’t fearful to point out. Healthcare is no more a right than unicorns are part of the equestrian family. Paul Krugman’s brain would explode if he actually applied himself to Maximus and public housing, since he sees all this as not enough expenditure. Having lived and fought and broken myself on it most of my life, throwing money at it doesn’t oxidize bureaucracy with a healthy metabolism. Some ambitious lawyer needs to sue over Maximus's centralization. It is probably an anti-trust issue.

I cannot tackle the decomposing carcass this evening, but the Commonwealth is in serious trouble with its astringent Medicaid allocations. It was always bad, but hell apparently has a guest suite in the Wolf residence. Libertarians are weak on healthcare for good reason. In rationed form, it is an aggregate enforced by public policy, like everyone getting vaccinated, these days, even that has resistance.

Earlier tonight, Adam Kokesh pulled a Petersen, and put me in his feed. And that was also an astonishment. I follow him because establishment media players know the potential for anarchy generates page views, and if my tongue in cheek column about his Liberty On The Rocks invite ran as news in Google once, I can do that again, presuming the immigrants don't hand me a malpractice claim on a platter. If everyone in PA knows Maximus is rot, I had a professional tell me that, and that Liberty Resources is a bad joke, I don't see why they don't fix it. The Olmstead Act, in context, is meaningless. Trump did not compile this deadwood. I am not entirely on board with Trump's hostility to healthy eco-systems, but I also never was a rave EPA enthusiast either.

Despair, Numb toppings

My tone has only been moderated of late out of fatigue, but my caustic bite will invariably imperil me in short order. Attendant care coordination used to be part of my job, but whether Medicaid Waiver Services were centralized into Pennsylvania's Independent Living Enrollment under Corbett or Wolf,  Maximus is a centralized Marxist obscenity, and I have absolutely no idea how to survive it. The system is worse than any of the nigger stories I've told you, just the system, which is a hornet's nest of cheap immigrant labor. I hear my followers plummeting even as I write this, knowing we all grow frail and need support, but this intake system is a disaster. The broker I met yesterday said it covers the entire Commonwealth. Hundreds of residents have probably died, or lapsed into a coma, waiting for services to kick in.

I have no more reason to live, not after this round, recuperating and failing at the same time. None, and my body stresses may not leave me much choice, soon, whether I hope to save my published works or not. The grandmothers valiantly attempting to restore me cannot see my rapid before and after prolapse in on myself, so much so the little suicide plan in my head won't work to the extent I've regressed. It isn't that I want to die, I just know depending on blacks is tantamount to a fatality, and whites ain't gonna spare me. I know it already. I cannot be a good ideological libertarian being crushed by entitlements, and if I have more time than I believe, I am campaigning for euthanasia. I part company with all who think this marginalization maintains dignity, and when I do meet the case manager, I am going to end up pissing her, him, off.

Kindling Off the Plate

What I want, which I do not have, insofar as I’m aware, is for a prominent conservative to look at disability, trim away the Orwellian pork rinds, and come up with something less draconian than what Harrisburg has done with Maximus, and I want it despite the aphorism that stipulates doing it yourself. People generally pay attention to recognized personalities, and not to me, unless I am blatantly illegal, and when I’ve pushed that envelope, I have paid on a personal level, let alone social media drubbings and my oscillations of up and down. The Speaker has *said* something charitable on occasion, and I gave him the savant-cute hug, prior to his failure on healthcare, for his highlights. There is James Woods too, expending his industry capital as an ambassador. This is a good thing, and brought my attention to him, which prior to Twitter had been casual. Praise is deposited where due, but Woods is an actor keeping his profile relevant, not an analyst who can influence policy. It doesn’t have to be a Briton like Niall Ferguson or Andrew Sullivan,  (obviously outraged beyond consolation in my link) but someone like them would be useful.

I have taken my potshots at Andrew, very unfairly, as he is not the “deep state” behind the militancy of disability activism, hoping to goad him into castigating me. Despite the fact that Dr. Ferguson was equally cursory in his own way, and despite the fact that I was once many many years ago merely another spectator scrolling The Dish, it rankled me that a man with such a mind sent me a damn screen shot of my Amtrak building. It is a landmark around center city, but what’s that? Should I have responded with a photo of anti-virals? If I was on equal footing as a disabled female journalist, Sullivan might say you cannot alter the fact I have AIDS, right, so what do you want?

Not being patronized would be a start, as opposed to being challenged. I am also the type of person to get involved and interject myself in socially inappropriate fashion, much like the fictional Dino Ortolani hearing the plea, and smothering a dying AIDS patient prior to his own savage murder. Mercy killings are harder on the actor than the recipient, but have their place.

My solutions are only a partial stab in the muck:

1.       Women need to curb high risk obstetric births. If an infant is not viable without acrobatics, allow it to die. I agree with male authority that women with children and without have gone too far.

2.      If the above assertion is to be dismissed, families with such children need better planning, as any parent can die unexpectedly or otherwise.

3.      Look for areas where technology can reduce the dependence on caretakers.

4.      Architects can solve many of these problems without that much inconvenience to ambulatory majorities.

5.      Institutional innovation is rather long in the tooth. This needs to be addressed.

Rubies of Fixated Pollination

She was my favorite daughter, a wailing mother

 One of the saddest and most irrelevant foreign spousal murders which could ever have been brought to the attention of the American viewer is that of Varkha Rani, a Hindi woman who, according to the dictates of caste and tradition, was a potential, then selected betrothal of Jasvir  Ginday, former employee of the Royal Bank of Scotland. In the YouTube video uploaded amid the furor of the trial, there is an insert of her mother’s outcry, before the eye is drawn back to the celebratory and vivid costume of their wedding day, a still photo of which leads The Independent’s byline, Ginday’s mauve turban, Rani’s veil and dress of translucent pinks. Under the long serving terms of Narendra Modi, such a lavish assertion of Hindu identity is as much a post-colonial place card as a Muslim hijab, and might even be reassuring to classicists who find comfort in preserving these said  traditions, if it wasn’t for the fact that this matchmaking ceremony was a façade. Ginday acquiesced to his mother’s matrimonial wishes to conceal a homosexual lifestyle which The United Kingdom’s ever burgeoning liberalism allowed him to pursue, and Rani, allegedly perplexed with Jasvir’s lack of desire for her, as the investigation reconstructed the timeline, discovers her husband’s ruse. Jasvir crushes her windpipe out of fear with a weapon of opportunity, then incinerates her body in a domestically purchased incinerator, pointedly referred to by presiding Judge John Warner as a “meticulous” plan for disposal. What it wasn’t was a particularly logical construct for not being outed, which is why it became a story with enough teeth to gain international notice, roiling through  The Hindustan Times and other Indian outlets to earn a lede in the BBC, which aimed for a fall-from-grace approach, emphasizing Jasvir’s mugshot, purportedly with Varkha’s scratches on his face, indicative of her attempt to survive. Once court reporters had finished wringing their hands with this new wave pathological behavior, hardly in need of further sensationalizing, it then became a tawdry documentary reenactment, repackaged in mildly playful series like How (Not) to Kill Your Husband, whose staying power is reflective of an anodyne for the incredulous and discarded to rally around John Walsh.

Marriages of appearance have been deployed as optimization commands for centuries. Henry VIII turned the Mosaic concept of divorce into a mechanism of ridicule which diminished imperial authority. The union of Charles and Diana made the continued reign of Winsor problematic; Governor Schwarzenegger’s merger with the Kennedy’s through Maria Shriver failed in terms of cementing a political legacy, but these are about prominence and suspension of disbelief, whatever questions they pose about the success of monogamy or its circumvention. If Jasvir Ginday wanted a token heterosexual union to work, (it’s difficult to know) such as that between Charles Laughton and Elsa Lanchester, the public at large can still surmise, and has, that springing this on a nascent bride from the British Empire’s territorial crown jewel was overwhelming, even cruel in terms of its malignant narcissism. Killing Rani and then deliberately cremating her remains because she reacted in hurt and repulsion only accentuated how such malignancy escalates, leaving  those with sympathy for this young woman wondering if the penalty imposed, 21 years to life, wasn’t this side of too lenient. Elsa Lanchester didn’t have the benefit of Rani’s cell phone technology, but the devastation she expresses is as relatable as Varkha’s, who didn’t have the benefit of time to absorb such a manipulative deceit against her. The impetuosity of youth, the status of women in India in its restive independence, these items are no excuse for the febrile impotency of patriarchal insecurity burrowing itself in the undercurrent of social norms. This case also provides ample proof that homosexual activists don’t have the last word on the ever expansive progressive tent. Hinduism, by its very nature, expresses a certain degree of fluidity, hence there was no Christian condemnation waiting in the wings if this man had told mamma the truth. There may have been other consequences brought about by familial conservative mindsets, betrayal, disappointment, but none of that was worth the savagery of this “gay panic”. Sociologists might look at this crime as a failure of assimilation between the former ruling power and the nation it helped to equip once beyond the cataclysms of the 20^th century, but the failure may also lie with Britain’s leftist radicalism. Two years after Jasvir Ginday ignited the media’s oft puritanical mindset, in the opening year of Theresa May’s conservative Brexit government, Gordon Semple died in Stefano Brizzi’s flat, in an even more grisly autoerotic accident. How Brizzi squared his conscience in the limited evidence of life he offered his prison wardens, in the year before his death in the winter of 17, is between him and his troubled faith, but Semple was a constable, a middle-aged man with a partner at home, who should have had some knowledge of the seediness vice squads are still expected to contain, but there he was, on CCTV, casually scrolling through Grindr, looking for a hook up. No safety net in Andrew Sullivan’s extraordinary success with gay marriage here. Why should there be? The sexual revolution has emphatically taken the closet off its hinges.

Viva Zurita!

Thank you Mr Woods. This of all days was just what I needed to here. Dec 5th diagnosed with Stage IV Mantle Cell Lymphoma. It is in all my lymph nodes spleen bone marrow and blood seems hopeless bu I believe in miracles

— KathyB👠 (@BrandensteinKat) December 13, 2017

I am not back as a working writer yet, let alone journalist. I am in somewhat of a holding pattern: Am I dying or not? If Mike and I don't slay each other in mutual hostility toward rationed health services, can I restore my former lateral transfer functions or not? I can still take a piss in the ladies urinal designed for a vulva, but I am inhibited about fecal defecation in disposal briefs, and this inhibition is wreaking digestive havoc. Bed pans are just as problematic for these poor infantile immigrants who feed off me and tend to me badly. Libertarians can take a moral lesson from the fact that in my own squalor I was still thriving. Nine weeks into a power chair breakdown, streamtolled by domestication under Presbyterian hypocrisy, I have chest pains, continual bronchial congestion in my lung, all this from forced dependency, overlong stays in a generic, and bad, hospital bed, and black women who disposed of my personal effects yet once again. How often do you think objects that form part of your identity can be discarded, as if you were so much less than human, by one fucking rental agent, and none other, from the age of 23? Any circumstance can trigger dying unexpectedly. A number of us may have been struck by the story of the Texan contractor so rapidly stricken simply through the process of being a recovery optimist. The city of Philadelphia took 31 years to waste me into a despairing old woman, who, for all her brain power, allowed contradictory impulses and desperately broken trusts to do her in. The old white women from the Visiting Nurses Association trying to keep me afloat amount to little more than a vague exercise in incompetence. It offers one insight into both male misogyny and execution squads. I am sure most libertarians would consider cleanliness valuable, and it is not that I don't. I simply valued my independence more, and stayed clear of pressure sores, until now, and rashes. Sure, no one wants to kill me because I'm a spastic quadriplegic, but forced compliance causing my death? I am just one ever so slightly less anonymous life who related well to Adam's preaching skills when he turned prostate cancer into a parable about the collective majority and individual opposition on twitter. It was well done, and remains my only insight into libertarian philosophy and good grooming. I retweeted the above bit of moral poignancy from Woods' traffic, like anyone, trying to lift the embattled soul's spirit, but I'd never let it get that far, never would. Holding pattern. Save and publish, hang on? Recover? That is a very deep vortex.

Shtako, Defiantly

"Stop complaining."

If the videos posted to social media on the subject have a modicum of authenticity, there are those on the right who allege that Moore’s loss to Doug Jones was a conspiracy; they ought to be applying that disbelief in the voting to examining why he was allowed to secure the nomination in the first place. The Troy Messenger cites Shirley Reddoch as saying that Moore’s run off victory against Strange sent “a clear statement”. Yeah, a clear statement that Trumpian methodology has sent Republicans into freefall. Even the fact that New York’s mogul in chief supported Moore is a contradiction in terms. President Trump proclaimed often enough during the primaries that he was a businessman. In that light, going against rational conservative objections to support Moore, such as those voiced by Toomey, made the president look like a mouth piece for an authoritarian regime in trouble, as opposed to a shrewd political strategist. George Wallace, to whom Moore has been compared, might have been the inflammatory bigot of his day, but when he could still walk, he stepped aside rather than be arrested by the military who insured that Brown v. Board of Education was enforced, proving that he was a realist unwilling to sacrifice himself for what he purportedly believed. Wallace has even been vindicated in part, if you examine urban school districts for any great length, given that economics have re-segregated pubic schools. The accusations of molestation were not dispositive, but they rode on an irrational wave of hysteria which bodes ill for the republic. Moore has a right to be as dogmatic as he wishes, but separation of church and state is an abiding principle of American pluralism, and has no place in the federal legislature. It signifies how much Catholic temperance has failed to reign in the fervor of American evangelical factionalism in the US, despite Niall's admiration of our "work ethic'" in apparent abeyance at the moment.

The Trump presidency: tragedy or comedy? https://t.co/TdUbGvkXP0 pic.twitter.com/Z8v32GGVLu

— Niall Ferguson (@nfergus) December 17, 2017

The left has essentially lost its mind, and the right seems hell bent on swallowing its own tail, which leaves the dowager, in her suffering under the wondrous rationing of the welfare state, and her faulty consumer decisions, severely disconcerted. I want conservatives to succeed, to roll back the drawbridge, even as my options grow ever more tenuous, and the toll of bad mechanics weakens me as I enter my seventh year past 50. My well being and my health are in jeopardy, and the fact that I have Medicare and Medicaid amounts to negligible quality control, ever steadily forcing me into an acute crisis, not mitigating it, after everything I’ve been through, the wheelchair vendor has left me in a situation which amounts to daily torture, imprisoned on a consumer hospital bed on which I can barely move, and I am still with the right, even if the state GOP is ignorant of how incapacitated I am, how negligent my care is, white professionals and black unskilled labor alike just rushing in and out of a section 202 which I technically evacuated ten weeks ago. It is this very cruelty, which is the business of poverty, which leaves me unrepentant, despite the fact that personalities like Niall Ferguson can only acknowledge the brutal truth of unremitting indigence. Yeah, it has gotten better: sixty years ago or more, before Judy Garland offed herself, I might have been in a rubber room with tards, perhaps beaten to death for my temper rather than threatened with disruption by Blogger for being a militant. I’m an upgrade, from no voice at all to Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, with all the requisite lack of forgiveness, for failure, embedded in stark negativity, while transplanted Britons frolic in amazement at the farce of the west wing before them. Niall himself has been pacified into a degree of disingenuousness. Whatever his former diffidence about the homosexual psyche, in its refreshing honesty, he is of course friends with a petulant AIDS stricken apostolic queer like Andy. Birds of a feather, imperial voices with paternalistic eyes watching over its troubled Infante Terrible, however roiled my country is at present, bawling in colic.

The Consequence of Bad Grooming Result in Hair Chaos

“We've got a 40-year-old allegation that is unprovable, probably,” Toomey said.

I have not weighed in on the Roy Moore candidacy, and don’t particularly care to, as I know nothing of the man in his own voice, and I am not into the MAGA fetish. I voted for Donald, but it was a vote cast on the basis of reaction against the Clintons, perhaps due to hilarity as well. I looked for ways to defend him, initially, and take responsibility for that, in my annoyance with Wapo, but as my survival has come up against a landslide of falling rocks annulling me into paralysis, I have become disaffected, not that my circumstances are the GOP’s fault. But I weary of this fake news tabloid mindset of the president, to echo Ed Rogers, and think the administration has been in place long enough now to sober up and execute, as my subversive amusement wans, and my defiance has to pit itself against diaper rash. Moore's rise in the spotlight, though he is well known in his state, is perhaps attributable to the cultural backlash I warned against when I gave my readers, incredulous or confused as they might be, personal details about the gay and lesbian predominance in groups like ADAPT and Not Dead Yet.

In point of fact, to summon up my antagonist, once again, I only saw Jimmi Shrode earlier this year, near to the onset of autumn, and he did not seem well. The cuddly ugly queen phase, when he would wear green eyeshadow and black nail polish, seems to have been discarded. He was walking with a pronounced limp, a cane, thinned out, as if he was evading belligerents such as I have been, and I wondered if he had been in an altercation, despite the fact I’ve long been out of orbit. Roy Moore’s extremism when it comes to homosexuals may seem commensurate with the dowager’s darker inclinations, but his collective condemnation is against the whole: my personal experiences have taught me that toleration is a double-edged sword.

I have read the media alarmists who feel the man’s doctrinal fidelity is an indicator of mental affect, to put it mildly.  Senator Toomey has expressed sympathy with those who allege molestation, and feels Moore should have stepped down, a position which has probably aligned him with Casey in a bipartisan gesture toward comity, but blood in the water is manifest in a myriad of casualties. I never imagined Lizza would be among them, not that I can recollect what his contributions were under Marty that earned my respect. We need to put the brakes on this misconduct hysteria, and I say that as someone irrevocably damaged. I am heartened that Lizza is saying wait a minute. If he had a prior consensual relationship, there may be a red herring in these polluted currents.

I have followers who may be considered devout, but Roy is less rational conservative, more literalist. These fissures in the body politic have come and gone before with the Christian Coalition, but this controversy is inopportune, again, distracting us from functioning.

Robert Preston's Cloudburst, Joe Scarborough's Alarms

If Oz was the first serial prison drama on HBO, there are a few scenes in the early episodes which seem too convenient, or gratuitous. The elimination of the Schibetta’s without much pushback from the families who once ran New York, while clever, smacks more of an Agatha Christie murder mystery than any real life crime syndicate. The godfathers weren’t that stupid, nor so blind as to not be able to put two and two together, even if their power was on the wane at the time Fontana created the show. Walker’s Said rejection of Governor Devlin’s clemency is too  strident, regardless of what sociology teaches about recidivism. If Kareem had been a real life figure the Catholic Church itself might have been hard pressed not to nominate the man for sainthood. His entire character arc is passive aggressive martyrdom, riot and fundamental flaws in justice aside; and though one might ask why a lawyer guilty of vehicular homicide would be placed in Oz, while acknowledging that rape and physical torture desensitize, Beecher’s slasher killing of the relatively civil Nazi Metizer strains credulity, just as Alvarez blinding Officer Rivera is medieval barbarity, even for a hard time facility. That type of mutilation, goaded into or not, falls into the category of sensational gore on display for shock value. Fontana doesn’t know what to do with the character after the graphic reverberation of the assault, and it can be considered a failed story line upon which Krauthammer’s “blame the culture” mantra may be duly aimed, spilling right into the Dick Wolf universe like a stream out of time continuum, a prelude to hard boiled Baked Apple.

Although I was aware of Meloni being in the cast when I put the first season on my watch list, I had no idea I would be playing musical chairs with eighteen years of Law & Order spin offs. Barring the majority of Wolf’s big guns, every Law & Order recur is there, like a revolving door from cable’s seepage into network, Erbe the delusional child killer marinating into Kathryn Erbe street wise sidekick, Simmons the Aryan potbelly to Simmons the urbane criminal analyst. Eamonn Walker, even Edie Falco, let alone that Meloni is barely credible as Keller. Yet I did a partial run through to season three to remind myself how miserable progressive outrage marred my life, stark inner city, sterile public housing, so much calamity, now fighting and failing and wasting every medically subsidized dollar into an acute ulcer, or a bad case of heartburn. I was never vain about much, but my long hair is ugly silver, matted beyond decency, an owl’s nest, with ill trained Africans driving me insane, all due to poorly rationed technology. Even my attempt to hang tough for the sake of my published work seems a dismal exercise, amidst a streaming glut which hasn’t proven itself a healthy anchorage. Austin Petersen had a couple of interesting tweets about big corporate which made me think it is no longer such a sharp divide, Marxist to free market models, but my big event this morning is rolling my torso on the hospital bed by myself. I’d like to torch it.

Elbow Curvatures, Cast Off

You can also be addicted to hate.-- the manufactured paraplegic of Emerald City

Even though the majority frame it this way, and this includes me, and Blogger, in my antipodean merger of aggression and trolling and gleefully rationalized spree killing, mourning that I shall never have the luxury of splitting Richardson’s skull open before disappearing into the dusk: the nigger with her protruding frog eyes and buck teeth conniving, she has beaten me. She contracted my father and his sister into hiring a cleaning service which wiped out my command of my domain. I did give my notice, but it is extreme duress not to have any control of my own space, and in a power chair in which my strength has been wasted. I cannot use this bucket seat for anything else but driving myself around, with emaciated ligaments screaming at me in pain to quit. I’m crying in small episodes, revealing my darker side to this sumo wrestler Muslim I lose in 13 days. She is a stupid fat bitch, hurting and bruising me up, and this is the dues I’ve paid to the Obama Administration. I cannot be ugly with the stupid fat Muslim without generating more crisis. It’s Barry Levinson, it’s Oz, at a pace more malingering and cruel, only slower. My only crime: getting overwhelmed with poor central planning and bad nutrition, living past 55. I might as well be nigger prag (not that I’ve translated the slang for prison rape) not that anyone is fool enough to engage in domestic insurrection for me. The joke is orthopedic medicine and disability activism hasn’t tortured me enough: the ambulatory majority, applying brute force, telling me to adapt, has decimated my strength, and when you’re bowed down in concentric circles, in such a fashion, the deployment of free speech, advocating for men like Craig Brittain only illustrates the fact that aligning myself to the far right hasn’t deregulated me into a safe haven. I messaged Craig once after Twitter allowed him to return. Could he pick me up at the Texas border? Dead serious, I did not persist, and no libertarian has truly befriended me. Suicide, or regimented agony until I careen into the inevitable death spiral, digital connections have left me on my own. Not that it was my right to impose on Mark, across the pond, or even Craig, but I was looking for an individualist willing to at least partially take on the burden I represented, they themselves not realizing, Craig, particularly, that companies are not beholden to the First Amendment. Jack has the perfect right to give Twitter the personality of a smore, and Google can shut me down for my embrace of violence as part of the simian psyche out of which we evolved, though in my case, it is more for an agenda than indiscriminate mayhem. It is now amusing that I was willing to take a ban for a cautious oddball who dumped my account despite my loyalty. What does it matter now? My anus, urethra, every bit of my biology weakened. Nine weeks, a cacophony of bitches telling me this is how it has to be, unless I have the strength for poison, if I haven’t waited too long.  

Cuba Gooding Jr’s Barrel Run Through a District Thoroughfare

"You took a bullet for the man. No one could ask for more than that."-- James Woods, the initial downgrade phase

All this time, with the disposable underwear chaffing sores on the underside of my thigh, it turns out, recognition clicking like a tumbler, that I would have been able to recognize Amber Tamblyn if I had connected her accusation of James Woods to her starring role in Joan of Arcadia. The show runs at one am on Start TV, unbeknownst to the dowager until recently, this latest syndicate, seemingly distinguishing itself with stock serials less edgy than Shades of Blue, and that series was too edgy for its network audience. But Arcadia is quirky and corny, rounds its characters out with affection, condescending neither to them nor viewers of the show in its playful syncretism. Never one to admire Mary Steenburgen’s range, here she was correctly cast as a homemaker reaching outward. Seems to be what she’s good at. I lost touch with the show after the network brought in Lucifer for poor Joan to counterbalance, and reentered it at the point where Jason Ritter’s Kevin  discovers a conservative bent in his writing skills is a useful outlet for his anger over his paraplegia. The writers, however, rarely, if ever, never allow conservatism its due, and allow Mantegna to dress down his son’s ego for upending a leniency deal for a thief trying to support his child.

Yes, Amber’s down to earth sensibilities made me reconsider her accusation against James Woods. I’ve reflected on what this “pass” which he claims is a lie says about his taste as a sixty year old, and have decided not to side with either actor, simply because asking a minor out on its face isn’t illegal. The imprecation in the contention between them is only the possibility of statutory rape, not its inevitable conclusion, and as I’ve written, none of us can know whether or not he intended to take it that far.

End Game, for a political thriller, was only noteworthy because it appears to be a lethal Clinton era critique, in which Woods’ character, a rather ambient Secret Service Director, sacrifices himself for a first lady more alluring and stylized than Hillary. Perhaps the studio thought not providing Warren Commission answers was the film’s selling point, in its disjointed jump cuts, but it does provide us with the James Woods as we have him today, in his war of wills with a hornless ram like Jack Dorsey.

The Fraudulent Familiar

Opioid drugs work as analgesics by binding at opioid receptors in the brain.-- H.J. McQuay

James Woods simplifies what I would convolute. His followers are “friends”. He is invigorated by his interactions with them, and since I have utilized the noun in the same fashion with my small following in turn, my hesitation to embrace the notion of virtual connection friendships seems unwarranted, or perhaps developmental damage makes my emotional demands unseemly. In terms of the actor, I never much preoccupied myself with his performances. The opening story in Cat’s Eye was yet another insufferable Stephen King satire. Woods had his fun with it, an early signal of libertarian rebellion. I never thought too much of his cocaine feature, which his tweet reminded me was titled The Boost. Ebert hits the right keynotes, but this hustling isn't a resonating force for me. Shark came and went, more television legalese, with fictive passion. Cop was typical of the Reagan era; he does project mania well, as he discussed in an interview with Terri Gross, and there are feature films which would undoubtedly enthuse me, but Twitter brought the man to my attention and appreciation. Warmed me up as a fan, if never a trophy commodity with sexuality to open the door. He allows his humanism to reveal itself, in contrast to Mia Farrow, who hides behind her righteous liberal indignation. Sometimes we use formality of address in tweeting to him, but the majority of us know that device familiarity is not face to face, and though I’ve written to him that he doesn’t intimidate me, a hypothetical meeting would leave me unsure of my footing, initially at least, though he seems more personable than many in the industry. This might be the confidence of age as much as the insulation of fame. I support perhaps 75% of his political assertions. This includes his outrage over the Steinle trial. I read the alternate juror’s Politico piece, and while first degree murder was a stretch, Zarate had no business picking up a gun. It should have been an involuntary manslaughter verdict. This continuing progressive implosion makes Woods and his December leanings towards women sixteen years and above old school, doesn’t tarnish the pleasure his timing gives me; I do not sense any sordid skeletons in his closet, though Hollywood lives and subverts itself on scandal and dirty money, slavers to insure, in our world weariness, that seediness clings to legends like spores. (This references my nausea over Spacey’s sexual orientation more than Woods, as I was sexually attracted to the former and I am not spent with feeling infuriated.) I have no reason, as well, to disbelieve Amber Tamblyn’s claim, but can assert the same for Woods: the least of my problems when I was sixteen was fending off the passes of older men not connected to my hyper sexual mother, and think Amber needs to get over herself. If she felt threatened due to this episode, she could have contacted authorities, so, why is she indicting Woods in his twilight years? Was he aggressive, threatening? His claim that her recollection is a fabrication may have another meaning, as in, I meant no harm, but it isn’t for me to judge, and I fail to see why this has to be held over the actor’s head. We all have indiscretions.

Now, with all the above qualifications, with what his tweets have taught me about him, and my one sided responses to him on disability and my ever withering dismay over living inside my own head, are we friends? No, though he was using the designation as mannered social intelligence. Could we be? An impoverished drowning once semi-pro journalist growing gnarled in her spastic contortions, and a jaded celebrity who speaks his mind? Probably not, for a simple reason: I’d pucker my maudlin invalid face and pull on him. Men who are men are supposed to rescue me, and that would be his role, whatever else the dynamic, on the hypothetical supposition of getting to know one another. This doesn’t mean I won’t approach his publicist on the topic on which this post dwells for my column, presuming I survive my current travail, nor does it mean I will not be a sympathetic interlocutor if I can restore some semblance of my writing life this season. His skill as an actor comes through over time on our micro mighty social media habitat. His wit and charm, though they cannot heal me, makes me feel better. His barbed irony takes me out of myself, and I intend to stay in his corner, because it is a rare gift few others have been able to bestow, VIP or not. Given the bastion of liberalism which foments in the Golden State, San Diego's homeless crisis is incomprehensible. Jerry Brown is the progressive paragon of my youth, and between Pennsylvania's string cheese budget on this end, the hepatitis on the other, perhaps we need to stop submerging ourselves as adversaries. I've dealt with a slew of CA residents on Twitter over the years, and maybe they need to get their minds off beach fronts and Beverly Hills.

Back to Black in a Holy Land Apotheosis

We only said goodbye with words I died a hundred times.-- the late Amy Winehouse

We have followed Glenn Close in her various guises of hedonistic, playful, malevolence over the years. The uproar over Fatal Attraction is now nothing more than a cyclic cultural footnote, especially juxtaposed against the reverberating waves of emasculating feminine outcry, castrating the acculturated like Ryan Lizza and the swine like Harvey Weinstein, and even the pedantic like Al Franken. [Erik Wemple is sometimes more filler than substance, but he nails the bafflement squarely on the head with Lizza’s career. Though Wemple is accurate about employer termination clauses, the case here against the noted eastern analyst seems in need of adjudication. I have no vested interest in salvaging a tenacious liberal like Lizza, and I had my supervisor removed simply for putting her husband’s orgasms and performance in the same sentence, so my alarm may seem hypocritical, but to impugn the man over what has a feel of sour grapes seems to be a loss of proportion…] Dangerous Liaisons might be an extended metaphor for weaponizing the AIDS virus, and it is my favorite Close film in a way that The Big Chill is almost instantaneously a non-entity. Like many performers, however, Close embodies the nefarious enforcer, and she can dial her medical professionals up or down, accordingly, always with a slightly malicious air. There are hideously interesting aspects to The Girl with All the Gifts. The opening scene was the only time I have ever seen wheelchairs used as protective devices for a threatened able-bodied minority, but I am going to go out on a limb and call the narrative evolutionary diabetes of popular culture. I have nothing against women like Carey earning a living off of established zombie conventions, but her motifs come on the cheap. Oh, there are creative instances, a distillation of the bond between teacher and student in merciless institutional settings. Sennia Nanua does an excellent job as monster child heroine with her idealism and principles contrasted with insensate drive, with her savagery toward cats a deliberate poke in the eye. Consumers don’t need a reference website to see McCarthy’s imitations of 28 Days Later, stark geography, stark existence in tandem. The dowager wearies of Walking Dead syndrome.

However much appreciative of British one-upmanship against their American colonial counterparts, the BBC and Channel 4, if not ye old Pinewood Studios, love of humbling redneck reactionaries with an elitist sensibility of how acclimated European minorities are simply isn’t a real world reflection of social mobility, inside a class system or not. And we dare not exclude the French from this contention, since David Baiot is the Remorseful, if corrupting, Homosexual of The Churchmen. Audiences cannot possibly dismiss his fully rounded character Emmanuel as not deserving of ordination and grace, unless it emanates from his conscience, not ours. This diversity outcry from Mcdonald may have accurate demographics, but to the English mindset, there is no such creature as a British African who can flip black counter culture on a half penny. Ask Sophie Okonedo. Any regular PBS viewer knows her as the indispensable token of Great Britain’s sobering success, never mind the empire’s ruthlessness when Jamaican field hands were executed for the sake of sugarcane in the 1840’s. Okonedo is the unflappable gauze bandage, exchanging a prosecuting barrister for an unassuming lesbian like a living hologram. It is in this sense “Melanie” is captivating on the cheap: look at the little black girl behaving like a duchess. This is what sells, African appropriation and elocution of Caucasian table manners. If her predatory ferocity is a survival tool in the new world order, exactly what that is in Carey’s disaster remains mystifying, since we have little idea if the fungal symbiosis of the third generation will essentially wind up being the jealous plants of the body snatchers. Contrary to what my audience reads here, I treat the Muslim Saran quite well, especially since my bitterness is beyond her comprehension. I let her have a few dollars here and there, and she has no idea I’d ship her right back to West Africa, that I examine her like a foreign invader who will invariably destroy my United States. If she understood this intolerance, she would weep, and perhaps marvel at the strength of its roots, ingrained by self-inflicted alienation, among other things. Some journalists take the bull by the horns and equate Trump’s behavior with mental disease, and these are in the majority. Will, Sullivan, Joe Scarborough. Wiser men like Ed Rogers see Trump’s behavior as unpleasant, remembering that none of us are expert at psychiatric classification. I am impatient with certain aspects of Trump’s crass, but as someone long wading the trenches of expendability, every time I distance myself from his bluster, the left swings me right back with what is indicative of hysteria. There is still entertainment to be had in making Jerusalem an apocalyptic focal point simply on the strength of conviction. Jewish Israeli’s have  a divine right because the Torah makes it so, or Trump likes to side with winners, in the simplicity of reasonable accommodation.

Perhaps, within a week, or two, I will stop being let down by Mike’s schedule, (the wheelchair mechanic) I can order a new charger and or trade in my kindles and return to reading, actually passing my stool into our civilized sewer systems, as I could in the fall, and be more forgiving of the turn of the screw. I do not think Trump will necessarily ignite a catastrophic third world war. I also don’t believe the GOP will shield him indefinitely. This doesn’t imply impeachment. His reign isn’t worth what that would entail, but I am no judge of what constitutes mental defect. Isn’t Al Sharpton also a bigoted bully?

Activity As Tolerated

State Department denies Tillerson called Trump a 'moron' --Meghan Keneally for ABC News

If I was into this stiff upper lip business, like my former follower Mark, then I would just wade in with a High Castle analysis, in equal parts pernicious and praiseworthy of Rufus Sewell as John Smith, whose series son did the right thing, turning himself in to the American Reich to be destroyed due to his muscular dystrophy,  
I almost followed suit, with a different diagnosis, almost, and ultimately may not have a choice. My shins are emaciated, like my outmoded hardware. My family is at war over the matter, and the assholes from Adult Protection Services are salivating at the bit to put me away, in the Belmont Avenue hellhole, but a few things are holding me off. Control, the right to say no, and a race to save my published work. I can blame this vendor, but only in part. The power chair isn't bad, whether or not he overcharged me. It drives well. I remain conflicted about keeping it. Adapting to it is something else. I was over ridden, by fearsome matrons in their 60's over replacing my furnishings with a hospital bed, can't use that either, my father, his sister, Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, favorite niggers to hate, annihilated my personal effects, and I am virtually choking to death to lose the 52 year old West African immigrant keeping me alive. She is Muslim, hyper and ignorant as much as caring. We clash daily. She is rough and hurts: only when these ruthless Marxists do their final assessment can I lose Sarrin, if I choose. We all have to fail biologically-- but I just keep taking too many punches, and my ligaments are starting to buckle. Holding my weight, which just eight weeks ago I could manage, is now being contested. Arthritis. But I still have some fight, my hair matted beyond rescue, at the moment.

I lost approximately 18 social media accounts since October, in my semi-anguished outcry, perhaps rightly. Old invalids moaning, after all. Credit Austin for staying with me, along with some others, but I am a bit sore at Mark Antro. He has the right to drop what accounts he pleases, but I'm his ally and thought we were friends, and I mean friends. I am too battle scarred to have a cougar interest in him, but I support him. He seemed puzzled by what he claimed were my 'attacks'. What attacks? For me an attack is telling Paul Krugman he is a fucking fascist at heart. That's an attack.

I always respected Mark and defended him against his critics; having tuned down my woe meter, however, I gained 3 or 4, including, inexplicably, Ed Rogers. Unless I am in error, I remember Ed's more active political currency. I respect his voice, and in the revolving door of preference, followed him earlier, having dropped Jennifer Rubin. I only 'unfollowed' Ed as a traffic issue, tweeted a positive on his Trump tabloid piece. Voila. I've no idea why I've been so graced, and mentioned it to my novelist poet colleagues with astonishment, as only the Trinity knows if the universe has a contracted byline left for a vulgar Italian in her spastic frailty. Is a Principal calling Trump a moron insubordination? If it's merely academic, I tweeted to mogul man "to get his fucking act together". Nothing doing. 

Flushed Cries of Distress

 I am not Howard Stern." --Charlie Rose, in a post operative interview with Terry Gross, a preemptive strike indicating how much we all owe Howard Stern 

As my follower Jason Dorwart is aware, sexual pride is important in the progressive disabled community. I’ve written about it in somewhat explicit fashion in earlier years, nor am I the only formerly indoctrinated and embittered outcast to be censored in search and have page views suppressed because of it. Far more confident paraplegic females have had instructional videos removed from You Tube by Google over the issue, and in extending an olive branch to ableism, the dowager was sympathetic. Reading the narratives of shared experience takes us only so far, and whereas sexual activity may leave certain women ambivalent, others may be happy in pushing boundaries. Harassment and hostile environment is the flip side of this coin, and having been through these trials, my viewers may think I’d find the scoop by Irin Carmon and Amy Brittain commendable. Eight testimonials illustrate a pattern of conduct similar to those which besieged Cosby into an opaque court case, and Rose, like other lesser PBS titans, stayed at the top of his game far past Medicare eligibility. He was bound to be forced into retirement at some point, given that his facial features in a live interview setting occasionally cast a ghoulish aspect to his profile.

What is seemingly intractable, however, is the incongruity of his cultural and political excellence juxtaposed against behavior we more readily expect to emanate out of the Playboy mansion. From my point of view, it is less about power, in Rebecca Traister’s micro-post, and more about a legacy of excellence tarnished less by the heinous aspects and more by the hideousness foisted on all of us by entropy. Look at everything he has done to explore issues with his audience, his lengthy segments taking psychiatric medical model treats seriously, even with enthusiasm by his guests. Rose is a robust believer in cooperative treatment in a way the spastic dowager is not, dissecting the clinical aspects of his heart disease with more than one eminent cardiologist, in an envious lust to hang on to the quality of his life. He channeled the outrage felt by the public over the Iraq war to joust with Donald Rumsfeld over the destruction of a regime and a society which later devolved under Obama into a puppet state. Judy Woodruff commended him on his scoop with Assad when the Syrian theatre was hot. There are too many probative conversations to list which amount to a daunting legacy. If it seems I am coming perilously close to advocating a grin and bear it approach, which is what my humiliation has amounted to since 1999-- no, not quite. I'm merely suggesting, much as with Roman Polanski, that being the best at something shouldn't be entirely forgotten, and though there is a rush to being a journalist on deadline which extended my lifeline to September 2017, I'm increasingly unhappy with The Washington Post anointing itself as the moral arbiter of feminine esteem. Would I have broken this story, unleashing the #MeToo fury in the public square? What I can say is this: I would have waited to give Rose the benefit of the doubt. We should rehabilitate and honor that ego, whether or not he considers his cardiac issues debilitating, or merely chronic.

Carbon Dating

When I contend with Brian Greene and other physicists on Twitter, effeminate mind altering geeks as they are, I must come off as a blockhead. I cannot compete with them in the mathematical empiricism which illustrates the laws of nature as necessarily fixed, so why do it then? Before giving a direct answer, it may surprise viewers to learn I once did amazingly well in algebra and Euclidian geometry, and even got an A on my chemistry final dragging my sister bitch on a leash. My acumen sharpened or fogged primarily due to despair. In my home districts, I thrived. Outside of them my motivation struggled without the proper covalent bonds, but I never quite lost interest in how Einstein and those who made nuclear war possible revolutionized astronomy. I did not realize, or had serious memory lapses against what I was taught, that stars start out as frozen gas that clumps together, takes 10m to ignite or fail, accordingly, and that our solar system won the lottery with long odds, especially since brown dwarfs are popular failures which do not result in fusion, in theory. Space generates its own dynamism over extraordinarily lengthy periods through vibration, end of story. And yet, theoretical physics borders on tacky space opera in places. Matter may ultimately be a hologram. Time may be an illusion. Dark energy. Anti-matter. Four forces, weak and strong, magnetism. Are we absolutely certain we aren’t attempting to decode god? We cannot really say all that much about our self-awareness, let alone why the particles which configure life are so different from those which configure uranium, or why disease and age and so many other things generate agony, against which pleasure is fleeting. We know joy when we feel it too, but most of life processes itself irrespective of human naval gazing, which is why androids and android sex and zombies and singularities worry our collective social dynamics. I do not think the laws of nature recreates humanity in alternate universes as neatly as the equations of impaction lend themselves to in popular science. This is where my “yes but,” comes in, even if I risk being a Neanderthal, like Ron Perlman in Hand of God. Perlman is always reprising himself as a caveman, and his canceled series challenges materialism in exactly the same way I feel the need to challenge what epistemology gains through radio waves and optics. The pilot episode reveals a conspiracy through hallucinogenic delusion which, just possibly, might be divine revelation coming at a necessary price. Amazon canceled it, so we’ll never know, as its second season seems to meander in corporate evil. The actor who plays Keith (Dillahunt?) was certainly made up to look like a warrior from Judges, conquering Canaan. Going against the grain of established critics, there are things I’ve enjoyed viewing here, if only to observe, in context, why the West Coast is as fucked up as upstate New York.

My mother’s sister telephoned, since I have stopped using Facebook. We ignored my abominable attitude, and the prospect of moving into grandmother’s nursing home went in one ear, as the saying goes. Mary really thinks she is doing the right thing, oblivious to the fact that my sentience is still vital. Marie, the other aunt, accused me of whining, thus generating the enthusiasm of her former married relation, and then hung up. I have my moments, but Marie is wearying me with this constant punishment, as both she and my father contributed to this gradated wasting of my strength. A generic ten year old Quantum extended my strength, and when it blew on 10/02, I didn’t assume I’d be dead in 6 months. Unless I can move the absolute zero of Satan’s forbidding glacial majesty, exchange power chairs, relearn how to maneuver myself to restore some semblance of self-determination, it is possible, without exaggeration. The disposable underwear, the loss of my fish, coffee, toilet usage, the toll may now be too much. Trudy Richardson may not have defeated me with her illegal tactics, but as I’ve written, the stocky lupus African achieved quite a lot with her conniving, linear mindset. I have no love lost over these murders. First I thought one thing, and then said it’s a black problem, and decided not to ripple Twitter’s ions. I am not Milo, quite, but if the handwriting is on the wall, things might get more interesting still, in my quest, if not for grace, then? 

Absorbed Maximale

"I knew what it meant. He knew what it meant."-- a eulogy

Michael Almereyla does more than draw the viewer’s attention to what acting approximates in the 2017 Majorie Prime. One of his major themes is the price of the burdens we carry, encased in a rather skeptical presentation of what we leave behind in the residuals of virtual reality. Senility and suicide present themselves here beyond being an issue of sociological concern. Both as a condition, (dementia) and a destructive act overriding survival (corresponding suicides) Almereyla presents a family stifled and suffocating on itself. Geena Davis, never entirely impressive as the Vitamin D American girl caught in a vortex through association, in her A list days, (The Fly, Thelma and Louise), has mastered the projection of a crabby 60 year old who knows the runaway train is coming, and sends out her warning signals with a certain degree of fatalism. As it is present in the pilot of The Exorcist in her solicitation of the priest, it is present in Majorie Prime in subtler fashion, only in this world Geena’s character is a troubled mother with an equally problematic mother daughter relationship. Tim Robbins, as he does in Code 46, carries the onus of being surly and frustrated vanilla, filling in all these melancholy lacunae until it’s his turn to linger. Hamm has to project being a lifelike composite of a husband we never knew, and almost as Spielberg does in his mawkish afterword in A.I., Michael leaves us with an open ended question about empathetic software mimicking the ghost of the human spirit. We aren’t informed as to whether or not the primes are voluntary, but each character goes through the motions, rebellious resignation in tow. These moral obligations around virtual memory already resonate here and now: Google has rules about what happens if payments for the domain lag, everyone has an opinion about the erasure of Gawker as a distinctive, now archival, media voice, questions swirling about how Peter Thiel defines his libertarian beliefs against a worrisome, and mighty, plutocratic streak. Neither longevity nor voluntarily taking one’s own life appear palatable in Almereyla’s, and by extension, Robert Redford’s vision. To qualify a previous post, I realize the aging potentate of Barefoot in the Park is probably not micro-managing Sundance Studios, but I read cues in this project easily attributable to what we know about Redford’s public person. The column he wrote after Newman’s death stayed with me, in a particularly masculine no nonsense manner.

If we look at where we are headed, through Almereyla's lens and other dystopian minded thinkers, libertarian outcry, if not defeated outright, is always compromised. Kokesh, the boy soldier idealist, envisions a free market utopia, but still plays cowboys and indians with an apparently zealous authority. Harassing stoners, intimidating militant quadriplegics comes easy; mass murder not so much. Nick Gillespie doesn't know where the total lack of boundary and freedom collide; (little did I realize Nick and I have far too much in common) Austin Petersen is aiming for a synthesis so the establishment can satiate his political ambition. How do we all fit under the same tent? More importantly, personal liberty is elusive, as an empirical matter. I need not remind my viewers that I gave notice hours before my power chair's demise, and if it is in any way binding, I'm still here, constricted. For every Fee contributor celebrating market dynamism, there are 15 to 20 Americans like me and my parental generation shackled to a rather troubled medical entitlement system. I heard Adam chant, "the state will fall," like a Baptist hymn. Eventually, the way things are going, it must, as our ability to enact in a concerted effort to change our paradigms, this is limited. On the small scale, however, government processes are already overwhelmed, not to remind you of Flint Michigan, or San Diego's homeless. I have lived five minutes to midnight for a very long time. There is only so much our inner resources can spare.

Shadow Emissions From Brown Dwarfs

[In spite of his refined sensibility Hyacinth Robinson, the little Soho bookbinder, is condemned, as the Princess puts it, “to look at the good things of life only through the glass of the pastry-cook’s window.”]

I did not know that Oprah was also a sexual abuse victim who miscarried the fruits of the violence against her, and it certainly explains what lurks beneath her vivacious veneer, how she transmutes white suffering with the agrarian cracks in black culture; it nevertheless doesn’t remove the irritants of her telegenic superficiality, and the dowager believes this is what Karina doesn’t understand about umbrage against false friends. I think I had enough of that with my former heroine supervisor, Linda Dezenski, who “didn’t understand what I wanted,” when she let me crash land into a near self-inflicted violence. Discussing ideation is one thing, but the turmoil my former colleagues at Liberty left me in is another, and I could have never truly gotten past what happened to me without leaving River Presbyterian Apartments, and since I haven’t managed that, and keep getting punched in the face, I needed to cast off my former Craigslist hire. Karina saw the reality of my situation. Due to this, with a trace of guilt, I overcompensated her, but had a different set of expectations than consoling phone calls, particularly when I was in trouble in October. I had hoped the peripatetic passer would have stepped up to mitigate the stress of my equipment failure. The cues I read in her voice said no way, so I essentially tossed courtesy out the window, and unfriended her. I don’t necessarily dislike flighty blonds with wobbly centers, but this shallowness is the venial American sin. I would not have these same expectations from a women’s interest author like Gretchen Laskas, though she has been in my department with some of her early writings, because mutual physical support is not the foundation of our relationship. Karina, however, accepted how I defined her, rapidly suggested and then retracted a co-habitation, which, if she had more mettle behind her declarations, would have spared me the equestrian braying cruelty of an asshole like “Tom,” Presby’s contracted Holocaust squad leader. I fault conservatives here too, harder as I am on the left, especially Kaisch with his Downs Syndrome anti-abortion bill. Conservatives fight for our lives, but the majority of us wind up as slaves, constricted chattel, unless we have the peculiar genius of Hawking. It may appear that chronic conditions are harder on the precocious, but making that assumption is laurel resting. The mentally retarded know, particularly when entering into adulthood, that the world perceives the threat they pose. Robert Redford tries to cut through this superficiality within his maturity, almost with the force of preponderance in Majorie Prime. Whatever the flaws in its gravity, the revelation of emotional wounds, this futurist dramatic poem is a devastating condemnation of method acting. To that end it’s rather finely tuned, and probably an affectation in the wake of Paul Newman’s terminal cancer. The middlebrow would say Redford is wise, not engaging in a roman a clef, hiding his intent in subtext, but I have an agenda, going to be gone soon, and take my sacrifices. It could be that James Woods, trailing behind Redford some years, doesn’t have the capacity to read my responses, as his followers have steadily increased. In my case, I know I haven’t taken drops simply due to vulgarity, but I do wince, when my fondness leads me to positive attributes, like a solitaire guru, and I face the risk of more abandon if they become aware, but we all know the price of eggs, how difficult broken yolks are to clean away.

51/50, Aftermaths Up The Creek

It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.-- Ambrose Bierce, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

Even with repeated viewings, a film such as Jacob’s Ladder opens with too ponderous and heavy a thud. It is neither a fair representation of the Vietnam experience—most films aren’t—although a vehicle like Rolling Thunder (77) excavates a POW’s psychic duress with devastating impact—nor a fair representation of horror merged in synchronization with its back story. Yes, Danny Aiello provides us with an epigram from Meister Eckhart as a justification for the demonic sequences towards the angelic sensibility of reunification, but Lyne’s direction has too many incongruities to be a good afterlife experience, indicting the Department of Defense through a metaphysical backlash rather than thorough investigation. Why a dying medic dreams himself through a wife and mistress as a postal employee with a deceased Dr. Carson at a veteran’s clinic is anyone’s guess. There are better films out there to touch upon the transcendent, including Vanilla Sky.  At the very least, the writer we have to thank for this enduring template, Ambrose Bierce, manages a seamless tale with An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge, in contrast to Lyne’s camera transitions. Politically, the Civil War emasculated Bierce; stylistically, he is too translucent for my taste, akin to Edgar Allan Poe on methadone, but every writer builds up to the point where we, writers, have the breakout moment of our best pieces, and one sees this in Owl Creek, which resonated with me too upon the obligatory anthology reading. In other words, in an eagerness to relax and actually use the data I’m paying for, I unwittingly selected a film bad enough to have been syndicated numerous times. I may feel that Lyne is a pretentious Carpenter rip off, and feel some pity for the aspirations of Bill Rubin’s original script, but ironically, something clicked in yet this latest perusal of a Tim Robbins’ youthful performance.

His niche, to the extent he has one, is to play the man with whom we identify who is out of his depth. It is evident even in the neo-vigilante apologia narrative of Mystic River, in which Sean Penn fabulously murders the wrong culprit, and it is more than blatantly obvious in Code 23, one of my speculative favorites. Even in Majorie Prime, where the holograms and the human actors alike are dependent on his character, the only one not recreated as a synthetic personality, he is still out of his depth against computer science turning life experience into unwitting travesty. Perhaps, if we pause long enough, it won’t amount to the best we can offer the future.

Kapax

Never despair. -- Easy enough for the Argentine

In recent days, my skills languishing because I allowed technical collapse to get ahead of me, I cried out to the former slum bishop of Buenos Aires as if I really did believe him as Santo Padre, while I cursed my mother's sister on Facebook with a level of blaspheme I usually reserve for racial animus . Few, if any of you. truly understand the despair of helplessness, and turn away, unless you yourself are in its thick: It isn't just age, it's the relentless cruelty against helplessness itself. I have been assaulted, physically, emotionally, since nine years of age, and no one looking at me knows how to square this. I coped, not always well, but coped, because I knew I did not need to depend on others as long as the wheelchair and body functioned together. This is, temporarily or not, gone. So I will face more abuse, and laugh cruelly. My choice, fine fellows, languish, or the determination of despair, not that berating myself over my Kevin Spacey miscue helps either.

I was sexually attracted to the star in his heyday, and in my rare twitter moments of being a shallow American, like the rest of social media's deplorable idiots, I gushed at his account "I love you!" It was a way of sleeping with my father, once removed.(Daddy and I are not on good terms, in real time.) I'd never tweet to Woods in that manner, and then Voila, we're in fagland again. I stopped following Spacey because House of Cards isn't relevant to our concerns, and still feel like a naive duped and sickened jackass, almost brazen enough to tweet a hint about killing perverts, which may have put me in Stone's territory, but didn't do it, as it may not long matter. The Usual Suspects did, if we dwell therein long enough, carve Spacey into a male amphibian cast that could be read as a parallel to Foster's on screen chameleons, but other roles, including American Beauty, made me see a heterosexual who emulated Jack Lemmon, and I feel betrayed.

My demented father's sister is the only one who has faith I'll rebuild. I don't, but another reason I hate in the life advocacy is because it diminishes the stature Spacey rightly earned for his twilight years. They media falsely baited Cary Grant in the same vein, but I never believed it, and his survivors threatened the tattles with a lawsuit. 

Exit Stairs Only

an emergency has been reported

Hypothetically, Penn Medicine is papering my doughnut hole with temporary home health care, but for the fact that my carrier keeps dropping my return call to them, and given it is the weekend, what happens tomorrow remains unknown. EMS has dipped its hand in the lottery of aggressive abuse due to my equipment failure, and the wheelchair vendor and I are shooting off various libertarian sparks, as I have never used this model, and it limits my ability, if you wish to picture a sedan seat on a battery. I am not sure the man in charge would be amenable to an exchange, should it come down to that. It is not that I can’t handle being an object of hate by women medics, but what I was subjected to Thursday echoes childhood, echoes adolescence, echoes adulthood on nine years with Medicaid waiver paraprofessionals, so I am rolling out next week, abandoning my library, my contributor copies, everything. It remains unlikely I’ll be read on this platform or any other in the near term, and I weigh scuttling my service, if definitively leaving my keys and laser lock on the office. Cousin Richard posted a soppy zoological piece about an apathetic 59 year old chimpanzee refusing food who then livened up when a naturalist it had bonded to paid a visit, and in terms of anthropomorphic superiority, spastics are analogous to the tragic consequences of animal husbandry. The sickest aunt tells me to keep fighting, but for what? Traditional medical procedures aggravate my symptoms, rather than mitigate them. The home care nurse telephoned, and the vendor is on his way for more haggling, potential modification. Almost a lifetime of work is still locked up in Office 07, the same aforementioned cousin silent on the matter of success or failure in converting two documents I sent for compatibility to Office 365, and if all property owners are more important than non-property owners, section 202 contractors illustrate the playful frivolity of human rights. These do not exist if you are non-compliant, aberrant tendencies buoyed along in the undertow. Intellectual capacity, though useful in fighting ambulatory guardian maneuvers, isn’t going to solve bio-engineering issues forever. Justice imprisoned a perpetrator, never otherwise persecuted or vindicated on my behalf. Louis Gossett consoles Levar Burton in Roots after a mock up slavery whipping. He exclaims “There will be another day.” This isn’t possible for those of us forced into relegated status, and in this sense, community integration, locked into rationing, is a travesty.

DWTS in Obsolescence of Product

no one talks like that--a wheelchair mechanic

Death is the most carnivorous of any ecological process, particularly when it is embodied in John McCain’s overly long victory lap for a heroism plucked like a thorn out of a tenuous policing action, his emaciated skin all but fused to his now skeletal visage, his torture as a prisoner of Asians on the peninsula referenced as a secular hagiography but never discussed, unless it be by biographers able at one time to solicit the details. The dowager doesn’t know how his forearms were broken for the near term intelligence desired by the charlies of Ho Chi Minh’s collective nationalism, nor why the bones weren’t set properly. Nearly two decades ago, when his candidacy was a viable property, slight details of his personal grooming needs were mentioned in profiles, and Dick Polman’s skepticism of the Arizona Senator’s maverick label have certainly been refuted by the malignant glioma currently disrupting his brain function. While no one doubts McCain’s political skill, failed nominee or not he is a national figure, a patriot in the truest sense, willing to wear blinders for the sake of it, to strike at adversaries with inflammatory rhetoric, clever barbs which swayed the 08 electorate toward The Invisible Man, his speculative presidency, had the enthusiasm not gone to the paper doll of the Neutral zone, would not have engendered history. The man pulls on the reigns with far too much frequency, coaching and scolding from the bench, just another centrist, whereas I would have vanished into the wasteland of American indigence. Thursday, October 10^th, I packed my electronics, intending to depart my chaotic destitution, and as I was able to predict, my old Quantum shorted out. It is now in the hallway, Trudy Richardson’s chastisements forthcoming. With tremendous struggle, I purchased a bucket seat model on the blind, from an ever harried vendor. They are all the same, and I am still helpless, too weary to adapt to a swivel seat, calculating I’ll survive a failed transfer to my bed rather than the toilet, if I transfer at all. No more money to restore the independence I had with other models, barely able to get my ass on the vinyl with the foot stool upended. This is helplessness, my mind still intact, a 48 hour hospital stay indicating I am a healthy plow mare, one which spins our modern caste systems round and round, low skilled black technicians, cafeteria workers, social services, nurses, chaplains who I sent running with adept verbal fury. Physicians play very little part in this. The same can be proffered for rehabilitative medicine. McCain’s prominence is a constraint. His peers and admirers offer a modicum of delicacy to a dying man, one whom impatience might sweep off the stage: retire to a lucrative hospice suite already and allow your state’s legislature to fulfill its one constitutional function not abrogated by progressive amendments, and appoint your replacement, his heroism as much a construct as it is genuine. I really have to shit, thrown out with all lack of finesse. I may not survive attempting something different, as opposed to a lateral transfer, but medical model hierarchy isn’t as suave as what the industry serves as a daily aperitif. The cracks in the wall aren’t casually dismissed, and Shaun Murphy’s libertarian definition of himself echoes mine, but centralized institutionalism will take care of my dystopian vision of humanity. It won’t take too long. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is one of the origin territories, and it is strangling itself to death with its socialized governing structure. I weigh my will to survive on the minute, and I am going to do something which isn’t done: my address is 158 N 23^rd Street, Riverside. If anyone can stop by just for a few minutes, to stand by, no lifting, ring me. 267-207-5455. It is very temporary, and I prefer you not be black. I wouldn’t write this if my willpower wasn’t telling me to try to hang on.