I tried TNR again last week with a very short column, arguing with one of Jeffrey's points, a germ of a rebuttal for which I have more ambitious expansion, assuming I am not someday soon cavorting with sewer rats, and wonder how many of TNR's contributors know the inner city, lived it as I have, aside from linguist McWhorter. Despite the fact that the fourth estate at times sounds like a collective cavern of domestic custodians, I am still engaged in attempted reclamation, and though I have not read a recent issue since Chris Hughes abrogated his old media ambitions, I know how The New Republic condemns the grubs beneath the stones. They tweeted their usual censure over the fact that white supremacy still exists. This was my response:
Liberals say I toss the baby out with the bathwater because of "a few baby apples". Define few. I am lacerated daily by black male misogyny. Everyone is silent, everyone, though what I deal with daily is contiguous.
"he is such a tool!"-- dated slang, isn't it?
To the extent the three commercial networks are still relevant, ABC caters to our high school sensibilities, through shows as divergent as Ugly Betty, American Crime, and How To Get Away With Murder. I can respect Viola Davis even if African American pathology has scored on me once too often. She wears world weariness just like a stocky David Morse with breasts, moral guilt transcribed on their countenances. I only saw the season finale of _Murder_, and to the extent these legal dramas have changed, embodied in The Good Wife, they feed our cynicism, confirming sleaze tactics of the powerful. Davis may be a good actress, and I may even agree with Ebert that she elevated Doubt, as a movie, which was supposed to have more moral ambiguity embedded in it, something theater may do better than celluloid, but I haven't missed anything through lack of interest in her serial. The diarrhea scene in the Norwegian Half Brother was worth a million minutes of US air time, though the kinetic motion of this European serial didn't seize me either. CBS either deliberately or through inability, cannot evade a made for television look, and NBC clings to Dick Wolf.
Taken was a nice pilot, suitable for the Trump era, however brief, or otherwise entrenched the Trump administration may be, but the sneak peak makes it little more than a tactical Criminal Minds, with its work wife hills and dales between the ensemble. Fuck the profile. It is the sniper training that counts, and became instantly anti-climatic thereby.
I am very depressed. If I could, I'd roll away from Riverside Presbyterian tomorrow, with chump change in my checking account, a fecal stained foam cushion under my dry buttock with its rectal hidden pressure sore. I do not believe human compassion, human pity, will help me, but the lance of fury beneath my ribs cannot withstand it much longer. Exactly how do I think I'm going to avoid medical incarceration? Magic? Someone on social media will loan me a garage? I have not acted, yet, with my jabs at HUD (fuck them) and the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission. Tom Earle, their chair, met with me in 01 and did nothing, absolutely nothing, to investigate the trauma Liberty Resources practiced on my ensuing calamity, which their case management team plied with compounded interest through 06. I keep telling myself to wait, put the dossier together, find some legal help. I am not going to make it. What I've had to carry has a time limit; too much to endure.
"We thought we could change the world."-- Mario Vargas Llosa, post goat mortem
During the 2016 primary season, I tried to build a case, perhaps somewhat unsuccessfully, that Trump's hostility toward Serge Kovaleski, driven by his media antagonism, if we tally the number of fake news tweets into his presidency, did the collective social conscience a favor. That the president then flipped a coin in his first address to Congress to usher in Megan Crowley as a time honored, privileged, diminutive token doesn't contravene his credibility so much as expose a divided American psyche, and I'd say the ratio is at least 1 in 50 on the conservative side. For every extraordinarily privileged persons like Megan, or fully matriculated individuals like Governor Abbott, there are then ten marginalized wheelchair residents in a public housing facility with zoophytic lives, attributable to how badly Medicaid Waiver systems are administered. Though budget allocation is a factor, the number of dollars spent on regulating the poor to death isn't the only problem. Socialized medicine is a regulatory nightmare that hasn't changed in the 35 years in which I began making my living at it, unless the change is that of even more stricture through centralization, and this represents the failure of inclusion since Helen Keller became the apostle of being in the world despite the severity of her deprivation. My life was in jeopardy from 10/17 through 3/18 only to be placed in jeopardy once back in the system by a provider's attendants being a no show, which goes to the heart of why I took myself off of waiver services in 07. At this level of poverty in the Philadelphia region, the digital economy has a subzero impact. Case managers are like Bill Murray repeating Groundhog's Day with no outlet to wake up, and it represents Erik's failure beyond his current end of life mental decline. He forced this section 202 housing contractor to "renovate" the building, putting every single resident in here through unimaginable hell for well over a year, only to have the city's housing authority strike back by prohibiting disabled tenant access to senior living facilities unless they meet the age requirement, and ADAPT's defiance against medical model authority has also cratered in IL, since they now have nursing coordinators, and if we have a class of 30 autistic students blowing bubbles in a park, this is featured in a local news segment like a Gnostic gospel for savants, taking victories in the acknowledgement of our still precious limitations. If you'd like an example of how my pessimism could be assuaged, the Amazon series Britannia, though it vibes like Masterpiece theatre on steroids, presents its maimed with a live and let live aspect. There are no phalanx of visiting nurses doing absolutely nothing, certainly not with effective treatments, simply adaptation and aid by and whom is at hand. In the life of Emperor Claudius, which coincides briefly with the harsh rabbinical life of Jesus, there were no overzealous fathers who created found wealth for 24 hour nursing care, no persistent vegetative states used for dramatic purposes to portend malignancy. You were butchered, or tortured, wounded, survived or not. This is more beneficial for bipedal primates than blood thinners allowing a 94 year old to catapult into thinking her care givers and relatives are demons boring holes in her skull. If some of you would like me to cease hating the devoid lives of so many invalids I've lived through in this bariatric driven Commonwealth, stop elevating Megan for her stoic coping, and for those of developmental birth who can, let us hope too, like the slim minority of paraplegics and amputees in the mainstream, that we can earn establishment prominence. That's real inclusion, not government contracts with religious organizations and state civil servant intake that can't tall it's asshole from its dung heap.
I am sitting here, certification deadline looming, and if I have any regular readers at all, you'd say, stay in section 202 another year, let Presby kick you out, don't be so destructive and put yourself in jeopardy, and I'm surfing around, trying to monetize my rage that I put seven years into. I doubt Google's Alphabet will allow me to reopen my AdSense account. Leaving me alone, short of giving you a hit list of whom, when, where-- this is one thing. Letting me make money on stark negativity is another, but these posts are seven years of work, and I've poured my heart and passion into much of it. Some archive material needs polish, and I need more real data pursuit, but still, I am writing for nothing because a Silicon behemoth is alarmed at the depth of my parceled tranches. Before I lose it in my favourites, to use Niume's English pasteurized variation, Pimdell's lazy rehash for the Globe illustrates that Trump's base has a point: This opinion piece is wrapping for fish and chips; it does nothing for journos who've been on the track.
As a corollary aside to my meeting with Krawchuk, what rankles me about former AG Kathleen Kane goes beyond political dualism, to borrow the phrase from my short lived protégé Louise. I have read at the very least a dozen articles on the Kane saga and I cannot quite offer a cogent summary: it involved an adversarial relationship with Corbett, one of the worst one term governors in PA history, the fallout from the Sandusky scandal, the pornographic emails floating around the state capital of Harrisburg (I obviously have some experience there on the municipal level), Kane's investigative overreach, paranoia, which seems justified, a shaky press conference once she was indicted, her omission to the jury in relation to any vendettas she harbored with DA's. One could simply say she was out of her depth, don't over-analyze it, and yet, her downfall, and patently unfair prison term, seems to throb with my own mortal scars. The citizens elected her, but this counted for nothing once the legal machinery kicked into place to impeach, remove, put her on trial. Representative Brian Sims, the great gay "Philadelphia hope" who could not see me, not see me at all, may have been quoted in the press telling Kane "I love you!" for not defending Pennsylvania's defense of marriage act, but once the grease hit the pan, he didn't stand by her. Typical for these cases. I did not vote for the woman, but remain disturbed. The Commonwealth is still far too much the "old boy's network," and I still have a significant residual sympathy for her vanquished star. If President Obama could release the significantly disturbed Bradley Manning from federal prison, where he should have remained, Governor Wolf could and should commute Kane's sentence. She is a mother with children of her own, and we should be able to comprehend that the destruction of Joe Paterno's legacy, the scandal that rocked Penn State, should never happen again.
"I don't hate anyone." Mike Baduchio, political operative-- (sic)
This evening I actually made it to my first Libertarian Party meeting in winter, this due to prior knowledge that I could ramp it up onto the Irish Pub's portico, and I met my first local libertarian politician, Ken Krawchuk, a bit of a ne'er do well with a grizzled out of Montgomery County, running for Guvenor against the seemingly insipid Tom Wolf.. He has run for the governorship several times, Mr. Krawchuk, and told me to write about meeting him, his tutorial on canvassing, being a wedge issue bitch in general-- not that he told me to write that, but I can be as disillusioned with libertarian political chapters as anything else, always a distant fourth rail in the American primary system. I met new people, old people, all my white boys, promising energetic turks, the geeks, the pot bellied stoners, the disruptive quadriplegic barking orders, spending money she wasn't prepared to, birthday gift not cleared yet due to bowel and holiday, meeting Molly and Mitch, the servers, and Mike, Krawchuk's handler. I broached Milo, and was respected enough to be asked about the state legislature. Was astonished to be asked. I did not say Brian K Sims should be torched, but would have liked to. Instead: "the state legislature is corrupt, on both sides of the aisle." And emoted strong feelings about the demise of Kahleen Kane. I called her Harris and Ken corrected me, only small notches of my 17 year distress escaping. I did not bring up my life threatening self-evacuation that is scaring me so much my problem might solve itself with a mid-July stress death, putting my life in jeopardy to do this as it was. On a full charge, the dilapidated Jazzy barely made my 23rd to Market to 20th and Walnut trisect and back the same way. The Quantum balks at the cold, which should be worse this time of year, but I live in the chair, and this is not the reliable P-200. I'm obviously wearing the battery down with constant use, and have another mental hand of cards to play, as this machine is only giving me three and a half hours run time, at best, with the short. I wanted to press Krawchuk. Kindly colorful figure he may be, why keep doing it, being the wedge bitch, the thorn? But I've made this click my family: Kokesh, Miller-Miller, Stiles, and poor Craig. Libertarianism, local, national, this is my psychiatry, and doing some libertarian stories, even getting a scoop, (possibly) this may be part of my final act. I was going to be stark, and as hollow as a snub-nosed cartridge, but I am too empty of feeling, so drained I cannot summon the will for the caustic erosion, ignoring, for example, that there was an African American stud in the mist, as well. We are diverse. I am simply the only spaz, the dowager, being asked permission by the kindly stout wife of the operative if she could pull up my socks. She did,. My mother must be turning in her grave, that this is the solution I've given myself to, as if these fractious individualists would sacrifice themselves to rescue me from Center City Niggerland. Don't feed me shit about freedom of mind. I've lived a fucking holocaust, with interludes, without a scintilla of hope to possess something so vital as private property. Will still bobbing, with all these hooks, baited as a catfish.
On Milo: I told you so five years ago with Slate's decision to publish Jesse Bering's diffident advocacy for pedophiles. I also told you that Dick Wolf's Law & Order guild writers saw this coming during the peek of Andrew Sullivan's media recognition, but before Milo snatched his alter ego's thunder, and no one listened to me. No conservative editor waded through my anger, acumen, or anything else, to see that I was ahead of this curve, and so, okay, I was ahead, and civilized societies no longer murder their way out of aberrant sexual orientation chemistry, and, outside of Africa and certain other vanishing medieval terrains, the closet is gone, unless Peter Thiel litigates a new cloth out of the old by prohibiting the revelation of sexual orientation. Where does this leave us?
No where beneficial, but I will say this as a Catholic atheist: Homosexuals cannot be Christians. It is an apostasy. And yes, I believe this. They may be shown mercy, and God is mysterious, but they cannot be followers of Christ if they must live by homoerotic desire. Kristof enjoyed pointing out that biblical text has nothing to say about lesbianism, but this is literalist nonsense. If sodomy is an abomination, under terms of patriarchal dominance in doctrinal law, then two women engaged in coital orgasm through oral stimulation meets the same definition of the term.
Why does the atheist in me care, particularly if it violates libertarian tenets, at least at first glance? Stability, cohesion, and boundary.
The problem there: the boundary is already shattered, Milo's musing aside. We're headed for very troubled times, very troubled times indeed, and the consequences will be far more significant than a blogging administrator's alarm at what many consider my ridiculous stridency on the issue. Marriage is a sacrament. Same sex activity is hormonal indulgence which contributes nothing to God's grace, but this is where we are headed, Milo's vision a meld to HG Well's secret horror in The Time Machine. Remember? Think about it. I have a previous engagement.
Like many public housing tenants who end up becoming agitated and enveloped, literally, by lack of mood health, I am caught between inextricable forces: If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian Apartments, I will wind up losing my ability not to engage in law breaking conduct, one way or the other. Some of you may say that marginally competent black women come a dime a dozen, however aggressive, cruel, and conniving they've been, focus, hang on, you've been through the worst. I know all this. I just need to leave. So leave, but doing that gives Presbyterian Homes exactly what it desires, and if I am not clever enough to get from destination A to (temporary?) destination B by August, what choices would first responders have, even if I hypothetically leave the borders of the Commonwealth? What the fuck would I do in a shelter, with this chair, if I could keep the more hopelessly deranged from an aging and damaged machine, with bedpan, and whatever else I could carry? It simply isn't fair, this delusion that I could be an independent woman who had options. I can barely sit here without some memory tied to this building, in my 23 year history in it (31 total under the same corporate 202 contract with HUD, I've never had another agent, just corrupt Presbyterian owners, basically a 15 minute Septa ride between Broad and Race), without a trigger begging me to strike back, and I cannot continue. I need to go, and I cannot manage. It is literally, as we speak, killing me, but in the interim, I've always had a forgiving blindness toward Philip K Dick, and as with ... _ElectricSheep? it will be fun to compare High Castle. Dick is one of those writers, flawed, on the mildly raw side, whose tendency toward abstract composites leaves screen writers, directors, room to breathe. I really do not know what I'm going to do otherwise.
Yes, I beat back Presby's escalating and illegal aggression toward me, but the price I have paid has destroyed intonations within which I'll never recover, and I write this without hyperbole. The system has destroyed my compassion. I am not capable of anything, but I am capable of unbridled fury which needs relief.
As a service provider, Niume is certainly entitled to be what it is. My bafflement comes into play wondering why they would have followed this voice of caustic bitumen for so long, and then expect me to play nice in their digital sandbox. If they wish to mitigate isolation and my combative failure with 21 years of exile from a meaningful career, it is a bit late. If I don't like them then leave them alone, common sense would counsel, and I mostly intend to because of one thing: the majority of their posters are boring. I am nearly driven to tears by the poor writing skills I see in so many posts, and rather prefer the dynamic world of IRS agents destroying my father, stripping my sister and I of our estate, or libertarian defiance of the FTC, Homeland Security, and FBI agents shooting Oregon separatists who did not want to go to prison for freeloading. neither Craig Brittain nor Tony Stiles asked for my friendship. I offered it to Tony freely, when he was active on social media, and he shall always have it, if I can ever do anything for him. Craig is different. His tweets entertained me, and Jack Dorsey took that away, and so I am in Craig's corner, regardless of my digital stoop debate with Adam Steinbaugh over the last two days. I do not watch Cozi all that often, but they were clever to revive stoop talk. This was the urban practice of the northeast, circa 59 through 1968, and I paid attention when Cozi interviewed the disgraced Eliot Spitzer on the stoop. This is the one thing native Philadelphians have that you do not understand. John Goodman understands it, ditto Steve Miller twice, and Adam. Philly loiters, and pretty much governs itself, regardless of City Hall, and what belches out of career municipal executives, on the stoop, and Donald Trump brought me closer to his bizarre tirades when he gave that black reporter as good as she got. She started it, and in the post Obama era, why does the Congressional Black Caucus still exist?
Yes, the revamped NBC Emerald City has its uses, as in why we need to be cautious about invasive orthopedic surgeries, and yes, the production values are lavish, and it reeks of Martin's girth, but the dowager has little inclination to be studious about Tip's gender transformation, or that the female witch girls subliminally echo Village of The Damned. Yes, I know the themes are different, but institutional memory grants perspective.
A Canadian student, user handle JBI, was a pretentious snit on Literature Network, and he posted to me, "Read a sample of Martin's work, you'll see." And I did read a sample and did see how superficial the diction was, but knew this would wind up flushed out by video enterprise, even if I did not know it would become the next Harry Potter and make its burly bear creator wealthy, despite the ensuing controversy over rape as a weapon of military intimidation. It says something about the virtue of not torturing your work, as the runs could wind up killing you at the end of the day. I cannot complain, as I chose to defy collective psychological dependence, but this year, I'm really sick, on the verge of hospitalization from overwhelming odds, whatever happens then.
They still hate us! Adolph Caeasar's dying declaration
On the basis of Associated Press access, and the fact that I'm doing ancillary background research, duly assembled by NYT's Mark Mazetti and Matthew Rosenberg, Michael Flynn allegedly mischaracterized his contractual arrangements with Russia Today, an airline cargo transport, and an American cybersecurity firm called Kaspersky Global, to the tune of $70,000. No longer a great deal of money, not even for Pentagon career officials This is i n addition to his transition team dialogue with the Russian ambassador, and his lobbying efforts on behalf of Turkey after he was forced out of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The best alternate narrative I have been able to find is that Andrew McCabe had an adversarial relationship with Flynn, and the FBI's investigation into the general's conduct is a retaliation on this basis. On some level, this has a plot similar to The Friends of Eddie Coyle, where an aging Mitchum tones it down to be a screwed, ineffectual humbug, played by his treasury agent, left hanging in the wind, his balls in a vise for unwittingly transporting Canadian liquor, desperate to avoid half nickel short time in prison for the sake of his family and the onset of his golden years. Perhaps we're all that expendable. Coyle is not a Bigelow thriller, with her stark realism of the price we all pay for deep state, whatever the hell that is, but the Nixon era set up, as true to seventies realism as anything I know, shows what is sacrificed for the system, and will continue to be.
I have no affectation for Flynn other than, like the paralytic Krauthammer, trying to reason out the puzzle of why he wanted to return through the revolving door, and why he believes US Russian cooperation will necessarily pacify the intractable Middle East. Even if Israel dissolved itself, or should have never been forcibly formed, I give up trying to comprehend what seems to be deep seated cultural inadequacy and resentment. I know all the progressive arguments, and lived through a great deal of jingoism with you, viewed wretched documentaries which resets my financial stresses as extravagant, and though I may have trace elements of Semitic blood in my veins, it seems Yemen, Syria, Somalia, are appendages, like gall bladders, and the United Nations would be that much less a laughing stock if these sovereign fictions went away. It is a little too simple, too brusque, which is why the Pentagon would find me useful. I only voted for Trump as an act of punishment, so I cannot really complain about Beltway roiling, but I don't see any smoking guns here. Eastern Europe is what it is, and its mistrust of its own playbook reflects what is a seemingly universal need to beat the system. From that perspective, Manafort's kickbacks, Putin's undermining, seem deserving of some trivializing. I had a brief hope, returning to my conservative inclinations, that I'd get some recompense, but if I allowed the baser aspects of human cruelty to scar me too deeply, the right may tolerate my vitriol, but they aren't going to help me. They want my loyalty, my vote, getting me legal help, or extracting me, or finding clever ways to help the aged re-integrate the work force, that is sucked up by the oxygen of federal cannibalism. It is not helping Trump supporters, or anyone else. Can such skepticism ever be prevailed upon to change its view?
[The Jesuit]. who would not have blinked an eyelid at hearing the confession, say, of an incestuous intrigue, found himself flustered by this innocent, but vast expanse of naked flesh.-- Di Lampedusa, Il Gattopardo, p 59
In some ways, I disdain Niume's platform in corresponding proportion to my admiration for Beppe's patience, and growing power. To give you full disclosure, I did not discover the Italian comedian independently of American media. Television gave me the leonine shock white of his hair, and a Wapo contributor gave me the blog url. My personality would soften into a small, tantalizing, glow if Beppe would sneak across the pond with il Alpini, invade the district, send Trump packing for a much needed endoscopy, and then, like an old woman regaining her youth, I'd be a complaisant mistress. Mussolini revisited. You may think I'm joking, but guess again. Am I being fair to Niume? No. They understood the context on my Kokesh piece and allowed it to stand, but if Yabberz made me miserable, even if I allowed myself too much involvement-- looking for companions-- to the point I had to burn my account, then Niume leaves me disinterested; can and will stay out of the way most of the time. My sampling says they will not allow hard asses to take chances, well, they haven't met me, though I think I nettled the administrators a wee little in my frank assessment that penny RPM rates are not worth slaving. They wrote a post on their blog clarifying the matter.
Why rock the apple cart? Testing the waters. Ready and waiting in the wings to assassinate my enemies like any demagogue too clever for Terms of Service, as if I know anything about maintaining websites, the coding involved. My heart goes out to General Flynn. Much as the dowager learned, a lifetime of loyalty ends up as a hernia with a sword through your spine. Majority rule is merciless to outliers.
This section shall not abridge the right of a citizen to apply, himself or his agent, to any foreign government or the agents thereof for redress of any injury--John Adams paranoia for the young states in the last year of the Enlightenment
Unfortunately for me, my bowel vaulting in a painful battle with sunflower seeds and chicken, so it may be this morning is the morning my body goes into colony collapse, and this will be it, and Blogger will make its determinations about archiving, this, all that is left, I am interested in defending Flynn, and simply do not have the resources of the political establishment, nor the time. I cannot drop everything again to pursue a career military professional's downfall over temperament and hints of collusion. I actually did hope, once he got in, that Trump would defend certain things, but for all the media's highlight on turmoil, this is just Washington politics as usual, and I am personally annoyed that Trump cannot give the press corp a legitimate alternate view of reset buttons, like detente with Russia through radical capitalism. Trump seemingly doesn't have the ability to defend himself and the "art of the deal". Political theater just dances as usual, and as usual, this mogul is going to crumble before the careerist civil service, of which Flynn was a part of through at least three administrations. Surely no one is accusing a career general of having been bought by petrol dollars?
I now have to go make a wish, and hope I'll be okay.
His Holiness Benedict XVI in his paternal concern for the spiritual distress which the parties concerned have voiced as a result of the excommunication, and trusting in their commitment, expressed in the aforementioned letter, to spare no effort in exploring as yet unresolved questions through requisite discussions with the authorities of the Holy See, a remission
Of course, attorneys in Haddonfield, never mind the abuse and humiliation I suffered at the hands of Liberty Resources, Incorporated, claimed, in a letter forbidding me any further contact with the center, that they forwarded my email referencing Omar Mateen to the FBI, which I then subsequently forwarded to Tony Stiles for his radio program. I then threw a legitimate fit, heart-rending torment, in the voice mail of Nancy, one of a dwindling number of the originals left from Liberty's founding, and she sent me to a deaf woman's phone. Liberty actually breaks the law, and makes settlements. I get referred to federal authorities for livid malice, nothing happens. This is the disease of urban entrenchment, but it's not quite so subversive any longer that I have the federal agency's communique with the public in an adversary file.
Had I signed into the virtual Niume community sooner I would have been deflated faster, and cannot say there was much of a conqueror's enthusiasm for joining in; it took me scant time to scold the administrators. I'm too hard nosed for all this "tune into nature" sensibility, finding myself exactly back where I was with Examiner. Clarity Media evidently folded its citizen journo slave labor into AXS, and I haven't attempted to return, hat in hand, for five dollar pieces over Niume's penny ante. No wonder they never cared about my post links, however hot the tongs. I'm unsure why blacks keep following me, but I'm as much to blame, linking back to them, unwittingly, indifferently. I am not trying to blame anyone in Oklahoma, if that was the implication people took away. I simply had an idea to bear down on Nichols with a fresh eye, and I had it earlier than the journo speculating on McVeigh's other motives, hence my anger. I had the idea and did not persist.
"You just go," Clint Eastwood, magnified presence, paltry politician
If the dowager believed Smokey Robinson was already deceased, she figured out, within that dense fallibility, that she confused him with the late Otis, whose voice had a fuller timber, reasonably preserved by analogue technology, but as Teddy Pendergrass discovered when I met him and did not acknowledge that I recognized him, with intrepid determination not to display subservient awe to a crippled black, I am dismissive of Motown and the crossover appeal of the blues. My bone to pick from my throat is with Patrick Stewart. I debated soiling my reverence for that erstwhile Anglo Saxon virility in a string of tweets, but the vicarious nature of twitter recognition begins to thin. In tech time twitter is old news, easily disparaged; in my time, these automated networks are still new, viewed with suspicion and unease. I cling to Linked In out of vanity, hoping the business network might still matriculate me up. I see twitter's utility for what it is, but recognize its detriments, and personally feel that history will wind up indicting Harvard for Facebook's global takeover, even if these systems operate on the same principle, they annihilate our evolved social dynamics, so I will dislodge the bone from a distance.
It doesn't take a great leap to realize Hollywood has been beneficial to Stewart, more so than the Royal Shakespeare company. Television science fiction, structured on the Buck Rogers model but infused with new century humanism, turned a competent professional into a major star, without particularly extraordinary gifts, not in comparison to Anthony Hopkins, for instance, but he is still a Briton, and despite the fact that Trump is not what any reasonably educated American expected, including me, Stewart is still a foreign citizen on our soil, cashing in chips with a mature cable monologue, and closing out X Men.
The above may not be the most scathing political criticism, but as an American, I rather resent it. I never punted on Blair, or Cameron, nor have I criticized May's handling of Brexit.
The poor basically receive good health care. --David Ward, with egregious presumption
Niume imploded my expectations in one fell swoop. I was all set to monetize and jump in, expecting my own little niche, and hit a brick wall in a cascade of what the fuck utterances. They have no hyperlink code, just a You Tube link, or Vimeo, and I am not huge on generating my own graphics. My nerves have been sufficiently unsettled, and my account sign up is probably doomed. I say wait a little, we'll see, but I built up all that wariness to enter preschool, a bit of fluff, for nothing. The Ryanism summarized by McDuffee in 2012 coincides with the interplay I saw between the Speaker and Judy Woodruff last evening, but liberals are apparently fain to see Paul Ryan as the Rational Monolith, standing as the bulwark of last resort against the Donald, who, in reality, is Lucifer's vessel, without seeming to sufficiently recall, even though Dickerson said it on PBS, that after John Boehner's fractious departure, Ryan put out a press release, stipulating, "I am not running for Speaker," and there was, in the House, a bit of a Freedom Party bromide, and then Ryan was the conciliatory consensus choice. He did stand up to Trump during the election, and the center left is being unreasonable in its expectation that Ryan will fall on his sword because old New York bull is behaving like a bull. I did vote for Trump, and my damaged mind believes it is able to read into him, and my invective is worse than his: If I described, in detail, whose neck I wanted to break, using my footpedal as a garrote of hatred, the poor happy playful employees who keep Blogger healthy would have a problem, and the dowager understands that getting too specific in her intent challenges law, regardless of whether or not she has the strength to overtake certain persons frightened of her, and have her moment of Hannibal liberation. I am a diabolical mind of smoking vengeance. Trump is an reactionary protectionist asshole, and I cannot respect him, nor his solutions. If the Speaker, or Senator Toomey, for that matter, chose to upbraid me that for such a smart invalid you know better, what would I do? I'd look Toomey straight in the eye and say, then be my avenger, punish them, give me justice, then hire me to to lay progressive America to waste.
I understand Ryan, his sense that inclusion solves the isolating friction of identity politics, but he cannot undo the damage of southeastern state incompetence that created and fosters aggression. There is no Right Hand of Time, to append a Thomas Lux title, to put me back to a vigorous 35 of twenty years ago, as my twitter numbers jump during episodes of inactivity, sag when my militancy shines. It is depressing, impossible to take seriously, or vicariously live within my timeline for too long, which is why, if, when I'm ready, I press twitter's staff about Craig, it is making access to the micro blog more important than it is. Discussing the twitter ban list on twitter is more of a provocation than a quadriplegic angry enough to critically injure expendable, fairly vacuous, African American oppressors. Back to work.
"I work hard."-- Patricia Idlette
In the third or fourth to last episode of Dead Like Me, S2, the British punker Mason, played by Callum Blue, gets into serious trouble with Kiffany the thickset black waitress, when he attempts to palm the tips at der Waffle House, and before the character is forgiven for his sleazy opportunism, Kiffany gives him a long spiel about rationed, collective distribution among low skilled laborers. This is Vancouver's voice, North Hollywood, letting the Canadian argument for liberal free society socialism hold its sway in virtually ecumenical reverence. How can libertarian ideas possibly push back against this mass pressure, decrying caste and economic inequality? There are no positively drawn capitalists in this Bryan Fuller vehicle, with the exception of the newspaper magnate's heir who deflowered Millie, Georgia's alter ego, in an earlier episode.
The rich, whether business class or blue blood, are satirized mercilessly in this Showtime pork roll concession to the Common Man. Beneath the surface, it is the blue collar stiff and fundamental fairness being elevated, since no one truly knows when they've taken the last step to heaven. Kantian universalism carries through every episode. The importance of regulation and order drilled into our craniums.
A rather strong refutation of Kiffany's point comes from an unlikely source: Google's automated, efficient, metadata model, which, ever so painfully, in gradated steps, created Medium, which is universal, but cannot generate profit, and collaborative models like Niume. The developers who run Niume are probably little wealthier than the pensioners and (some) marginalized account users who post to it, and to its credit, Niume is not pay for play, like Blogger Adsense. But what writer, whatever form is their strongest, cares to pursue excellence in an environment like this? It is as mediocre as the collective median of the online crowd, which some intellects need to shun.
Forget about me. 32 years of taking inner city beat downs have made me an illegal anarchist, and Google is within its rights, as is my internet provider, to suspend me at whim. Given means, method, and opportunity, I've become overzealous, and I'll leave that there-- but the only individuals who can get away with incitement in the name of an agenda are fairly protected power mongers like Milo, or in France, Le Pen. The Silicon Valley, which is Twitter, Facebook, and its derivative models, have already made Huxley's Brave New World a reality.
It is not even a question of whether Joanne Marinelli stays or goes. I'm likely to vanish simply by getting barred from access to my apartment. And whether or not I'm still writing in three years, mind intact, is one for the devil's bookie. No, what I see is an alarming loss of independence of thought, and increasing difficulty toward incentivizing in this still fragile, digital world. This is why I support libertarian models, however much they contravene primate group dynamics.
Laid down like a good girl to rest my legs at 4:30 pm Tuesday with the Comtrex engine thrumming not more than a quarter mile from my back window. Reluctantly sat up at 7:30 to browbeat the Senate Majority Leader again over his discourtesy to Merrick Garland, like a rapid cur shredding opportunism, transferred, pissed urinal aperture nearly perfectly, debated my libertarian twitter intrigues and how far I'm willing to go, scowling. For a cripple evacuating herself with a snowball's chance in hell of evading the worst, I'm taking my own sweet fucking time, triply mad because I wanted to revive McVeigh and approached Brian Doherty about it and what do I discover on PBS this evening? Someone else revived McVeigh, and in the taffy of so many ideas being out there, I thought it was inconceivable that my pitch had mainstream traction, but this is a dirty rotten business. Am I mad at Brian? No, but I am not superhuman, and to pitch 250 times a month, eat, clean up my bowel, work my own projects, and expect lightning is not exactly the God complex memory of anal penetration. What Woodruff described wasn't my idea exactly. I have to go back and look, but some motherfucker beat me on giving Oklahoma a fresh eye, and you can all drop dead for all I fucking care. I've been amazing, to survive what I have over the last 18 years on top of earlier familial tragedy and systemic medical paradigms. Liberals love to point out that what my former Liberty family, and the cunt-sucking activists did to me can cause strokes, neighing like jackasses about inequality and sickness, and the trauma was almost too much, and here I am, swinging and getting sucker punched. I'd probably up my profile if I did give federal agents reason to create the dowager dossier, but my hit list is merely comprised of Commonwealth dregs not worth the pressure. An expendable godmother doesn't come with pre-packaged Lee Harvey Oswald mystique. Let's see now if she can transfer back to sleep, last pleasure in life hot coffee with soy flavored non-dairy. Despite terms of service, I'd shred Josie in public with blatant indifference, but I wilted her before, repeatedly, and missed my calling as the lesbian cower professional, much like felines specialize in snapping hyena spines.
I wanted to know what happened here, to feel viscerally the headstones and the shoe leather---- Sue Eisenfeld
I always tell myself not to waste my usage like this, since I need it for other things, and it is too cold to lug laptop around for WiFi, but James Stewart's mature post-Kennedy era work forms an important codicil here, and Shenandoah is one of the most heightened libertarian statements the studio system ever created, and takes the price and the power of individual liberty quite seriously, whatever else might be extracted from it during the turbulence surrounding the fall of Saigon, and deserves credit for the sheer sweep of its panoramic scope. Only Stewart could have carried Charlie's gravity with such noblesse oblige, bearing up to his losses on such unswerving principle. The script is at once a magnificent argument for freedom, self-reliance, with a warning that it doesn't come cheap, bordering on hagiography. He'd revisit some of the same themes, roughly 3 years later, once again foiled against George Kennedy, in Fool's Parade, where spastic's suspicions were aroused that Stewart's key opening on the train with a fake glass eye was stolen from Ray Milland. The Man From Colorado, with Ford, and some years younger, I believe nearly 20, is what Shenandoah might have been if Charlie had taken sides. It is also a libertarian obelisk, which doesn't give PTSD killers any credit. Ford's damaged colonel becomes exaggerated caricature, but for 48 must be given credit as a post WWII film making the case for troubled veterans. This is a preliminary summary of what I hope to revisit.
Of course, in the indigence tableau of choices, free broadcast is offering a film to honor Mary Tyler Moore, Just Between Friends. Ted Danson walking in the doorway as if caught with his pants down; Ebert saying it had a made for television feel, which it did. Despite progressive analysis of Moore as sexually assertive against Dick Van Dyke, I never saw her character, as Mary Richards, basically all she knew how to play, as anything but brave and glaring veneers, which made her angry and repressed matron all the more terrifying in Ordinary People. (I agree with certain online critics that Ordinary People ignites genuine terror, and it is due entirely to Moore miraculously winding up her fury into something we all desire to flee. Oh it is dated, with all the known elements, Hirsch the patriarch who can absorb anything, but if anything indicts Episcopalian America, Ordinary People deserves a shrine.) But as to this Reagan era teleplay, the premise was interesting, and might have been a vehicle for vicious recrimination which doesn't, in fact, so easily resolve. It was too civil, and lacked courage to truly say something about marriage, family.
Facebook at least did me one service, and that is to realize I cannot roll backward and go home. Looking at my mother's sister in her anniversary photo with my uncle. I cannot go back, so, if I step off Presby, I am essentially on my own. I am so scarred that the mold no longer fits, sitting down to my sister in law's eggplant after a vigorous affair with a computer consultant who lived westward past Longwood Gardens: I'm not there anymore, and realized, that if so many days back, I grabbed O'Brien's follow like a floating life raft, it was a rather brittle salvage effort: I am not strong enough, not anymore, either for my complacent unhappiness as a life long public housing tenant with one sole agent, or to survive the violent disruption I'm shortly to bring upon myself. I have no answer, truly. I can battle waiver services again, but my temperament is such, that if I terrified Eddie the day after her sexual conduct, minority attendant conflict resolution 2.0 may get me a jacket, or killed. These rationalizations from all the duress I've eaten, maybe the next one won't, what? Maybe the next one won't swindle me? Try to extort me?
In that sense, my failure to see Moore, despite her comedic timing, as anything more than a titular representation of a fait accompli, might be forgiven. Always there, her gregarious teeth, her occasional references to diabetes.
A history teacher named Mr. Delvechio, more of an influence on this intellect than he knows, or knew-- he too received a scrawled admonitory epistle prior to my graduation, but as the precocious spastic savant knew he was married, a conservative family man, kept the reverence to a minimum, this fallacy, you know, that scholarship transmutes emotional pain, used to mock Delaware's plaudits as the "first state". We all have to posit revisionist sentiment somewhere, even conservatives who deplored the fact that Lennon's assassination dominated the news cycle for an inordinate length of time in 1980, the last aggrandized liberal tragedy before these individual martyrdoms were to be subsumed by Sunni terrorism. Delvechio's insight was more penetrating than he may have realized. It is a haven for incorporation with a wishy washy sense of empowerment, too often dominated by Jersey summer vacation strollers and importation of the ghetto exodus from Philadelphia, perhaps Newark as well, into Wilmington. Fox News ran with its predawn coverage of Smyrna, seemingly a series of cottages, fences, the skeletal foundation of industrial autocracy, symbolic of more than the fact that the more things change, the more they do not. Digital automation does very little for the rigid structuralism of poverty. This is in part due to the fact that in architecture, foundations need to be secured, and no, I do not have the expertise to know how pylons keep structures in place, but believe secure mobile fluidity would decrease crime and make many of us happier. This so called "rebellion", however, takes us right back to Nixon era paranoia, exploitation. The dowager should feel right at home, as her spine lists, curving, left to right, transforming into a Saul Bellow gas bag, getting a rarer, scarcer, contributor's copy, because I wanted to see if I could created a puzzle overlay to Edna St. Vincent Millay. Turns out I can't, which is neither here nor there, as my internal conduit no longer gives a flying fuck about literary prestige. I am not sure what I care about anymore.
