Every time we post something which can be seen as inflammatory on the basis of reality, social media administrators warn us about privacy settings. Is there a tally to this before account suspension sets in? The poet Robert Thomas posted a link to a Washington Post data survey about the GOP and the failure of black economic matriculation, found it deplorable, and I posted a stark reality reminder comment about inner city living by referencing a Sunday evening sexual assault event currently under investigation, even while merrily skimming past my former minority co-worker Cheryl's sunny day images which are the equivalent of my family's sunny day images, a blanket cover of positronics, almost like automated cymbals through which we deafen ourselves, even if the reality represents something we as a populace are helpless to mitigate. Another victim, another day, and the half cocked spastic should just grin and bear it and stay put. Wilson Goode set an entire neighborhood in flames in an attempt to pacify Move, before I became locked in as a Presbyterian zoological specimen, then the more dynamic prosecutor Ed Rendell sued gun manufacturers, then Michael Nutter had to wear the shame of Danieal Kelly on the city's face. Danieal doesn't happen with a great deal of frequency, but just enough to remind us how low humanity is capable of sinking, much like Russian thugs perforating livers of Putin dissents reveal the nature of Slavic brutality beneath the surface; and Kenney? Jim Kenney is not a mayor who is intent on creating his own imprint on Philadelphia. He is an interim executive with a corrupt DA on the sole of his shoe, a carry over of liberal exhaustion, no less factually bankrupt simply due to the fact that Ross Douthat epitomizes Trump as the exhaustion of the libertarian idea on the other end.
What I wrote in the comment on Robert's feed was that blacks who "aren't matriculated through their counter culture are exploitative opportunists." So I did leave something of a gap open for the civility of black professionals who would no more use sex to subdue a quadriplegic than the few academics who occasionally cock their ear in my direction. Am I a bit pensive? Most assuredly. Can't I ever be in a good mood about anything? Ah, but bursting bubbles in the swirl of indigence which can be directly attributable to former disability activists is all part of the fun.
Robert and I have interacted with each other well over a decade. Shudder. We met once. Are we true friends? Location prohibits either couple friends intimacy, if I had a new couple prospect to consider, or the nuisance invalid interloper, in the less charitable role of a third wheel, into a rare example of Californian style marital happiness. We do not pick up the telephone to chat about intimate details of our lives, but we respect each other's accomplishments. Is that now doomed because I spearhead Frisco's patrician gentility? Not on my end, not yet, as long as ideological cleavers don't slice the gourmet pizza into a potentially dangerous wedge.
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