"A story about a British actor who never was, one who couldn't even make it here."-- Rue McClanahan, with the best lines.
It is difficult to believe that Petersen's Das Boot is nearly 40 years old, given how well made and modern it still offers up to repeated viewings. I studied it with a military history professor whom I might have paid the appropriate courtesy, and didn't, of respecting his syllabus. To echo his words, however, Petersen is a little too adroit at humanizing the German military under Hitler's rule, and Jurgen Prachnow, I have never fallen out of love with. He represents the best definition of European masculinity any woman with a reasonable chance would kill for, which is the best restraint I can offer in terms of printable aspiration, with a feminine zeal to match that of his wolverine U boat captain. Subservience to that male principle speaks volumes about why sexual unification predominates, whether or not its impetus is child rearing-- but to rebut my former instructor's caution, Petersen is brazenly cutting through the superlative bombast of master race sensibility in the very act of deploying how our soul goes into what we create, like the marvel of submarines. The captain miraculously keeps his submersible in one piece, returning to dock in national honor, only to have crew and ship torn to shreds by Allied squadrons. For 1981 it is a daring argument, one that Eastwood would later imitate with the Japanese, but by that time, with the war nearly out of living memory, mature audiences could handle that the conflict wasn't quite so binary.
Levinson and Link, Columbo's creators, were active in the same decades as Wolfgang Petersen, and we can only observe how things have to be obfuscated: to my knowledge, Peter Falk never allowed himself to be Jewish on screen, much as his longer survived contemporary, Nimoy-- but Nimoy, if you spend time listening to what he reveals about grafting himself to speculative genre, was a sneaky bastard. Much of Vulcan culture was appropriated from attending synagogue. What's that tell you? The later Columbo mystery movies have an uneasy tension between the formula and adaptation to the modern era, and the 98 "Ashes to Ashes" might have been a good place to close the book. Neither Falk nor McGoohan are having much fun, both are shrill, though Patrick stays preserved to a greater degree, in the ever wondrous anomalies of biology. Sympathizers can see here that Peter Falk is losing his touch, on the verge of dementia, when the Internet and smart phones were just taking hold. Levinson, Link, and Falk combined have to sublimate a great deal to comic antipodes, against what liberalism, even Zionism, promulgates with the scourge of history behind it. Petersen does exactly the same thing, through Heidegger's dictum of focus on the thing itself-- he evades, simply looking at the empirical process of survival in futility.
"The end of history," is a catch phrase. What it means, precisely, is no one is entirely justified? No one has the absolute cause, whether or not causes themselves are now null and void, and we're better off just raising hens to lay eggs before we lose memories of husbandry altogether. Despite how familiar I am with the routines in my unhappy environment, I no longer feel safe, not simply from urban crime statistics. I'm frightened. Is it old age? Or my fault for breaking so many bonds simply because I must by necessity only appropriate the mobile world, by and large? My only intimacy is through a damned device with my own voice, dropping depth charges. I legitimately started my examination of disability in entertainment to bring us together, looking for commonality, and I've failed, holding myself together only by sheer force of will, one which prefers, at this point, to compromise my personal security rather than complying with the rules your taxes, and mine too, pay for. I only have a few days to hand over the documentation these minorities who've humiliated me repeatedly need, knowing full well that vacating, with such scant resources, makes me that much less human, even though I couldn't be, ipso facto, the crazy homeless hag everyone ostracizes. Without power, I'm helpless, a brain crammed with world weary absorption through her filters, not even having the decency to sink in the harbor, conceding surrender.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Estonia is no more sovereign than Haiti
In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism.-- Graham Greene
Perhaps my emendations on Virily pass muster in the risible sense. I had forgotten that I had saved the piece in the weeks prior to my rupture with Clarity Media, and it was an easy feint to adapt, one all seasoned writers learn, and it is oddly perfect to expand, seasoned with basil, to spice up my non-fiction collection. I will probably not last too long, however, with Natalie's overzealous plagiarism checks, on this Baltic mock up. Niume's staff does it too, but they have sense enough to see I have standards, and leave me alone (I think). Here I can engage the whimsy of telling Vladimir Putin to go fuck himself, so as to secure not dying in senility, but the Baltic millennials would sooner drop an ovum than allow my decorum breaches to fester, not with the bear's breath always in their downwind. Greene himself is one of the most influential least read authors on my psyche, though The End of the Affair is tawdry even with the Feinnes upgrade.
It does illustrate the failure to which I allude far better than I can bully my way into it, even if Bendrix is disillusioned on an entirely different pretext. Greene's voice is not so dissimilar to mine, both brutalized, but where Greene is stark and sacrificial, I am a vengeance ride with the flat of my foot on the gas, waiting to be put down like a rabid travesty. I wasn't able to truly work last night. Groin pain, impaction becoming more symptomatic, I have to coax myself into hatred of Debra Horne's peasant sloping posture to shed anxiety over a lateral transfer fall, and how much longer murder will keep me aloft is anyone's guess: this is part of the failure. In a seven year effort to bind both worlds, as I once hoped I could help Linda Dezenski do, I have transposed the thesis and become a rolling hate crime whose any explicit detail would merit another visit by law enforcement. The same thing might have happened, invariably, if the state had left me institutionalized, instead of matriculating, educating me into indentured servitude, a few steps removed from how harsh it was for Helen Keller. These intestinal battles knock the wind out of me, and my shins need a rest. Then I hope I stabilize, but if I do make a minor news item on a first arrest warrant, I suppose it is unfortunate. I've been driven that far, nearly 60.
Perhaps my emendations on Virily pass muster in the risible sense. I had forgotten that I had saved the piece in the weeks prior to my rupture with Clarity Media, and it was an easy feint to adapt, one all seasoned writers learn, and it is oddly perfect to expand, seasoned with basil, to spice up my non-fiction collection. I will probably not last too long, however, with Natalie's overzealous plagiarism checks, on this Baltic mock up. Niume's staff does it too, but they have sense enough to see I have standards, and leave me alone (I think). Here I can engage the whimsy of telling Vladimir Putin to go fuck himself, so as to secure not dying in senility, but the Baltic millennials would sooner drop an ovum than allow my decorum breaches to fester, not with the bear's breath always in their downwind. Greene himself is one of the most influential least read authors on my psyche, though The End of the Affair is tawdry even with the Feinnes upgrade.
It does illustrate the failure to which I allude far better than I can bully my way into it, even if Bendrix is disillusioned on an entirely different pretext. Greene's voice is not so dissimilar to mine, both brutalized, but where Greene is stark and sacrificial, I am a vengeance ride with the flat of my foot on the gas, waiting to be put down like a rabid travesty. I wasn't able to truly work last night. Groin pain, impaction becoming more symptomatic, I have to coax myself into hatred of Debra Horne's peasant sloping posture to shed anxiety over a lateral transfer fall, and how much longer murder will keep me aloft is anyone's guess: this is part of the failure. In a seven year effort to bind both worlds, as I once hoped I could help Linda Dezenski do, I have transposed the thesis and become a rolling hate crime whose any explicit detail would merit another visit by law enforcement. The same thing might have happened, invariably, if the state had left me institutionalized, instead of matriculating, educating me into indentured servitude, a few steps removed from how harsh it was for Helen Keller. These intestinal battles knock the wind out of me, and my shins need a rest. Then I hope I stabilize, but if I do make a minor news item on a first arrest warrant, I suppose it is unfortunate. I've been driven that far, nearly 60.
Monday, May 29, 2017
A little pissed off
And so what else is new? I have been through so many failed ventures: Yabberz, though it is still *up,* the Literature Network, the last place Robert followed me; now niume. I am a bit steamed at the niume staff for inviting me in when they knew they were in trouble. I did not want to get involved and tried to bolt, but they have a shitty web master. If I so desire, I shall have to delete my posts manually, and now, I have to be subservient to a chick named Natalie, telling me I cannot recycle my own content. Never mind Beacon Reader, and Writer's Block.
I can't log into Tumblr, probably because Yahoo is having its organs gutted by Verizon, rather than being allowed to fail. I work so fucking hard, for what? Even by conservative standards, my commissions from Examiner in 2013 were obscene-- and Blogger wants to shit itself because I am carrying a 30,000 student loan debt I'll never pay off. I can just leave Virily, and probably will. Natalie and I had a small chat; she told me to write what I like-- but I am dealing with Estonia, which always needs be mindful of Putin.
I know this is how creative destruction works, but for fucking Christ, I still have my mind in here, and some entity other than ATT's kind easing of my bill should help me to adapt to use the skills I still have; fuck it.
I can't log into Tumblr, probably because Yahoo is having its organs gutted by Verizon, rather than being allowed to fail. I work so fucking hard, for what? Even by conservative standards, my commissions from Examiner in 2013 were obscene-- and Blogger wants to shit itself because I am carrying a 30,000 student loan debt I'll never pay off. I can just leave Virily, and probably will. Natalie and I had a small chat; she told me to write what I like-- but I am dealing with Estonia, which always needs be mindful of Putin.
I know this is how creative destruction works, but for fucking Christ, I still have my mind in here, and some entity other than ATT's kind easing of my bill should help me to adapt to use the skills I still have; fuck it.
Strategic Retreat
As the lunacy of my non-compliance continues toward the overwhelming crisis of self-enforced eviction-- what, exactly, do I expect to happen without access to electricity and toiletries? Nothing beneficial-- I'll pull a shuttlecock and actually post about a partial or legally blind content creator from the ewe mentality of Niume-land and its troubles. I've written before I have very little to say about the intersection between art therapy and aspiring disabled individuals in the fine arts, and I have, at best, a nominal command of art criticism, but those of you without chronic pain want this, positive attitude effusive, sympathetic ecology appreciation, and would prefer I turn the rudder, assert that Oscar Perez has an eye for the harmony of contemplating the environment. Done.
Certain things don't translate on web sites that well, and traditional portraiture, whether paint or still frame, is one. Digital pictures cheat the aesthetic appreciation for which our eyes, symmetric and concentrated, like all primates, were designed. Oscar followed me and I followed back, and barely hear a peep out of him, picked up a slightly more centered perception of him on Virily, where I've remained relatively quiet. I hold happiness and contentment suspect, and believe those inclined to genius normally do, and, in affinity with my mentor, Jerry, I do not like crowds, though my twitter presence escalates, at least on the benevolence of the gatekeepers.
Do you want me to tell you what will happen if I do not evacuate myself from Presby? I did not think so, but I shall, just the same, release my inner militant. She will ensure a tragedy occurs if she doesn't get out. The lack of physical ability to fight is irrelevant in this regard.
I came up with the idea of a subset essay at least, whether or not for my collection, of something like "The Jerry Memoirs," as my bondage to his memory fades, and he is a wisp of an old man on a stick. I dug up his 2012 reading on YouTube. Same old McGuire, and yes, I expected, for him, some sort of expansiveness, instead of a parody of his forceful 40's. I do not know yet, but corrected my self-awareness. I attached myself to him out of shared conceit. If he was the best Shakespearean on the east coast, I was going to be SuperCripple, if this is easy enough for mass mindsets to grasp. The late entry 19 year old needed a piece of that ego, and latched, however unconsciously intuited. I believed that he could spare me a condemned fate, and had I been more dispassionate, I might have been right, but he ignited my cunt, as reductive as that is on end note.
Certain things don't translate on web sites that well, and traditional portraiture, whether paint or still frame, is one. Digital pictures cheat the aesthetic appreciation for which our eyes, symmetric and concentrated, like all primates, were designed. Oscar followed me and I followed back, and barely hear a peep out of him, picked up a slightly more centered perception of him on Virily, where I've remained relatively quiet. I hold happiness and contentment suspect, and believe those inclined to genius normally do, and, in affinity with my mentor, Jerry, I do not like crowds, though my twitter presence escalates, at least on the benevolence of the gatekeepers.
Do you want me to tell you what will happen if I do not evacuate myself from Presby? I did not think so, but I shall, just the same, release my inner militant. She will ensure a tragedy occurs if she doesn't get out. The lack of physical ability to fight is irrelevant in this regard.
I came up with the idea of a subset essay at least, whether or not for my collection, of something like "The Jerry Memoirs," as my bondage to his memory fades, and he is a wisp of an old man on a stick. I dug up his 2012 reading on YouTube. Same old McGuire, and yes, I expected, for him, some sort of expansiveness, instead of a parody of his forceful 40's. I do not know yet, but corrected my self-awareness. I attached myself to him out of shared conceit. If he was the best Shakespearean on the east coast, I was going to be SuperCripple, if this is easy enough for mass mindsets to grasp. The late entry 19 year old needed a piece of that ego, and latched, however unconsciously intuited. I believed that he could spare me a condemned fate, and had I been more dispassionate, I might have been right, but he ignited my cunt, as reductive as that is on end note.
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Robert Guillaume's Fake Prison Milk Eye
Mario Puzo's Hell's Kitchen is less widely known than The Godfather. It covers the same terrain in slightly weaker form, with its central character getting whacked off in a Jacuzzi, wherein the novelist allows the dying consciousness its self-depreciating voice, the same as any wise guy. You can see within this narrative that Puzo was a man of Eisenhower lesbian erotica. It wasn't an "identity" back then. More like the ultimate patriarchal fantasy: two pussies and a dick in the middle. I suppose its exposition on what Hell's Kitchen then represented is a complimentary bookend to the 1990 State of Grace, one of the few films in which I do not like Ed Harris' role. The slow motion gun battle in the bar is one of the more idiotic in the annuals of modern film, and a waste of Harris' otherwise extraordinary energy, which I sit here considering, impacted to the point of day long discomfort, an overgrown toenail still waiting to be sawed. The first film in which Harris ever made an impression on me, though it might have been another actor look alike, he was mock fucking his wife in a standing position, virtually having a stroke in order to project restrained violence in intercourse. I've never seen anything like it before or since, but I'd certainly be interested in trying it, my shins raised to the collarbone. Less arthritis pain. I never had sex in affection, only illicit excitement. Whether I'm right or wrong about the scene being one of his earlier roles, after A History of Violence Ed just seemed to explode with a string of great performances. This is why I am suffusing my synapses, attempting to contextualize it, my stepmother once again in hospital, my father exhausted, while my head is doing a little pep rally, cheerleading: die you damn bitch.
Niume cratered, as one might suppose, top heavy as it was with mostly insufferable posts. I am getting weary of the necessity of digital improvisation, all the same, but in not so many hours, I'll rear my head to enter the preliminary stages of my piece for the think tank, though the Russia investigation is steam rolling.
Niume cratered, as one might suppose, top heavy as it was with mostly insufferable posts. I am getting weary of the necessity of digital improvisation, all the same, but in not so many hours, I'll rear my head to enter the preliminary stages of my piece for the think tank, though the Russia investigation is steam rolling.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
The new procrastination
He misinterpreted the gesture.-- Stendhal
None of over-saturated with the thousands of articles since September 11th, 2001 can find either much solace or new insight from Simon Cottee's opinion piece in the LA Times, which I just tweeted. We've heard it all before, and if Niall Ferguson's insights on why empires decline still has any merit, those of European descent have lost their nerve to deploy military trained personnel for pacification, with the exception of Putin's appointee's, but even there, Vladimir is the Personality Cult of the Jackass Czar. He invaded Georgia nineteen years ago and was mercilessly lampooned by none other than one of my favorite columnists to defend, George F Will, and for any student of European history, this has an eerily familiar ring to the political mockery bestowed on Nicholas II, and his father, by the western press, which subsequently stopped laughing when the Bolesheviks took over, and since the former KGB clerk is their legacy, we can only wonder what methodology will supplant Marxism. Despite Xi, despite party control, executive enforcement of collective distribution has run its course, and now it seems a substantial minority simply want to return to Voltaire's small scale expectations, including me. I just want to go home and never talk or engage another nigger again for the rest of my hellish medical model brutish life, and for that, I had an email forwarded by Cripland to the FBI. Corruption, being what it is, has immediate access to legal representation, only, I can't go home. Can't do it to either of my surviving siblings, and my father is a lost cause, keeping my mother's nursing colleague afloat, my stepmother, who should have died two years ago, but what to do? No one takes the bull by the horns and has the courage to withhold the expensive medical treatments now bankrupting domestic GNP's. The Guardian itself knows Britain's NHS is in trouble, acknowledging American insurers are ready to swoop in, and the Semitic resentments of North Africa and the Fertile Crescent think that violence against legacy of Western hegemony will achieve what? Shift the axis back to Persia?
But in the mode of joining them if you cannot beat them, I would if I could. I'd annihilate NCIL, and in particular, the Philadelphia Housing Authority, if I had the means and the methods, and use my death penalty trial as grand political theater like none other, but no one takes me seriously, and that is the ambulatory safety valve.
None of over-saturated with the thousands of articles since September 11th, 2001 can find either much solace or new insight from Simon Cottee's opinion piece in the LA Times, which I just tweeted. We've heard it all before, and if Niall Ferguson's insights on why empires decline still has any merit, those of European descent have lost their nerve to deploy military trained personnel for pacification, with the exception of Putin's appointee's, but even there, Vladimir is the Personality Cult of the Jackass Czar. He invaded Georgia nineteen years ago and was mercilessly lampooned by none other than one of my favorite columnists to defend, George F Will, and for any student of European history, this has an eerily familiar ring to the political mockery bestowed on Nicholas II, and his father, by the western press, which subsequently stopped laughing when the Bolesheviks took over, and since the former KGB clerk is their legacy, we can only wonder what methodology will supplant Marxism. Despite Xi, despite party control, executive enforcement of collective distribution has run its course, and now it seems a substantial minority simply want to return to Voltaire's small scale expectations, including me. I just want to go home and never talk or engage another nigger again for the rest of my hellish medical model brutish life, and for that, I had an email forwarded by Cripland to the FBI. Corruption, being what it is, has immediate access to legal representation, only, I can't go home. Can't do it to either of my surviving siblings, and my father is a lost cause, keeping my mother's nursing colleague afloat, my stepmother, who should have died two years ago, but what to do? No one takes the bull by the horns and has the courage to withhold the expensive medical treatments now bankrupting domestic GNP's. The Guardian itself knows Britain's NHS is in trouble, acknowledging American insurers are ready to swoop in, and the Semitic resentments of North Africa and the Fertile Crescent think that violence against legacy of Western hegemony will achieve what? Shift the axis back to Persia?
But in the mode of joining them if you cannot beat them, I would if I could. I'd annihilate NCIL, and in particular, the Philadelphia Housing Authority, if I had the means and the methods, and use my death penalty trial as grand political theater like none other, but no one takes me seriously, and that is the ambulatory safety valve.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Karlskirche Droughts for Heart Murmurs
"I think my face is funny," Audrey Hepburn, blue blood trinket
My living scar tissue over little brother ghosts is not all that complicated. Nicholas junior and I enmeshed with each other in an interlocking vehemence borne out of contempt, the shared experience of pain, which, as with most things human, realizes too late the blood bond binding one to the other. When he was dying, baby brother appealed to eldest sister to come to him, and I had no way to drop my caseload to get to him, hence the abandonment I carry, not beyond the realm of some of your experiences. Rick, as the once-and-never future executive father figure, attempted to release me from my albatross with his own mortality tale of a relative left hanging. Didn't work.
With Alexandra, though, my interaction with her was a series of smokescreens worthy of Jamesian contortion, and no, it was not about repressed homo-eroticism, so much as, once again, my need for confidential intimacy, such as that from a child to camp counselor. Our first telephone exchange made me hope for a literary friend. Not that she knew it. Our first meeting sent off strobe emergency lights in my head. I knew she was butch, spinster butch, but would not allow my mind to form the fact that here was an authority from which I shrank due to lesbian overtones. Did I walk away? No. Did I try to get under her skin? Not the way I did with my other larger than life personages, but once a cripple made is an invalid baked in a kiln, and I was disruptive to her reticence, a reticence she insisted upon. She was as closed as I am open, with invidious penetration. She was not Erik, the fucked up shit on a stick. She wasn't Josie Byzek. Alexandra had no apologies to make, yet I wasn't woman enough to close off my sycophant psychology, looking for Dante's Virgil, moral perversion as it might have been. What we saw and appreciated in each other was the weight and scourge of the sin we carried. It gave her a pursed and drawn demeanor, and it has wrought in me, over the years, a terse unpleasantness. If I had been more assured in myself, I would have cut her out of me, like gangrene, and this was the best literary editor I ever had, knotted by deep aesthetic affinity that penetrated the lack of personal closeness. And yes, I hear you. "Fuck this," you mutter, fleeing for the hills, with so much import I place on the thinnest filaments. "Tough shit." That's my response, at least for this morning.
My living scar tissue over little brother ghosts is not all that complicated. Nicholas junior and I enmeshed with each other in an interlocking vehemence borne out of contempt, the shared experience of pain, which, as with most things human, realizes too late the blood bond binding one to the other. When he was dying, baby brother appealed to eldest sister to come to him, and I had no way to drop my caseload to get to him, hence the abandonment I carry, not beyond the realm of some of your experiences. Rick, as the once-and-never future executive father figure, attempted to release me from my albatross with his own mortality tale of a relative left hanging. Didn't work.
With Alexandra, though, my interaction with her was a series of smokescreens worthy of Jamesian contortion, and no, it was not about repressed homo-eroticism, so much as, once again, my need for confidential intimacy, such as that from a child to camp counselor. Our first telephone exchange made me hope for a literary friend. Not that she knew it. Our first meeting sent off strobe emergency lights in my head. I knew she was butch, spinster butch, but would not allow my mind to form the fact that here was an authority from which I shrank due to lesbian overtones. Did I walk away? No. Did I try to get under her skin? Not the way I did with my other larger than life personages, but once a cripple made is an invalid baked in a kiln, and I was disruptive to her reticence, a reticence she insisted upon. She was as closed as I am open, with invidious penetration. She was not Erik, the fucked up shit on a stick. She wasn't Josie Byzek. Alexandra had no apologies to make, yet I wasn't woman enough to close off my sycophant psychology, looking for Dante's Virgil, moral perversion as it might have been. What we saw and appreciated in each other was the weight and scourge of the sin we carried. It gave her a pursed and drawn demeanor, and it has wrought in me, over the years, a terse unpleasantness. If I had been more assured in myself, I would have cut her out of me, like gangrene, and this was the best literary editor I ever had, knotted by deep aesthetic affinity that penetrated the lack of personal closeness. And yes, I hear you. "Fuck this," you mutter, fleeing for the hills, with so much import I place on the thinnest filaments. "Tough shit." That's my response, at least for this morning.
Monday, May 22, 2017
The Crusades
"We will die like civilized men."-- Anthony Hopkins
Even if I am procrastinating my assignment-- I need to and not attempting flagellation, I have other things to do, and need to stop treating niume like my personal playpen. Give it a break, yet here I am, not really on point, merely on fervor. My libertarian acquaintance Sara talks the language of upward mobility, and I am literally attempting to die in a battle of religious fervor, terrorizing African liberation theology, with a broken bottle and a growl, like Samson with a Tampax stuck in the vagina. I would not have to venture far back into North Philadelphia to catch a bullet over my goading bite: nine people were shot off campus, nine. It follows, from this, if I am going to let the building manager evict me, in lieu of attempting to break her arm, I'd better have a designated haven by the end of July. This is not a great deal of time, yet I am coasting, preoccupied with the topic as my posts may be. Legally homeless is one thing, but as a practical matter, I either have to deploy this impoverished intelligence or first responders will deploy it for me. Can I beat the system and stay safe just because I have the fucking phone?
I do not exactly let Catholics off for what happened to me as a child under Dr. Chance-- the good doctor told my brutal father not to dice me up-- and the Roman mindset wasted no time finding Shriners to override conscience-- but I am more forgiving. If it was up to me, Presbyterians would be dead. All of them. We'll leave it there. I have to rest shins.
Even if I am procrastinating my assignment-- I need to and not attempting flagellation, I have other things to do, and need to stop treating niume like my personal playpen. Give it a break, yet here I am, not really on point, merely on fervor. My libertarian acquaintance Sara talks the language of upward mobility, and I am literally attempting to die in a battle of religious fervor, terrorizing African liberation theology, with a broken bottle and a growl, like Samson with a Tampax stuck in the vagina. I would not have to venture far back into North Philadelphia to catch a bullet over my goading bite: nine people were shot off campus, nine. It follows, from this, if I am going to let the building manager evict me, in lieu of attempting to break her arm, I'd better have a designated haven by the end of July. This is not a great deal of time, yet I am coasting, preoccupied with the topic as my posts may be. Legally homeless is one thing, but as a practical matter, I either have to deploy this impoverished intelligence or first responders will deploy it for me. Can I beat the system and stay safe just because I have the fucking phone?
I do not exactly let Catholics off for what happened to me as a child under Dr. Chance-- the good doctor told my brutal father not to dice me up-- and the Roman mindset wasted no time finding Shriners to override conscience-- but I am more forgiving. If it was up to me, Presbyterians would be dead. All of them. We'll leave it there. I have to rest shins.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
The Provenance of Meringues
Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or match folders after you use the last match. [sic]-- Philip K Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, p65
I can cheat, of course, pillage a substantial portion of my content here and move it here. I've adapted somethings already, bending my neck like Vincentio, casting his net over Vienna, hanging rogues, but this morning, we have a slight inverse. I will clarify some of my incendiary sentiments from "The Welfare State". The "balking," referred to about my article is marginally related to failure, more grudgingly belabored toward heavy lifting for a mere contributing byline, something I moved past under contract, but these days, have little choice but to make my way back in, beyond vanity posts, for nothing but a dose of ether in the fog; if I succeed with the publisher, all well and good, but it is still nothing for nothing, wondering why in the fuck I continue to support Writer's Market. My concluding sentences on this unfortunate Niume outcry were also harsh. Indifference toward walking it back notwithstanding, what I actually desire is to strike back, to purchase justice by brute force if necessary, but, and I've written it before, Trudy Richardson is a difficult enemy to characterize, and if I expend all this energy to broil her ass like tofu, there are thousands of minority women exactly like her, not worth more than one of my initial starting salaries. I go up against a sea tide of women such as she, process pushers, otherwise stupid people, running a Chinese drywall building on handbooks. She is no British pasteurized Colin Salmon, who plays a Jesuit librarian in The Statement (03), a film directed by Jewison with laden gravitas, marred by a flimsy narrative, egging its way toward dry heaves of Roman Catholic collusion, but for moi, worth watching, even if the aging Michael Caine is not alluding back to his maverick energies in the equally flawed Marseille Contract.
There is much to read into The Statement, despite the fact that it's an overdrawn game of cat and mouse. It is a European vehicle according to Hollywood vacuum packing, Swinton's feral energies wasted, although here she applies them as an obstinate avenger out maneuvered by ever brimming French scandals.
I overtaxed myself, however, rushing to vote at 7:19 last evening, disappointing my conviction never to touchpad choices again. Duty triumphed because I know I'll be gone soon, and nearly blind as a bat, having left my glasses on the lamp, the voting warder assisted me going straight GOP ticket, having no idea what choices I tossed in Toomey's war chest. That is an extended metaphor. It is also true I want to digest my impressions of the movie a bit further.
I can cheat, of course, pillage a substantial portion of my content here and move it here. I've adapted somethings already, bending my neck like Vincentio, casting his net over Vienna, hanging rogues, but this morning, we have a slight inverse. I will clarify some of my incendiary sentiments from "The Welfare State". The "balking," referred to about my article is marginally related to failure, more grudgingly belabored toward heavy lifting for a mere contributing byline, something I moved past under contract, but these days, have little choice but to make my way back in, beyond vanity posts, for nothing but a dose of ether in the fog; if I succeed with the publisher, all well and good, but it is still nothing for nothing, wondering why in the fuck I continue to support Writer's Market. My concluding sentences on this unfortunate Niume outcry were also harsh. Indifference toward walking it back notwithstanding, what I actually desire is to strike back, to purchase justice by brute force if necessary, but, and I've written it before, Trudy Richardson is a difficult enemy to characterize, and if I expend all this energy to broil her ass like tofu, there are thousands of minority women exactly like her, not worth more than one of my initial starting salaries. I go up against a sea tide of women such as she, process pushers, otherwise stupid people, running a Chinese drywall building on handbooks. She is no British pasteurized Colin Salmon, who plays a Jesuit librarian in The Statement (03), a film directed by Jewison with laden gravitas, marred by a flimsy narrative, egging its way toward dry heaves of Roman Catholic collusion, but for moi, worth watching, even if the aging Michael Caine is not alluding back to his maverick energies in the equally flawed Marseille Contract.
There is much to read into The Statement, despite the fact that it's an overdrawn game of cat and mouse. It is a European vehicle according to Hollywood vacuum packing, Swinton's feral energies wasted, although here she applies them as an obstinate avenger out maneuvered by ever brimming French scandals.
I overtaxed myself, however, rushing to vote at 7:19 last evening, disappointing my conviction never to touchpad choices again. Duty triumphed because I know I'll be gone soon, and nearly blind as a bat, having left my glasses on the lamp, the voting warder assisted me going straight GOP ticket, having no idea what choices I tossed in Toomey's war chest. That is an extended metaphor. It is also true I want to digest my impressions of the movie a bit further.
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Midpoints
"Can I still play the violin?"--Lois Smith
Where
Defiance ends and The Man in The High Castle begins in
2015, there is a thematic congruence, one superficial, the other overly dramaturgical.
Both series suggest American values have been tested and raise questions in
relation to our global role in the aftermath of successful blows on our soil.
The “races” of Defiance address pluralistic tensions. The nuclear device in
High Castle which incinerates the White House in the Smith family flashback
resonates with the same sobering shock as watching the Twin Towers implode on
9/11, not that it need be translated in that fashion, since the series’
creators are faithful to the spirit of Dick’s unsparing depreciation of
American sensibilities, however heightened the realism for the sake of Prime’s competitiveness
with Netflix, this too something of a retail fiction. Streaming is streaming, whatever
we put in the pipeline. I have not gone into High Castle at great length because
I sequenced it rapidly after the start of my still ongoing personal crisis, and
there is a great deal of material to peel. Whatever viewers feel about Berlin
as the superpower du jour, the cinematic quality of SO1 & 2 seems well done
to me, and one hopes the set personnel received worthwhile compensation. Amazon
proved itself rather shrewd as opposed to SyFy, since revamping Kennedyesque authoritarian
alternatives is easier than bringing otherworldliness to St. Louis and beyond.
The outer framework of the Defiance plot falls well within the traditions of
the genre, and isn’t anything we have not seen before, particularly in print. Megalomania
pits itself against the upright and the just. Asimov may be able to get five
Foundation novels out of that, but cable television can’t expect its audience
to join all those threads so seamlessly. High Castle’s writers have more
dramatic tensions and complexity, and Julia Crain manages to play both sides
against the middle, just as we aren’t altogether certain about Joe Black’s
moral compass, especially given the revelation that he was a Leidermoif [sic]
newborn.
The
most fluid episodes, those of the Trade Minister’s visions of history as we
know it, are more tenuous, though they expose what the citizens of today are meant
to appreciate: how fortunate we are to live in a constitutional republic where
the descendants of bootleggers were de facto royals who kept us out of war with
the Soviets. Dick wasn’t quite so highbrow, and his aims nearly juxtapose those
of Ridley Scott and his team. Everything Dick did was an attack on our pretensions, not a tribute to our
national innocence.
Friday, May 12, 2017
Kitsch Confetti
"That's Kim Kardashian's husband! He was in prison and had a problem with drugs. He was on a program."-- my mentally retarded and enthusiastic client Joseph, with his complimentary data banks
Having finally streamed the first episode of High Castle, my main dismay had nothing to do with its quality as an Amazon original, and its exposition was finely tuned for a war era drama; it is merely terrain in which I've been to before, alternate timelines already adapted for the small screen. I will meander into the intrigues of the series slowly, you'll have to be patient as I fail to resolve or succeed at some level with my long overdue transition, though I made poor Joseph happy, the high function mental retardation client, the sole constant in my brief rise and more torturous descent, as far back as 1991, perhaps even earlier I may have shared space with him. He recognized Cameron Hilson's picture on my phone and grew excited, and told me your story, Cameron. This, the simplicity of a senior aged child is one of the sole reasons I followed you back, a retarded man adding to celebrity literacy. All it means, at best, is a sardonic bemusement, which does not have to be virulent for its own sake. You were a baller. I, who can barely conceptualize balance on my feet, can barely fathom the exhilaration of sprinting like a gazelle on the field. You have a drug problem, did some short time? My little brother died a drug problem, and North Philadelphia, in my lifelong game of hopscotch, can be liked to hard time in the obstinacy of my insistence in making my own way. I have mentioned Lydia Nayo before, the lawyer who blew Philadelphia for San Francisco, feeling the need to confide in me, unbidden, that she, having been raped by a white man, had the ability to compartmentalize bad actors apart from white privilege and ethnicity. Good for Lydia. I applaud, and invited her to lunch when her mother died and she had to return east.
Surprised? It never materialized, which is just as well, with my dismal view of African American norms, it's brass insolence, even insistence that I give it recognition, as it pertains to this public housing environment. As unpleasant as it is to stipulate, blacks can be just as cruel, and stigmatizing, as an Asian who perceives Europeans as barbarians, though this is a neoclassical conceit long since superseded, layered and obfuscated, as everything is in the digital era.
I caught fire on George Will's "Dangerous Disability" column, and as the crusty and challenging libertarian trespassed my provenance, I had my chamber loaded, and lost my thread, and now I'm surly, our governance via New York City's jackass not rectifying matters. I've naught returned to my other assignment, but I've been a bit overly phlegmatic mid-May, and have much up in the air. Given that it will rain through mid week, I'll counsel my own re-entry, seeping my way back, not giving anyone room to comfort me in a hospice bed, when it comes to that.
Having finally streamed the first episode of High Castle, my main dismay had nothing to do with its quality as an Amazon original, and its exposition was finely tuned for a war era drama; it is merely terrain in which I've been to before, alternate timelines already adapted for the small screen. I will meander into the intrigues of the series slowly, you'll have to be patient as I fail to resolve or succeed at some level with my long overdue transition, though I made poor Joseph happy, the high function mental retardation client, the sole constant in my brief rise and more torturous descent, as far back as 1991, perhaps even earlier I may have shared space with him. He recognized Cameron Hilson's picture on my phone and grew excited, and told me your story, Cameron. This, the simplicity of a senior aged child is one of the sole reasons I followed you back, a retarded man adding to celebrity literacy. All it means, at best, is a sardonic bemusement, which does not have to be virulent for its own sake. You were a baller. I, who can barely conceptualize balance on my feet, can barely fathom the exhilaration of sprinting like a gazelle on the field. You have a drug problem, did some short time? My little brother died a drug problem, and North Philadelphia, in my lifelong game of hopscotch, can be liked to hard time in the obstinacy of my insistence in making my own way. I have mentioned Lydia Nayo before, the lawyer who blew Philadelphia for San Francisco, feeling the need to confide in me, unbidden, that she, having been raped by a white man, had the ability to compartmentalize bad actors apart from white privilege and ethnicity. Good for Lydia. I applaud, and invited her to lunch when her mother died and she had to return east.
Surprised? It never materialized, which is just as well, with my dismal view of African American norms, it's brass insolence, even insistence that I give it recognition, as it pertains to this public housing environment. As unpleasant as it is to stipulate, blacks can be just as cruel, and stigmatizing, as an Asian who perceives Europeans as barbarians, though this is a neoclassical conceit long since superseded, layered and obfuscated, as everything is in the digital era.
I caught fire on George Will's "Dangerous Disability" column, and as the crusty and challenging libertarian trespassed my provenance, I had my chamber loaded, and lost my thread, and now I'm surly, our governance via New York City's jackass not rectifying matters. I've naught returned to my other assignment, but I've been a bit overly phlegmatic mid-May, and have much up in the air. Given that it will rain through mid week, I'll counsel my own re-entry, seeping my way back, not giving anyone room to comfort me in a hospice bed, when it comes to that.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Something Nice, for a change?
"Christ," uttered in exasperated dodged bullet fashion: I met a very together, hip, attractive, industrial engineer at the normative LOTR meet up, who seemed to enjoy my hyperbole which draws a line at macro aggression. You cannot kill them all. (homosexuals) I almost messaged the wrong account, thinking it was she, and I can only be thankful I hesitated. Whew. If I had been a normal birth, dodged my maternal grandfather's physiology, I might have been Sara. Wistful sniff. Her beau has a Dennis Quaid aura, and they kindly treated me to a glass of dry wine, as a round up. I have been having desperate visions of Inglis House with every tremor, and really needed a drink, so happily ran up a small tab. Normally I don't, and when she uttered "nursing home," I let it pass. What more can I say? I cannot ask what you would do, and I burned up my mileage in disability activism a long long time ago, to paraphrase American Pie. Adapt around the decline, or cut it short, stifled 33 years with Presbyterian Homes fuck wits, not the only libertarian sympathizer who needs a lawyer and another landlord, but to the extent this woman represents digital era futures, she empowered me, even wretched in my decline.
Thursday, May 4, 2017
The Untouchables, with grave detail
He felt so guilty about this that he became exhausted and started having nightmares. Then one night he dreamed that someone came to him and said, "Don't worry, Ashura has its own master. It will look after itself.--p xii, The Nuclear Sphinx of Tehran
My viewers probably do not realize my interest in Holocaust deniers stems more from personal experience over and above proclivities in examining extreme rhetorical utterance: Picture a sexually vibrant invalid on the phone arguing with her former deep chocolate building manager who invited himself over for a drink. "I have a girlfriend," and this slammed the door on a spastic who lost her cool, honest enough to tell you I have my regrets, but it was probably for the best. However pleasurable a hard intercourse session with an oversexed son of a reverend named Michael Washington might have been, my latent racist tendencies, lusting in the university media center, would have felt soiled, as I do anyway, had that drink occurred and we had taken a roll that makes cinematic pair bonding look like a kid's birthday party, layering icing on the cake promising satiable gratification. It never delivers, does it? Our generic desserts for these ritualized, stale, celebrations.
While I was doing my balancing act with my doomed liberalism with pretty almond eyes on one end of the wire, a student possibly named Sherri was to my left, condemning homeless predatory behaviors on pity. "I would say to them 'I won't give you money but I'll buy you a sandwich if you clean up the litter."
I was rather indignant to discover she mistrusted the genealogy surrounding the Third Reich and fascism at the height of its ascendancy, and in this nondescript student office, desks, black phone, my memory annoyed by off yellow lighting, Sherri and I battled over the history of the 1930's, and this was 1986, at the latest. She backed down, but remains part of a curious sub-contingent, sometimes political, like the former lightening rod of the post revolutionary Iranian presidency, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad-- but such positions, perhaps embodied in Jean Marie Le Pen, speak of the desire to obliterate moral guilt. Their voices are a small minority. I am not sure designating their speech as a hate crime stifles the dissent it represents.
It is not that video archive footage of emaciated bodies and Berlin in ruins has registered as sacrosanct verification of the worst genocide on record-- not that I believe these images were manipulated, but I cannot disavow my family history, which was a product of WW2, and this is the dowager taking a break from her work. I imagine you think it would be pleasant if I could still go horseback riding in New Jersey on a long made dog meat stallion named Big Red. I loved that damned aggressive and powerful beast. It nearly broke my mother's foot.
My viewers probably do not realize my interest in Holocaust deniers stems more from personal experience over and above proclivities in examining extreme rhetorical utterance: Picture a sexually vibrant invalid on the phone arguing with her former deep chocolate building manager who invited himself over for a drink. "I have a girlfriend," and this slammed the door on a spastic who lost her cool, honest enough to tell you I have my regrets, but it was probably for the best. However pleasurable a hard intercourse session with an oversexed son of a reverend named Michael Washington might have been, my latent racist tendencies, lusting in the university media center, would have felt soiled, as I do anyway, had that drink occurred and we had taken a roll that makes cinematic pair bonding look like a kid's birthday party, layering icing on the cake promising satiable gratification. It never delivers, does it? Our generic desserts for these ritualized, stale, celebrations.
While I was doing my balancing act with my doomed liberalism with pretty almond eyes on one end of the wire, a student possibly named Sherri was to my left, condemning homeless predatory behaviors on pity. "I would say to them 'I won't give you money but I'll buy you a sandwich if you clean up the litter."
I was rather indignant to discover she mistrusted the genealogy surrounding the Third Reich and fascism at the height of its ascendancy, and in this nondescript student office, desks, black phone, my memory annoyed by off yellow lighting, Sherri and I battled over the history of the 1930's, and this was 1986, at the latest. She backed down, but remains part of a curious sub-contingent, sometimes political, like the former lightening rod of the post revolutionary Iranian presidency, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad-- but such positions, perhaps embodied in Jean Marie Le Pen, speak of the desire to obliterate moral guilt. Their voices are a small minority. I am not sure designating their speech as a hate crime stifles the dissent it represents.
It is not that video archive footage of emaciated bodies and Berlin in ruins has registered as sacrosanct verification of the worst genocide on record-- not that I believe these images were manipulated, but I cannot disavow my family history, which was a product of WW2, and this is the dowager taking a break from her work. I imagine you think it would be pleasant if I could still go horseback riding in New Jersey on a long made dog meat stallion named Big Red. I loved that damned aggressive and powerful beast. It nearly broke my mother's foot.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Manifest Compressions in Option A
"A cordon sanitaire was created around us. Don't go near the Le Pens." -- Marine Le Pen
Sitting up past bedtime, contemplating my lack of species optimism, I skimmed through Michael Gerson's column on Trump's Harrisburg rally, where he quotes Havel on the politics of the possible, the Kantian high road against Trump's illegitimate anti-immigration bigotry, comparing it to mine, mostly in house, against primarily four linear minded black women, realizing that national analysts by necessity cannot look at the localized details of the communities in which we abide. I pity Trump, distain him as well, but have to acknowledge his divisiveness speaks to certain truths, as I spent part of nine o'clock watching a true crime video of hip hop and heroin. Despite my inner city quicksand tragedy, my immersion into black culture never went that far. I was disgusted by what I was viewing; by the same token, I am too tired, too worn down, to worry about the concourse of Google's censorship, if I deign to use my mouth as my weapon. Not all blacks utilize counter culture music as a front for subterranean drug culture, but if we took Gerson off his beltway establishment deadlines, and his vaunted efforts to roll back Trumpian myopia, and had him instead share a cell with crack hoodlums filmed for the sole purposes for exposure to minority gang culture, the conscientious anxieties of Eastern European humanism, filtered through a true conservative professional rhetorician, always wary of Slavic bears, would come face to face with ghetto machismo; it might be likened to two alien species, one of whom could barely interpret the other. The urbane would fracture against such brutalism, and most of us realize this. Education does not change how expendable most of us beneath the surface are. For every Sheryl Sandberg, with her pedestrian sentiments about making elbows in the creek for option b, there are undoubtedly 300,000 people on minimum wages, fixed incomes, and Sandberg's job is what, exactly? Running Facebbok's automated systems, as if this is somehow vital, a billion images with a few hundred words per post attached. Immigration, at its core, is about mobility as a counter agent to community stagnation, and we have complicated it for thousands of years. Citizen versus foreigner. Global conglomeration and transport technologies accelerate it, but only on the presumption that journeys are survivable, however affordable or not they are.
Not that I'm any expert, but Jackson simply used a superior military strategy to destroy indigenous inhabitants, and open the Midwest for non-landed gentry. Today we call it development, a revolving door between government, industrial, residential spaces, with varying degrees of turnover, unless it all falls apart, driving around in our vehicles, stealing wifi, dying in hospice, or ever sure fire African famines. I'm old, miraculously survived through sterile regimentation, on the verge of homelessness because I'm stuck, after a lifetime of inefficient hydraulic lockdowns, driven to offices, rehabs, facilities. My great grandfathers were Austrian solders and Roman artisans. I curse their graves.
Sitting up past bedtime, contemplating my lack of species optimism, I skimmed through Michael Gerson's column on Trump's Harrisburg rally, where he quotes Havel on the politics of the possible, the Kantian high road against Trump's illegitimate anti-immigration bigotry, comparing it to mine, mostly in house, against primarily four linear minded black women, realizing that national analysts by necessity cannot look at the localized details of the communities in which we abide. I pity Trump, distain him as well, but have to acknowledge his divisiveness speaks to certain truths, as I spent part of nine o'clock watching a true crime video of hip hop and heroin. Despite my inner city quicksand tragedy, my immersion into black culture never went that far. I was disgusted by what I was viewing; by the same token, I am too tired, too worn down, to worry about the concourse of Google's censorship, if I deign to use my mouth as my weapon. Not all blacks utilize counter culture music as a front for subterranean drug culture, but if we took Gerson off his beltway establishment deadlines, and his vaunted efforts to roll back Trumpian myopia, and had him instead share a cell with crack hoodlums filmed for the sole purposes for exposure to minority gang culture, the conscientious anxieties of Eastern European humanism, filtered through a true conservative professional rhetorician, always wary of Slavic bears, would come face to face with ghetto machismo; it might be likened to two alien species, one of whom could barely interpret the other. The urbane would fracture against such brutalism, and most of us realize this. Education does not change how expendable most of us beneath the surface are. For every Sheryl Sandberg, with her pedestrian sentiments about making elbows in the creek for option b, there are undoubtedly 300,000 people on minimum wages, fixed incomes, and Sandberg's job is what, exactly? Running Facebbok's automated systems, as if this is somehow vital, a billion images with a few hundred words per post attached. Immigration, at its core, is about mobility as a counter agent to community stagnation, and we have complicated it for thousands of years. Citizen versus foreigner. Global conglomeration and transport technologies accelerate it, but only on the presumption that journeys are survivable, however affordable or not they are.
Not that I'm any expert, but Jackson simply used a superior military strategy to destroy indigenous inhabitants, and open the Midwest for non-landed gentry. Today we call it development, a revolving door between government, industrial, residential spaces, with varying degrees of turnover, unless it all falls apart, driving around in our vehicles, stealing wifi, dying in hospice, or ever sure fire African famines. I'm old, miraculously survived through sterile regimentation, on the verge of homelessness because I'm stuck, after a lifetime of inefficient hydraulic lockdowns, driven to offices, rehabs, facilities. My great grandfathers were Austrian solders and Roman artisans. I curse their graves.
Monday, May 1, 2017
The bitch is back
stone cold sober as a matter of fact
Teetering on the edge of a precipice doesn't stop incidental commands from firing along the neural network on which our minds are, if only that, a conceptual extension. An entreaty to Vast Drive about my block on twitter led to an interesting revelation: I am considered a pornographer. I have battled the establishment in a myriad of ways, and because I launch into vulgar tirades, I get a label like that, pornography. Weary sigh, need to revise, as if it matters on the close of 1500 posts, reading too much into social media actions, as well. Henry Miller's nihilist rant was ruled not obscene, and I'm a pornographer. Uh huh. Vast Drive didn't block me for my politics, but because their social media manager solicited web porn, otherwise indifferently. I've been graphic, sometimes effectively, sometimes too rushed, but I am not selling "the fuck of the century," in the immortal words of Michael Douglas feint riding Sharon Stone. When Basic Instinct went to DVD, I was still imposing myself on Jimmi Shode and Erik, and you cannot see them, their thick porcine and ghoulishly androgynous human forms, not very nearly approximated on Modern Family. Jimmi is just fat, an ugly flat nose, beady insecure eyes. He pushes back against management by writing defiant nonsense on memos. I, on the other hand, have actual tort against Presby, they know it, and its getting ugly.
The Gladhandler (pseudonym because his cerebral palsy limits him) used to be one of our lambs. Parceled out between us, Erik, corrupt self-hating trans, Linda the Jewish denier prevaricator, me, Debbie. He asked me to give his aide a cigarette. He has no other existence. Who am I to judge? It isn't that I condemn limited functioning invalids, but even Sean Penn made his mentally retarded father dynamic. Gladhandler isn't, he's a dog on a leash.
You'll have to kill me first.
Teetering on the edge of a precipice doesn't stop incidental commands from firing along the neural network on which our minds are, if only that, a conceptual extension. An entreaty to Vast Drive about my block on twitter led to an interesting revelation: I am considered a pornographer. I have battled the establishment in a myriad of ways, and because I launch into vulgar tirades, I get a label like that, pornography. Weary sigh, need to revise, as if it matters on the close of 1500 posts, reading too much into social media actions, as well. Henry Miller's nihilist rant was ruled not obscene, and I'm a pornographer. Uh huh. Vast Drive didn't block me for my politics, but because their social media manager solicited web porn, otherwise indifferently. I've been graphic, sometimes effectively, sometimes too rushed, but I am not selling "the fuck of the century," in the immortal words of Michael Douglas feint riding Sharon Stone. When Basic Instinct went to DVD, I was still imposing myself on Jimmi Shode and Erik, and you cannot see them, their thick porcine and ghoulishly androgynous human forms, not very nearly approximated on Modern Family. Jimmi is just fat, an ugly flat nose, beady insecure eyes. He pushes back against management by writing defiant nonsense on memos. I, on the other hand, have actual tort against Presby, they know it, and its getting ugly.
The Gladhandler (pseudonym because his cerebral palsy limits him) used to be one of our lambs. Parceled out between us, Erik, corrupt self-hating trans, Linda the Jewish denier prevaricator, me, Debbie. He asked me to give his aide a cigarette. He has no other existence. Who am I to judge? It isn't that I condemn limited functioning invalids, but even Sean Penn made his mentally retarded father dynamic. Gladhandler isn't, he's a dog on a leash.
You'll have to kill me first.
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