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.