All That Drama Queen Strum und Drag

If you'd really like some evidence, which you do not, of what the dowager temperament is like when it goes off, sine we're engaged in dissecting developmental aggression, (are we?) the novelist Gretchen Laskas, of whom I am actually quite fond, respect a great deal, and whose rational theism has had no small influence on my thought processes, can tell you I flipped out when P&W banned my account 15 years ago, and I've been guilty as charged ever since, more than ungracious, and have no idea what possessed me to send her a friend request on 6/28, waiting in mild suspense to see if I garnered a block. I did not, and was quite happy to restore at least one other Speakeasy contact, I really was. It softened up my alienation just a smidge. I thought she'd never speak to me again, and this is why I tagged her account to my family's attention. All that melodrama! And here we are, with a peak of middlebrow parameters in the looking glass once again, but as you all know, I am an infrequent Facebook participant. I was also off a bit on what she might look like, and is more attractive than I imagined from our exchanges. I'm as over the top as Training Day😎😎

Delayed Pleasantries with Alphabet Subsidies, and Other Quandaries

...this can be achieved only by "carving out" a certain constellation of phenomena.-- Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, p. 285

Having been tested for diabetes a number of times since my burn accident, which occurred during Brenda Williams brief tenure, before the RICHARDSON WARS (and I'm still here, barely, smile), and Williams too, just as Trudy, and Trudy's Gerber foods mentality, cited me for non-compliance, but she was kicked to curb for trying to go after every resident with strict compliance, and I mean strict. The PHA regulatory handbook is probably similar to the nefarious SSA POMs, and you'd be surprised what you'd learn reading the SSA POMs,. It is like a perverse variation of The Empire Strikes Back, the *business* of Social Security, its schemers, petty prison terms, but I have been tested, and told I am not diabetic. Granted that, in recent years, I have catered to cheap snacks and bakery since the 7 Eleven franchise opened. (I took many months become a frequent flyer, as I preferred a bodega further off, but 24 hour service and proximity and vaping supply transformed me into a power chair inconvenience). I am living currently on barely two meals a day, mostly bulk grains and potatoes and legumes, and moved a stool so large Tuesday evening I in fact cannot change the litter until I am sure not to clog, and remain fairly confident my bowel shall kill me before COPD suffocates me to death. Large evacuations indicate diabetes. Perhaps coffee masks it. I've cut down on fish oil, but for my petite stature what impaction does to me is stupendous, now and again.
 My problem with KDP is my uncertainty over formatting, and depending on how much of my output I apportion to being an independent, I have to learn, but I am a writer, journo, small j momentarily hopefully not forever but at my age I am not bucking hot zones. Perhaps there is a story there; what I am not is a designer, and I hope I can link my content page to my text. I really don't know how to do some of these things, and thus far, I have one Amazon guide. We'll see. In my early kindle years the amount of digital dreck worried me, and I do not wish to do that to myself, whatever my kinks, my flaws. I have them, including telling Amazon I wasn't going to buy anymore books due to a seller's delay with Levi-Strauss, and what a feeble threat, as I'm killing myself today to hang onto Prime. I keep grinding away at the conceit, the intellectual pretension, of changing the world through narrative skills, just as The Raw and The Cooked joined into the intellectual ferment of its time, difficult and giddy as an anthropological study as it is. I once believed I had Strauss's acumen, his ability, to invest in such important theses, so I am as egotistical as Roth, on a certain level. I wonder what you think, but then, I assume I already know, even if I cannot say what a detrimental impact my wounded voice has had, I really don't know, but yes, I have crossed lines decency prohibits, and in that, the dying hermaphrodite has gotten the message to engage as little as possible with me. I am working, however, whatever the odds against me, what else can I do? If it takes me until August to hire an attorney, then it takes me until August. And, if I bridle it and repeat like a chant, Google is not the enemy, it is no more than a tertiary issue: I cannot afford pay to play Ad Sense fees, certainly not in July, with a meager effort to put something in my stomach.

Durden du jour

In light of what I just wrote below, Lisa Durden's firing is punitive, and shows how little the 1st Amendment protects us from economic damages. I have no problem with African American separatism. The subtext of my outcry is government forcing me to live under socialism and black aides, and it's my fault, but I have no issue with blacks being hired and qualified, doing things among themselves. The left has some serious problems; I find now, however, that it's best if I log onto search, get what I need, write offline. I'll be back. Bad day. Gassy, hurting, and not dead, yet.

Geek on Shells

The Kenyon Review adamantly supports the widest possible inclusiveness in the writers it seeks out and publishes, as well as in the students and workshop participants it supports, teaches, and attempts to inspire. David Lynn, editor, mass email dissemination shortly after the inauguration

David, although many might take issue with me on how I ascribe the utilitarian value of literary expression and its interpretation thereof, I have something to say: my thirty three years of relentless persistence and publication in print and digital media, from my first appearance in the hybrid English Canadian Slow Dancer as an over-aged upperclassman, to my most recent throw away to the young minority doctorate, Bianca Spriggs, of one of my strongest essays, for nothing, in Pluck, has done jack shit for my welfare, other than to give me a pedigree which the millennial student editors today might find mildly intimidating, hence my cynicism in relation to publishing, perishing, and Kenyom's strident and conscientious cultural appropriation. Indeed, the essay Bianca so graciously accepted did nothing to stop me from becoming a victim, four times over, as a disabled woman, of black arrogance, cruelty and corruption which has denigrated me repeatedly. The essay is just cleverly ambiguous enough, that it can be read either way, how urbanism generates racism or universal identification, and the grand lady of commitment to creative writers, Allison Joseph, who could have paid me for my courage, suffered over the piece, while Bianca read it as "crip became scarred liberal," and took the plunge. It was commendable, but doesn't alleviate how much I've suffered in your cosmetic pretenses to be successfully matriculated in an ambulatory, exclusionary world. Appearing in nearly a hundred publications never got me a job, or did all that much to further any sort of economic security. I'm closing fifty-six, and my next major break, be it computer, power chair, even my bed, may be my last. I never see people like me, let alone my dialectical rival, Vassar Miller, whom dung bitches like Josie Byzek weren't even aware of, and my former editor calls herself an intellectual, but perhaps took too much heat on twitter, truly integrated. In the industry, we're a sidelined cameo. Aside from the Hawking exception, whose condition seems to play into the cognitive dissonance of mad genius, we aren't a major presence in academics, and despite my best efforts, I am probably going to die, pathetic, in pain, in a welfare ward. You might say this puts too much onus on creativity, that using language skills to entertain offers us a valve, but what does the valve, the novel, the poetry collection, or the literary journal, do to mitigate ruthless hardship? I logged on this early morning to ease some flatulence, cut Richard Benjamin and Ali MacGraw down to size, adapting Philip Roth's imprimatur signature on counter culture. Goodbye, Columbus angered me as little more than orgasms are paramount and loving commitments an affect. Roth knows his culture as well as I know mine, and he's rich, having eroded it. Me, I'm just black balled for challenging community integration models, for raising my voice about women and their need to bring developmental birth defects into the world so developmental birth babies can be enslaved by case management. Sorry to rock your precious, inclusionary schooner of cultural appropriation.

Dung, Bitches, Nouveau Princesses

"this far, and no farther,"--Peter Falk

No one of us, whatever the nexus of our identity we shed to be American, is a monolithic block, and in my eruptions on this account about so called activists, that can be seen in the lack of unity between us. I cannot tell you exactly what the rift between Erik & Jimmi and Josie Byzek was, but it was a rift over how "extreme" Pennsylvania ADAPT should or shouldn't be, and Erik, when the hermaphroditic freak was more lucid, removed Fern Markowitz as Liberty's executive director. Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern are all part of the LBGTQ block. There is no love lost between them, and Fern Markowitz, in addition, is a Jewish lesbian, just as Linda Dezenski is a Jewish princess, on the lower end of the scale. Where I entered into it, regardless of my fatal attempt to be close to my overly esteemed peer, is Linda used me in a power struggle to get Fern to violate Pennsylvania state hiring guidelines to hire Jimmi for a job Linda offered me which, after my logistics combat at Matrix, would have been next to impossible for me to do. Linda won the battle but lost the war. Jimmi quit, Erik had who knows how many strokes and cardiovascular issues, and I grew too angry to care, and this is the end product of all that, but I was incredibly naive, to lick my wounds by then grafting onto a Christian lesbian who'd humiliate me in public, bouncing online from one failed disability project after another.
It is of only mild curiosity that Josie's twitter account under her own identity seems null and void. I hesitate to attribute it to my rancor. I haven't harassed her on social media, as, whatever my challenge to her role as caretaker extraordinaire, New Mobility is an undeniably progressive platform whose contributors say the same thing over and over with iterative nausea. Perhaps it has something to do with her run for the school board, but you'll notice, whatever her prominence as a champion for the marginalized, neither she nor partner Virginia foster disabled children. If I were Singh Lion, which I'm certainly not, I'd wonder about this curious trifecta of two women with a significant background in case management rearing Asian children of third world ethnicity, particularly when Josie is so impaired by MS. For the being of the welfare class, Josie is fairly solicitous of those in her care. I will not go so far as to impugn her nurturing impulses. My quarrel with her is commiseration doesn't resolve resource distribution, but she never applies herself to that, like the cost of battling over PVS cases, like Schiavo and Bobby Brown, and how this ties in with my ambivalence toward Roth's barrier breaking exposes is somewhat complex. FYI, I've read a number of Jewish novelists, like Chaim Potok, some Saul Bellow, and I've dipped into a little of everything (so how could I have drifted so rightward?) But however cemented his legacy may be, and I do recognize it, Philip Roth is an egotistical prick. I know the movies better than the novels, and concessions to some of his starkest feints have to be granted, but Goodbye Columbus succeeded in making me antagonistic to all of its character types, Ali MacGraw in particular, portrays her coming of age as an expression of masochistic coitus. I am a great deal like Richard Benjamin on screen. This is why he stays with me despite the blithe inattentiveness to his interpretations of Roth in my past, but even as a pursuer progressive of almost 50 years ago, Neil Klugman is a contraction in terms, as are Roth's vigorous sexual expositions. It never occurs to Roth not to allow his men to be vulnerable to sexual entrapment, not to be afraid of knocking up daddy's little girl by not chasing her in daddy's house, like a hound dog. He is vacuous himself, but wants a monogamous commitment, to which Brenda, the perpetual, debutante, seems incapable. The film had its moments, and our urban life used to feel relatively secure where a boy could look up a girl and then show up, talk her home, but there is nothing here to celebrate in Roth's own hypocrisy, a surreptitious man cave, with its lack of respect, leaving me without even the proverbial suitcase to lug back to the depot in the era without stroll carts. 

Long, Tough Week

Kirstie Alley's 04 made for television saga about the Gecks of New Hampshire only receives a two star rating, but it certainly provides me with a ravenous window into the truth about the undertow in American life we don't really talk about. As Shelley Long's replacement on Cheers, Alley was "eh". There was a chemistry between Danson and Long which worked, the intangible quality of pheromones and comedy. Alley represented a shift in direction, conglomerate models swallowing up independent entrepreneurship, but she was a second fiddle, which summarizes her career, if it is not otherwise indicative of the fact that the character she portrays would have used urine as a cleaning agent if she could have turned it to her advantage. On a purely superficial level, Alley deserves credit for showing us ourselves as we are, obese and brutish beneath the surface, her figure gone, her Geck is representative of what we've become, and how we've metastasized government programs. Would the dowager have seen the face of the Matrix Research *consumer* in the real Brenda? Probably not. The majority cases of shrink wrap on my plate screwed up their heads into dysfunctional dependence, or, in my worst cases, ones where I did not even know why I broached the disability work incentives, they weren't lucid, but this woman wasn't insane the way the players in the film, or the Rotten Tomatoes commentators use it to ward off the most abhorrent aspects of broken primate behavior. She was highly organized, knew how to exploit the weak, manipulate children for profit, a world that became mine the minute I left my father's house, no picnic there, not with my mother (and since I'm conscious of the fact my surviving brother has a substantive footprint, I'll curb that bite). What the Gecks represent is squarely and solely the fault of progressive liberalism, no more, no less, and for once, I did not waste my time viewing and appreciating a mediocre portrayal which tells the truth about the downfall of western values, the loss of constraint, the sleaze in gaming the welfare state. 

I might as well be an impoverished 22 year old graduate living off of boiled pasta rolling up and back North Broad Street as I now roll up and back Market. I try to keep busy, scrounging up what paying markets I can. When I graduated high school, my parents had located a building in Woodlyn with my peers, and I have no reason in my obstinate skull why I turned my parents down, said "no," if we can add this to the poor choice department. I have searched for the building since, never found it, but had I gone there, even if Liberty had been discovered, plausibly, and fucked me over, as it did, the consequences would have been different. I really can't say what was going on in my 19 year old head at the time, but I'm bitter. My only asset is my debt, which is so astronomical as to be nearly pointless. I don't see how I recover, and feel, legitimately, if independent living center corruption had such a disparate impact on my welfare, since that corruption flourishes under federal mandate, the DOE should shave off some of my interest. I'd imagine the executive branch would fall over itself with that line of reasoning.

The Greek title, paralepomenia, means "things omitted," the church fathers on 1Chronicles.

Reenactment Auxiliary

In case of the removal of the President from office or of his death or resignation, the Vice President shall become President., 25th amendment, sec.1

Running the air a little in the heat of the day before I go to lie down, daring, when I do, to shut the air conditioning off, in sooty urban ninety degree weather, little changed since oh, let's say, 1918, before the technology of Freon was widely available so that toady peasants could live past sixty. I've heard twice now that "hate", whether as an entity, a thing, which only exists as an advanced internal motivation in primates, or a modal verb, is a strong word. The ambulatory world uses it as a moral teaching tool, like in Kung Fu, David Carradine went up against an old monk controlling the warrior who appeared to have superhuman strength, until Caine journeyed to the monk's residence, and the Shaolin broke the corroded man's will through focused meditation, and viewers then saw little more than emaciated bark and dust, the supporting actor impossibly shriveled.

 It isn't quite so allegorical in real world terms, when the tsunami strikes with as much steady consistency as it does with surge and currents. For developmental damage, it is simply part and parcel of our vocabulary, not extraordinary in the least. If we had extraordinary, we'd be running the Phineas Priests better than they run themselves. Richard Spencer, in his carefully plotted alt.right facade, his pretense toward being a reasonable think tank, probably knows quite a few of these anarchists a la mode, in their conflicted ballet with local and federal law enforcement. I write this in speculation only, and do not claim his ethno romantic views on white privilege serve as a front for domestic paramilitary enthusiasts. They can believe anything they please, except when it comes to insurrection. Authority looks askance at sedition against a purportedly constitutional republic, one thing it shares with otherwise discredited regimes where governance is a wink and a nod. They only way extremism ever comes out victorious is in numbers, sympathizers, converts. This is one way the status quo moves. Innovation is another, like the technology surrounding television. We very rarely dwell on how complex the components of video are. We grasp the basic concepts of how electricity is harnessed, controlled, but our numbers are fewer in the expertise of audio, or radio waves, satellite technology. Count me in as useless when it comes to these applications, how magnetism carries voice, how antenna captures signals, how transistors convert this so that pixels can create exactly what cameras film. Control these mediums and then you control the dissemination of the facts to be distorted in one variation or another, but how to lust for power and keep it in the dynastic sense is increasingly difficult to do, despite Chancellor Merkel, and it cannot be done by terrorizing Spokane with pipe bombs and strategic bank heists. Take Silicon Valley and its oligarchy: Tim Cook, Peter Thiel, Chris Hughes in New York, Zuckerberg, Jack, even Ev Williams, and their enablers. They may not all share the characteristics of a regressive, if occasionally patriarchal, homosexuality, but they all have, to some degree, a coastal, dandyish elitism-- even Thiel, who seems, at least superficially, to be a boy he-man who doesn't grow up, but we've been co-opted by them, augmenting, as they have, the Defense Department technology which is now the digital age, and whether intentional or not, unless the Internet is destroyed, (unlikely), freedom is dead.
This may seem like I give the saying nothing environment of social media too much importance. Toomey, to pick a conventional establishment example, doesn't live on it. He is a legislator, a man of great privilege, juxtaposed against the hordes, but nothing, and no one is free, in this age of computer science, cameras, facial recognition software, quarantines Apple, Google, and their heirs knowing everything. Minority Report  will seem like a piss in the bucket, compared to where we're headed. Along the way, hate will flare, and for those whom justice has never lifted a finger, it's comprehensible. Libertarians may see the dowager's hostility to homosexual culture as a violation of liberty and privacy. On one level, it is. But what political aspirants like Austin Petersen do not see in their paramount individualism, is, gay men and lesbians generate victims too, as did my mother's once best friend, even in the closet. Kmac's eventual happiness with one of her husband's relatives had repercussions, and created estrangements. Don't Semitic moralists also have the right to believe sexual sodomy is sinful, as well? Liberty for all is not quite the utilitarian striving that it seems, in this context. Not that I am forsaking libertarian beliefs. They've helped me a good deal, but freedom is exceedingly fragile against a collective which automation has made so banal it's difficult to see how aesthetic transcendence will find space to flourish in future world.

The Vulva of Russia

"I think the results speak for themselves," a grieving father

I had a terrible headache Wednesday morning, my sister messaging me later, before the American dinner hour, that she wanted to give me money. Fuck that. Between our aunt and our father, the debits for the fact that I paid my younger siblings mortgage from the bowels of my nigger habitat twelve years ago have been paid. She has four children. Two have had significant conditions. I told her to let it go. The headache was a trade off in concession to my age: I had been running the air conditioner, to which my Mediterranean constitution rebels, believing a stroke was imminent. I shut off the machine, and the cranial tension eased.
 While Otto's comatose body riled the fourth estate, I evaluated Oscar Isaac's death scene as reasonably effective in Ex Machina, though my immediate objection resides as it always does in empirical observation. We attribute anthropomorphic characteristics to artificial intelligence, perhaps for dramatic anxiety, but this is Deep Blue against Kasporov, processors, circuits, pulses. Conditionally, its future self awareness may not contain a minimal personality, so why is Google hurling along? Why do we desire machines to survive our eventual extinction? I was merely revising an old piece, stopped myself, logged on for archaeological data, made an FB page and appointed my baby half brother administrator, just hitting his forties. I may have adapted to Twitter's utility, but social media is dangerous, and I hate it. I really do.

Austerity of Mortar

On rare occasions, I marvel at the fact that Robert Thomas and I have been friends for slightly over two decades. It is lost to obscurity, who initiated our mutual familiarity, why we exchanged email addresses, why I confided much to him as an email junkie, at first. I treated him like a girlfriend, not a man, which signifies something about San Francisco liberalism and pasteurized testicles, and when I more recently told him I was having trouble with a draft of a poem titled "Black China," which is still troubled, a bit too lethal with sexual trauma, he made a suggestion which I appreciated, which illustrates I hold my ferocity it check for intelligence of a kind, similar to Jeffrey Tucker, a would-have been editor, and the Foundation for Economic Education's Communication Director. Why can't I just write FEE? Why drag it out, as if choking to death on marbles, fascinating spheres which must be manufactured in a method similar to ball bearings.

The case of Otto F. Warmbier is horrifying. This terror state is a disgrace to the human race.

— Jeffrey A Tucker (@jeffreyatucker) June 20, 2017

All Robert remarked upon when we discussed "Black China," was "it has a lot going on." What else could he convey, or even know for himself, about women, brain damage, and the like? Robert and I have remained friends because I haven't been vicious, overly demanding, and we have an entire country between us, even as I grow more increasingly autocratic, vehement, toggling how far I will take militant defiance of authority as a salve for failure and age. Sheldon Novick, also, tweeted "thank you my friend," for his birthday wishes. I was not going to drag the Jamesian legal scholar into this post, but what he meant was I wasn't being an imposition, and he appreciated my following of convention to single him out. Though I cannot speak for Jeffrey, whose mind operates closest to my own pattern when I am not being utterly heinous, Robert Thomas, Sheldon Novick, and Joanne Marinelli are going to soon expire, not to mention my mentor, and none of us have absolute control over these last decades. Indeed, even hale and energetic generations under us, to whom we're supposed to bequeath our intrinsic wisdom, often face the end unexpected. The elderly, being cautious, sometimes survive the folly of youthful credence in itself, and when Jeffrey raised his voice about Wambier's excruciating sufferance under the nearly extinct fanaticism of Pyongyang, the last vestige of Maoism's exterminating tendencies, I did not wish to allow Jeffrey's resonating outcry to reach me. I knew of the story beforehand, but there are only so many causes any of us can attend to at one time, and even if Wambier was part of a tour group, why take the risk? There are places in the world westerners, Americans, shouldn't go, even for journalistic exposes, unless it is necessary for their jobs, as part of the foreign service. Nonetheless, despite the errors of our free, liberal, will, he did not deserve his fate. He went, and the conservative reaction doesn't change such a horrendous outcome. Jeffrey reached me, although here, too, I put the bit in my teeth, and never wrote him the letter I thought I might. He cannot save me simply because his intellect is equally shrewd, and keen. Bad choices, eggs in the basket starting to turn. When boiled eggs go bad, the odor, even for invalids challenged by the arts of hygiene, is pungent, domineering, and compels disposal.

There is no hyperbole sufficient for the volatility of the DMZ. It quells Trump's idiocy with the same force of regularity applied to spastic belligerence. Though one cannot speak for Xi's protean Marxism, American patriotic sentiment, when examining the bewilderment that is Asia, has to be mindful of disaster's gravity, even if orchestrated by the most extreme cultist dictatorship left in the world. Chuch'e (CIA) generates its own zealots, even under young Kim's fractious grip, and detainees have been used as bargaining chips with the regularity of a dripping faucet. Jimmy Carter extracted Ajahon Gomes from his predicament. There may be an abatement of Kim's rogue antipodes for the time being, but it will continue, and it will continue because this is the consequence of the left, of state model socialism. It is a wonder indeed, the tolerance allotted to a militant, increasingly right wing woman in her blasted circumstance. A Jewish secular liberal, a California poet with just so slightly better branding, a Southern libertarian whose humanism eschews the lessons of social fear. Perhaps not as diversified as it appears.

On one occasion, near the "Hand-over," when I was not present, the expedition was more successful. It struck a party of nearly 50 Indians, killed several warriors, and captured others. Memoirs of W.T. Sherman, p. 19

Use The Knob

"you better mean it"-- Chaz Ebert

On a good day, which is not today, I may throw caution  to the wind in relation to concern about the Jazzy motors and corrosion, and do my old bathing chair transfer, at leas once, given that it is summer, particularly as I may present myself to Toomey's staff and become a nuisance about NCIL abuses, I don't know. I'm tired, expect too much of people and myself, and my only intimate relationship apparently resides in Twitter and libertarian politics, and keeping my chin up despite 202 carpets turned into a muddy gulch in ten years of powerchair tires and cat puke and urine and other choice accidents. In Indecent Proposal, Woody Harrelson mentions an architect named Louis Kahn who died impoverished on a bench but as yet, built a masterpiece, and I shall no longer even have that as compensation. No masterpiece here, having glanced at Linda's insufferably shallow posts. I shouldn't have. After eighteen years, it behooves little to observe her superficial shields have only worn the worse for wear. I don't even have the savvy, for it takes savvy, to die of an opioid induced overdose, not having a doctor at my disposal to coax into a nice bottle of Fentanyl. Even if I did, or had the money for a dealer, I'd probably vomit it up. Unlike Marilyn and Michael and Prince, I don't have the fucking privilege of celebrity pill popping, though the ailing O'Neal with his whiny tenor could provide an availing tutorial along the parallel lines of self-pity; I have that in common with the star of my youth. What I do not have, particularly, is a favorite Marilyn Monroe film. The more I study her, the more I see a calendar girl who was a fish out of water, and she and Arthur Miller were one of the more improbable power couples. What in the holy fuck did they marry each other for? He wound up making her a caricature, and she wound up killing Clark Gable in a pretentious and ugly little film.

I wrote, many hundreds of posts ago, that there was something about New Wave black and white movies which cannot be reproduced. I am not a professional critic, but this holds true for me with films of a certain cast, and Miller badly wants this for The Misfits, but it is an ugly movie, nearly its entire ensemble spaced out with injuries or imminent death, and even Roger Ebert, when he could still speak, kind of trailed off, with Miller's motifs about the necessity of slaughter making little sense even to a fat Chicago newspaper man with his Pulitzer and his chocolate bunny widow. (I have no particular need today to be unkind to Chaz simply due to reactionary intransigence beyond the aforementioned descriptive depreciation.) It isn't Don't Bother to Knock either, though for all intents and purposes, Anne Bancroft's recriminations might as well be interchangeable with what I get from Richardson's managerial duress. I should have telephoned the legal referral I received today, and instead, rowed my oars in typical avoidance due to huge impaction, successfully dispensed. Why am I still writing? Much like the overweening caretaker in The Goddess observes, "it's all I know how to do," and I cannot return to my mother's family either. It is a convenience of self-deception, loving them but no longer of them, I shall disrupt my sordid stability in dramatic fashion shortly, uselessly, perhaps, but the act of defiance is ready to cascade a riot of one.

Savant Nova

But Communism, my friend, is more than Marxism. -- Graham Greene, Haitian apostate

 “How unusual,”  a starved intellect made note of the fact, that a writer such as Graham Greene would turn to acting in serialized, grounded space opera like Defiance. This fascinated me as an early streaming viewer, not yet given over to the lassitude of despair, that an important legacy author of post-war Britain would turn to acting in his old age, more riveting than the plot itself to destroy counter culture libertarians co-habitating  with stranded aliens. The series was an inversion of the Roddenberry formula, darker, perhaps, not bad, and not quite realizing that indigenous Canadian aboriginals might also take on archetypal Anglo-Saxon names for themselves.  Jesus Christ what a moron.

Although I am not quite sympathetic to the novelist’s embrace of sacrament as penance in The End of The Affair  as received through Kerr’s charming performance, Greene the Englishman is more relatable by far in his morose lack of optimism than Greene the actor playing Parcheesi with the sins of neo-imperialism in blood strewn epics like Dances With Wolves. I hated Dances With Wolves, so declared in a deploring over-simplification of sentiment. Nevertheless-

Pattern Recognition

Though the novel itself cannot be vouchsafed, the 2011 film on which it is adapted, The Descendents, might have been a godsend for this blog's topicality, if it wasn't otherwise just another remix for Clooney, variations on the same motifs as Up In The Air and Michael Clayton. George, the ultra-guilty blue blood, is in subtext, saying goodbye to his A-list zenith. (No one cares about Sudanese centuries old failure at statehood, kick it back to Egypt.) It is wrapped up, this life as methodical compartmentalization. This sentiment is not to detract from Payne's efforts. Like the sixty plus years older Niagara, heavily dependent on location, Hawaii becomes a foil within Clooney's narrative framework that brackets the dramatic tension of the story. Enforcing disability law statues, in our free societies, may simply come down to how closely you wish to be aligned with federal oversight, but humans with minimal awareness of their environment pose the most disruptive challenge to our norms, whether it is in the Iranian desert, or Ben Carson moving his barometer from a minority medical elite who loses Persian conjoined twins in an operatic theater, to a quixotic political aberration (who's side am I on again?), or a stainless steel stark episode of Criminal Intent, or this movie, persistent vegetative states always say more about the affect of those trying to cope than it does about the absence of presence, except that here, Patricia Hastle's Elizabeth, while not having much to do except to keep her training focused on not having any pretend awareness of what's going on, as her biological breakdown defeats mechanics-- not easy, presumably, her dead alive memory has a stranglehold on the Kings, and a rippling impact of disclosure and discovery on her community. Perhaps the author might scoff, and you too, if I also see this story as a complex allegory for the disappointed expectations of the Obama era. Yes, I'm extrapolating from the fact that Obama was born in Hawaii, and even if the birthers one day uncover irrefutable evidence that Barack was a Manchurian conspiracy of some sort-- what isn't, anymore, with our empire crumbling and the world not exactly serene about giving China a snow job because they are multitude and India, it's closest dialectal rival in that regard, doesn't offer liberty all that much assurance--Obama's legitimacy as a citizen was never really an issue. The issue was his mother, a radical leftist who was too young, perhaps, to be caught in the red panic under Eisenhower, and whether or not she and her children contravened core American beliefs. Given the current 2017 state of affairs in the Beltway, the dowager supposes this must be answered in the affirmative: We see multiculturalism as double-edged, and backlashed, and Payne has very carefully perforated this in his gemstone of directorial care. It's written into the tensions with the natives, in Scottie's acting out, in the back story of the King family. Even mixed race arranged marriages, and progressive largesse, and Clooney's fame, insofar as that goes, cannot overcome indigenous oppression versus the privilege of conquest. I hate being a quadriplegic, even though it is miraculous I have survived this long, traveled on my own, flamed out a career; I hate it, and there is nothing any ideology can do about it. The only thing really driving me now is I want to hurt the left as much as possible, and if I could dismantle the city of Philadelphia as a sovereign municipality, I would. Tall order. It would take an insurrection against our republican system to do it, but I would. I'm never going to have the economic freedom of white privilege, and ?I believed, into my early forties, it was something I could do, that by now, I'd have husband, friends. I am just a stag. The disabled activists I knew are dead, rejected, impotent, or turned on me, and those who aren't I can't really relate to, and they don't like me, in turn, however much ?I cross paths with cripland online. I lack familiarity of friendships I once had, all because of stupid choices, domestic violence, urban crime. I don't really have people I like who like me. Successful writers don't present that as a public face.
 Thus, I am debating myself whether I should flip it, and load my strongest poetry manuscript as a vanity, and market my non-fiction conventionally. The poetry collection is relatively intact, and has been what it is for a long time, and the genre is so insulated, what's the difference if a midlist press sells me for 5 dollars and change or I put my published work up myself for 2.75?

Welcome Table Crusts

I just deleted over 80 emails from Yahoo, knowing that if I put Allison's pendulous list on web only I will cut down a great deal of being overwhelmed by deadlines; my disillusionment is so pervasive, however, that literary journals are making me nauseous, regardless of quality, and playing catch up with poetry and at least one non-fiction collection little alleviates my dun colored views. I'm sick of it. Don't even bother to tell editors I am so striated by economics that supporting them is a struggle. I no longer have time to read them all. I still respect The Atlantic, if not David Frum. What he triggers I am not certain of, but was more sympathetic to Bennet's down to earth sensibility. I still respect American Scholar, and just remembered I've conveniently forgotten my assignment, which, if the powers that be leave me in peace, I can refocus this weekend. (And KDP awaits)

About a year ago, I suppose Welcome Table Press was soliciting me. Did they interpret my voice as a variation on EB White? Do I genuinely generate that much content about writing? I forgot about my assignment because I have to psyche myself up to lie my way into getting a lawyer to sue Trudy Richardson's ass back to Raleigh. I know exactly what Sexton's victim was suffering when Sexton denigrated her dignity, killing her for an ATM card. I am never going to be able to re-generate enough income to keep myself safe from a fourth, fifth, minority attack. I know I'm going to get hurt again. They smell it on you.

Second Edition: Vermont Broken Vessels

"Others imagine that he served in Flanders, where he was raised to the rank of ensign in the company commanded by Don Diego de Urbina; grounding the belief on the supposition, that the history of the Captive, related in the first part of Don Quixote, is a literal detail of his own adventures."-- Smollett excavating Cervantes

Though there is nothing to dispute with Welch's argument on its face, one thing he overlooks is that Sanders proselytizes in order to indoctrinate supporters and instill in them a fervent sense of righteousness, and it is just as deadly to do that today as it was in the 30's, when Bernard was making love to Wobblies.. The dowager reacted so rudely to Sanders, under her real name, because she has a lifetime of experience with that. To tone down her volatility, with more even-handed balance, spastic did do two things under her Yahoo address: she signed onto Obama For America and gave the president's Pac a contribution before the ACA left her in the lurch. She also explored Gabby Giffords'  Americans for Responsible Solutions, but did not like its pastoral quality, and never participated, later unsubscribed. Sanders people got the email from one of those two, and it should not have been done, thus the septuagenarian's twitter stream paid the price of her umbrage. Even under Jerry's tutelage, as a young woman, the inclination against radicalism was always there. Suspicious as one may be of Thiel's Orwellian tendencies towards sophisticated metadata and its instruments, which seems to contravene liberty as a key tenet of libertarian ideology, he is nonetheless behaving the way magnates behave by investing  in business concepts. Bernie Sanders, in contrast, is a lunatic worthy of defeat, if we pop him in Don Quixote.


Socialized medicine has long been in trouble in Britain. Quality of care under Chinese and Russian state models are probably more difficult to ascertain, but such attention as it receives on public television leaves informed audiences dubious, and in the States, the Medicare trust fund and the premiums beneficiaries pay may seem to work wonders in aggregate terms. Diabetic supplies, catheters, and diapers and office visits get covered. Whoopee, but the rationing of medical equipment is not quite so utopian when wheelchair users need to wait forever for equipment. There is an "independent living" client here we'll call by the name of Cherry. She set my mother off years ago. Why? My deceased mentally ill parent saw, in Cherry, how it would eventually be for yours truly, despite my greater functionality and Pennsylvania's concerted efforts on my behalf. Cherry does next to nothing, and is cared for by Susan, a nice enough piece of Scottish trash who gives birth at regular intervals to Jesse Jackson's rainbow coalition. She assisted me briefly out of my own pocket, but the minute the husband stepped into my unit he received a bio-hazard alert as a sexual opportunist. The end of Susan in my personal circumstance doesn't mean Cherry has grace. Cherry is compliant without really having much cognition about defying the system. She gets everything welfare services has to offer, everything, and she has her own private coral reef engulfing her shins. She is too heavy and too old to bathe on her own. You'd think a physician would at least treat her legs? Are Cherry and I equals? Oh, yes, she has a use. She keeps food in the stomach of Susan's children, and is otherwise discarded. How is she, in any way, one of Bernie's sisters? The dowager has yet to see any of them engage the human animals who inhabit the regimented paradigm of section 202 housing. Dowager's libertarian associates, at least, learn to accommodate her limitations through the sheer dent of her persistence, when she is able to engage them. This is not to blame Cherry for what she is, but not even her attendant cares enough to see that the woman gets a better standard of care. The spastic dowager was trained to do that, but she has broken with the homosexuals who sing the songs of hellish limitations for Inglis House residents, and more than a few of the other residents with cerebral palsy hate her guts. Why? They don't desire to be more proactive, to stay engaged, to get better matriculation. This is the fucking free lunch warbling around in the skull of the Bern, and if I have anything left to contribute in my time, I'll see his legacy incinerated before I'm through.

Brothers and Sisters

Hanno continuato inventandosi una mia contrapposizione con Beppe Grillo che è inesistente ed è quanto di più lontano dalla verità ci possa essere .-- David Casaleggio

Yes, it would be delightful to get out of my own head once in awhile, take a cessation from electronic gadgets, the grid, satellite signals, shed my contorted muscular skeletal distress for a lithe ability to jog in spandex with a breeze toning down my furious theorizing, driven by my own sense of disembodiment with all I've lost since my great personal rupture -- difficult for me to remember the exact date, but near to Thanksgiving 1999. I cannot really call my actions a legitimate suicide attempt, rolling in to the kitchen, grabbing a flimsy supermart steak knife, breaking down in inane laughter, florid tears. I should have been tougher, thus I tell myself, and I did fight for some semblance of recovery, but as I've detailed many times, so many hands were extended, mostly in impotence, much like Yabberz and Niume, more contemporaneously. AccessLife breaking apart was my most unfortunate circumstance. I liked them, wanted to take Linda's advice, work for them full time, in the burgeoning dynamic of digital birth pangs, and I am trapped in Presby, in addition, the epicenter of so many applied scars. People have suggested I write the fucking novel about life under Presby's management, but I'd doubt it sell. Who'd want to read a life of terror and then the duress of guardian threats always surrounding me because I defy minorities in learned hatred and paranoia? I follow Beppe patiently, in attesa di vedere, but can he govern? The government in Roma can be likened to City Council, or more analogous yet to American public housing "authorities"-- most of you perhaps think I'm lucky to have so many protections against eviction despite an invalid's squalor. "I can smell," Luca Zingaretti rebukes his sidekick, during the Montalbano paint by numbers nod towards the wasted space of spastic servitude of ableism. Our odors create new victims, as Dubus wrote in one of his tactful essays about life in wheelchairs and turbulent colons. I presume, if my life in Philadelphia became a game of The Man in The Iron Mask, with my naivete  coasting me through until I realized the enormity of my lack of expanse, my shackles, that life in Tuscany would have been more banded still, life on a balcony, watching the remnants of the mafia settle their scores. This post was supposed to be a critique of Sanders and his radical left pipe dreams. He is not responsible for Hodgkinson's actions, though I will also assert Trump brazenly opened this door during the general campaign. What if a supporter had put a bead on Hillary? I voted for him anyway, and maybe even because he incited and we winked at it-- but Sanders is responsible for a militant, dangerous conviction. He is not a classical Marxist, but just take a look at Venezuela across the isthmus. Is this the chaos we're bringing to civilized society for the next ten, fifteen years?
Sadly, I am not strong enough: I am never going to quite "get better" from opening up to my former Jewish supervisor Linda, apparently handling her newer frailties with a healthier and still self confident humor. Face to face, what we did to each other in virtual space would never have happened, but I cannot reinvent myself, and getting fucked over by disability activist collusion creates the same impetus for dissidents who used to be heralded in the anti-Soviet era. We've lost so many definitions, but cripple isn't one of them, no matter we we say.

Waking Dream in Shaolin Pallor

"How do I look?"-- David Carradine

It does not matter to my bowels, in this humidity, barely eating enough for two meals in 72 hours, I am skid marked, no matter what care I take, jock cripple or not, however long I have lived with incontinence, whatever methods Dr. Sloane attempted, and he fed me a cartel's envy, I now have nearly continuous pain in my gut, and how much more can I continue to rise above it with stoicism? I hate Niume.com, and I know it is an unfair emotion, but they shouldn't have courted me in an attempt to save themselves. Yet my eulogy to David through his father bore fruit out of it, and I'm writing myself to death, because I know it's over, and it isn't that complex that I'm haunted by a man whose heyday was forged in my impressionable years, that he and I both would become antagonistic to Kwai Chang Caine.

This man is the ghost of a love waylaid, and I have to relearn how to embed video, arching and tossing on a mattress long delayed for the incinerator, we will the dead back to life. No one is putting me away, no one. Let's take five. 

Walken's Dark Liturgy

Sensibilita was at the heart of Futurism's main objectives--Futurism and the Technological Imagination, p.63

I made a genealogical error here and not a soul corrected me, neither the irritable Transcendentalists at Niume, nor in my nastier Twitter comfort zone. John Carradine was David's father. I mixed the lineage up, inadvertently. The dowager thought Cassidy was David's sire, but I was thinking of David Cassidy when he was my fake rock idol fuckable back in the day, and I mean that in all affection. Fuckable is softer: The Partridge Family may have been a crock-a-too, but my palpitations went soft for groove boy junior with his shag. That was our hairstyle. I decided to barrel some quick revisions into "John Carradine in Milan" and submit it to a pay-mart. Shouldn't take me more than 72 hours, but I bristle defensively at every editor to the right of the owner's booth at the Stanley Cup finals: I am not deleting this post my my account. I will take it off Niume, but not here. I am going to die soon, and Google must not extinguish this legacy, regardless of its antithetical umbrage with the ferocity of what I hate. Liberals made me promises and destroyed me, and I may get myself in trouble with Sanders' operatives if they do not vanish from my junk mail address. I regret supporting Obama, even in the face of his opponent's evident Sundown Syndrome, but I have to own the aging 08 anomaly at the primaries searching for difference. It was a failure. I regret Trump too, but his protective detail didn't haul me out of Riverside for telling the brash New York personality to get his fucking act together, and I respect that. If I had tilted at Barack one could only imagine my inconvenience, but Obama isn't a true African American, as has been noted. He is half Kenyan and half Caucasian Communist, and we used to black ball individuals like his fast and loose deceased mamma. Perhaps the CIA gave her cancer, as she was a really loose-cannon radical, from what ?I've gleaned: I have to own I hoped in this poor boy whose identity is in the vapor of a cirrus cloud, but Sanders's operatives are either going to get the fuck out of my virtual space or report me to the FBI field office again(?) I am not positive that Liberty's firm in Jersey actually had me flagged on an FBI alert: I told the CIL if someone like Omar Mateen came after them, I'd be ecstatic, and they prohibited me further contact. I threw my trauma they inflicted on me in Nancy's voice mail (she and I know each other by sight, not well). The prohibition vanished, as I did not say I'd be their Omar, only that IL will one day face what he represents if they do not start learning to be accountable for their institutional cruelty and racism. Whether my viewers are American, and are familiar with our rampage culture, or not: this will be the next shock, the next grief, the next battle with the NRA's money and stiff necked reliance-- a CIL will one day buy it because of what they do to the formerly indoctrinated such as I. NCIL has to put a stop to this if they want to save lives, and if I live long enough Congress is going to change the law. I am not the only one traumatized by IL assurances which flip on a dime, when statements like "you can always come back" actually mean "you will get an interview and then be ostracized the rest of your life." This behavior can kill people, especially those with sensory deprivation and limb impairments. Sanders organization culled me from OFA. I intend to make them regret it, like Walkens' Gabriel makes Simon regret impalement. The first in The Prophecy franchise did have an aspirational, liturgical hope, and even if I am a female, the Holy Father may find, to his astonishment, that I'm the Tuscan Joan d'Arc, a ferocious inquisitor who thinks the rack is rather beneficial.

Oden's Hammer, with admissible discrepancies

Part of what I am attempting to do on Disability In Entertainment Arts is utilize my brain damage to my advantage, which is why I convolute so many things together. It doesn't always work, and my short lived protégé Louise Norlie indicated I might be less confusing, and less rushed, but some of my triggers are indicative of trauma no iconic personage can cure, like guilt over my online usage. I need to at the very least, mitigate this. My provider isn't an authoritarian dragoon. I may have had a little trouble mailing my bill in during the era of dial up , for which even I can scarf as a primitive folly, despite not being fully wireless- but I waited a little too patiently for ATT to convert to online billing, and I followed suit. I have been responsible, did everything they every asked of me, including the dreaded credit deposit. (Years ago, and yes, they returned it, but I am lucky I had over 30,000 dollars at my disposal to play these games.) Quelch. Now she is discussing long lost freedom of her personal finances. No one does that, nor do I, up to a point, but I am only attempting to illustrate how far my life imploded thanks to the false assurances of the disability intake model: When I was 23, still a rather fresh inner city body, I was in danger of starving to death, because the SSA field offices, overwhelmed, did not keep tabs on what their verifiable cripple was doing, and arbitrarily suspended my SSI. It points to why, unlike my dying father's sister, I am very very reluctant to depend on state welfare. I got through it then, but being very nearly in the same place, 32 years later, is obscene. I'm fully cognizant that I am less elastic, and yes, part of this falls on my shoulders: I resigned from The Matrix Research Institute like a water logged koosh ball, frightened of my clients, overwhelmed at losing my brother-- hence, "bumping into" my former manager from the center from which Matrix plucked me, this wasn't my best option, confiding in her through posts. My wounds over that permeate this entire account, revealing to me an implosive level of destruction which could, hypothetically, write itself out as a NSA political thriller spiraling into Armageddon.

Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings. 

As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.

Italy isn't a nation state either

De Sousa is speaking out about her decade-long ordeal, which started when an Italian court convicted her in absentia -- along with two-dozen others -- connected to the 2003 U.S. government-sanctioned kidnapping of cleric Abu Omar.

I am still somewhat indignant toward Karina over my scrapbook, and this is why writers need to murder custodial employees every so often. I know, people, thank you. No one clips, and I don't even purchase tabloid copies any more, but I had tons and stacks of things I cannot replicate online. It was my tool kit. The woman is lucky I deflected and took it out on the poor house nigger doing her job. [Why are you blaming me?  I have ten years of Trudy's chirpy intonations running the gamut, and why am I blaming her?] Because. She intimidates me with such relentless veracity I am always having to deal with lies and losses and personal effects. But my hard copy processes did not always work. My fatal attraction toward fascist grandiosity started early, if my obsessive curation of all things Italy evinces such. It startled me, many years ago, when the caramel taffeta bitch baby thorn in my side was undoubtedly   learning her evasive survival maneuvers, that in writing a poem about Medici assassins, I had a nostalgia for the urbane brutality leading up to Mussolini. I still have illegible carbon copy of mio originale, and finally pulled through a revision, nearly complete, less exhortation toward the overzealous Il Duce. I'd take Benito back in a heartbeat however, which leads to the diffident castigation of Black Adder, from Liberty On The Rocks: "You want to blow up buildings and shoot [humans according to ethnicity]. Why are you even here?
Excellent question, but right wingers like freedom also. They accrue it in the will to power. You can view this for yourself in the fun frolic Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, and Ernest Borgnine have in The Vikings. Maiming was a way to live, not an identity. But to correct the software developer who doesn't want to get on my bad side, I do not lactate over arbitrary genocide, just my enemies. I am sure, by now, you all have my list penciled in, waiting for the next catapult. I'd go on, but intend to dither some usage on a submission.

Potatoes in the Dacha

The Kremlin concedes Snowden is a Russian agent-- XX committee

Despite the fact that yours truly bends and wipes after inadvertent miscues with feminine urinals, the other day I had a choice: pivot, or face loss of bowel control. Despite echoes of lifelong slip ups, the dowager took the pivot, and much like a baller on the field, it might have gone either way, but, utilizing the Jazzy castor as a counterweight, things prevailed in her favor. The mechanics of age and tremors on wet tile aren't going to change if the line is crossed, and Presby initiates eviction: as a practical matter, I cannot functionally wander the street, so, behind as I am on my escalation plan, technical homelessness is moot, barring I do not get killed, authority would force me somewhere in relatively short order. I still comprehend this, rationally, as an event I shouldn't force on myself, but I cannot bring myself to comply with the rules. It will take me a nearly insurmountable force of will, and thus you have the end result before of 32 years of life with minority modals, on the basis of the fact that in 86, I had no where else to go, but to the twin Diamond Park unit on Page Street. If I find myself out in a back alley being raped by an alcoholic with the clap, that purportedly would put Miss Richardson's contiguous duress in a different light, but not in the seams of my scar tissue it doesn't; I'm very nearly starting a racial incident with every black resident who attempts to engage me. It's virtually an intolerable bind for me psychologically. I've already written off the corporate office for southeast PA, in Spring Mills, however.

My prestige jobber is starting to take shape, in my new adage learned via Mr. Tucker: if you're not getting paid, take your fucking time. I have to tie in some bits and ends from Mueller's "expanding" areas of interest, Manafort's kickbacks so much more aggrandized than inner city extermination of best and bright invalid minds, minds which readily concede mild conflict: I can see my way through certain spaces to defend Trump some of the time, diagramming the gaps in his aphasia, but he won't slow down long enough to give me a reasonable accommodation. At the same time, despite utter loathing for Clinton, he makes me ashamed, on any number of levels. I've carried pain all my life: before, during, and after histrionic adhesion to academics, but I know, as well, my reactionary warfare has made an irrefutable stamp, my last vestige of any decency to be concentrated in love of the feline, despite undercurrents of weariness with our pet children.

An Air Bubble Injection Isn't a Bad Idea

"I didn't have your mother abort you because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- the last time I saw my father, who doesn't love me, 2005

My antagonism toward Senator Sanders isn't feigned; that would be the case even if I had remained in the Clinton to Obama tent. I still respect Barack Obama on certain, narrowly defined issues, which is why the alt right probably doesn't trust me; I'm a tad too mercurial to be a methodical genocidal assassin, like Glennon Engleman-- but the Harvard Constitutional scholar, in pragmatic terms, failed us, and here we are, arguing disability and impeachment articles with the abandon and revel of Agitprop staged at the Metropolitan. We elected a celebrity real estate developer to be the 45th president. The Beltway might as well be in a life or death battle with an Ebola strain which refuses to be tamed. Racists have new found legitimacy, and this will remain the case even if Donald falls. Truth to power, my secret anarchist clings to her miserable little stasis on Race Street's dead end with secret glee-- there is no 24th block for Race, it merges with the parking lot for Riverside Presbyterian to the left, and then is cut off by freight tracks, Edgewater to the right.

I plan to stage a protest, if necessary, to get the corporation to yield on the matter of my liabilities with it, and I can imagine how many of you would willingly incite on my behalf. Be honest with yourself about how cerebral palsy makes you feel, even if Arizona cannot see McCain needs to be retired. To take the threat of a gore by the horns, Dr. Engleman is not your typical American spree killer. Even the police recounting the back breaking effort it took to implicate him wear a look of taciturn dismay with themselves over what a game of charades a midwesterner from St. Louis was able to sustain for so long. They should have given the guy a job as a wet boy in the Pentagon, not a life prison sentence. Murder for hire isn't an intrinsic immorality, necessarily. He executed enemies or contracts swiftly, efficiently, and while he certainly had an underlying misogyny, he wasn't a sadist who got off on torture, as we see in more sordid cases, and died at the twilight of my career. Unlike the protagonist on whom Dear Mr. Gacy was based, who ultimately committed suicide with a brave face-- a link to someone like Engleman would have been beneficial, after 2000, in particular. Two coolly analytical minds are better than one. As a true crime story, whatever energy I'm spending on milk already curdled, Engleman's plus 20 year life as a front bears superficial comparison to Corbin Bernsen's The Dentist (99). This movie was simply a berserk romp playing on our worst fears about the accursed occlusion of our well behaved sedate teeth-- but Corbin kept us in on the joke underlying this charming rampage.

Bernsen, arguably, had the most sustaining power of the LA Law ensemble, after Florek. Dann did what he did very well as the restraint on boomer indignation in SVU, but it was a one note gambit. Hamlin got lost in the game of a leading man to be who couldn't. Underwood, well. Sex and the City wasn't a sneeze, but Blair keeps hitting a wall. He is too smooth for the street, but just this side of too mechanized to resonate with his audience; in comparison, Bernsen is rather self aware of his range, even in his grease monkey sun shades, and made his choices well after the series went off air. He is particularly adept in The Killing Box, nearly reaching Robin Willians's sustained tensions between the wounds of evil bitten into our basic altruism.

Bringers of Sudden Death

"It's a natural achievement--" another witty Taupin lyric

To the extent human pathology may be considered "disabling," and we can leave that open as an ethical matter, Paul John Knowles was certainly an interesting innovator; his story brought to mind the early post-Meloni absent SVU episode where Hargitay is in a psychological tug of war with the improvisational psychopath she maimed. Not a favorite by any means, but the writers seemed to lift it from the Fawkes Natural Born Killers. Paul was certainly a man of my tween years, and unless it got burrowed somewhere, this was off my radar. I make an effort not to transliterate too much television reenactment on this account, but one of his surviving victims was a woman with cerebral palsy. She was portrayed as trying to ineffectually outmaneuver him, to no avail, and this corresponds to my home invasion at the hands of equally opportune African predators. How can we fight back without provoking worse? But from what the narrative suggested, Knowles could control himself when he wished, or deluded himself into believing it. This is a difference in kind from recur victims being driven over the line, as I've intimated. Most psychopaths rationalize their way out of monstrosity. By contrast, Knowles seemed to enjoy toying with it, even had some residual facade of conscience. Taken as a whole, however, are they a macro-evolutionary warning? I wonder.

Teat of the Roman Legion

Saudi Arabia and three other nations broke diplomatic relations with Gulf Arab state Qatar on Monday, pointing to Doha's ties to terrorism and the need to maintain national security.-- not enough

I am working on a fantasy short story instead of my non-paying jobber, but this is fine. I am beating the jobber in the back of my head while my colon writhes-- which reminds me. I started a bit of a fracas on a Washington Times story slanted against right to die laws, and a progressive took my right to die stance as a liberal position. I may quote the progressive and tell them to go fuck themselves at a future time; another respondent replied "False! If you really wanted to die (yada...) and I may also quote that and tell them to go fuck themselves. My point had nothing to do with suicides per see. My point was no one ever asks is quadriplegia tolerable to the quadriplegic, and we too, just as terminally ill patients in Portland, should have the right to go to sleep and not wake up. I part company, as an atheistic Catholic defender, with the Church on the matter, as most American Catholics disagree with the Church on something. I am closing in on my 56 year, destitute, living on 624 a month and family graft, ready to go to prison for assaulting, harming, after explosively denigrating my building manager who has humiliated me for the ten years she has been on the job, and in order to avoid a jacket for attempting to split the skull of southern descendants of subsistence farmers, I am letting go where I live; no small dilemma. If a once male friend with spina bifida once told me "there are hundreds of Linda's," such as my former manager, there are thousands of Trudy's who'd gladly continue to trample the soul of a superior ability. It is the way of humanity. I am barely able to scarf for penny posts, shouldn't have to; I also cannot beat my biological clock, even if I cannot afford to retire, and the longer I linger and weaken, the greater the chance of more abuse, and I'm chewing grass over a fantasy genre which may go up as a kindle single, merely as an experiment with my first attempt at digital vanity: yes Twitter hawks, you've advised me wonderfully, thank you. I do not like fantasy mainly, yet this took off, and I have alternate endings for it, know what I want to happen, and queried merely one non-responding editor, which was fine. It wasn't ready and may take me another month: I am not an expert on our Bush family Iraq wars, and think the 43rd president had his head stuck up his ass. Our real enemy is Saudi Arabia. It is responsible for Al Qaida, not the Ba'ath of Hussein, and Nato simply doesn't have the balls to propose to Putin and Xi that the House of Saud be deposed, and the charming desert kingdom of Lawrence be partitioned between the three global powers. I have the balls. It is time to hold Mecca hostage, and I will continue to beat this drum, taking a page from Flynn's sensibility to reorient the battleship. The only way to stop Islamic radicalism is to sever its head, and once Arabia is under occupation, threaten Iran. Persia would fold like piss.

Hunchback To Mermaid Simplicity

I am the knight who will fight for your honor-- the delphonic trope in the elevator car

It all comes down to what we can learn to live with, and what we can't, and if I did not need the experience of Frank's sweaty brown diseased pockmarked water heavy lava laden body, why did I spiral into it, cutting him down barely two weeks before our nuptials'? I tried to take the advice of a relationships expert on NPR, of all things, settling for a sick spic who wanted a woman to tend to his regressive need to be babied, and to continue to argue with Frankie's memory, as you'll learn, our dead are never entirely resolved, whether they made us happy or not, he could not have possibly loved me when he proposed and offered me the ring. It doesn't work that way, despite my belief as a young woman that my initial conversation with a Shakespearean from New York was destiny. First impressions are just that, impressions, and Jerry after that then became an obsession in progress, my own blind spot to an interior emptiness. My error with a Bronx piece of refuse wasn't being persuaded by a woman on the radio to settle for a half breed who wanted me, whom I despised. Ingrid tried to persuade me too, the lanky spider limned black girl with her dead still born on her t-shirt: what we can live with, and what we can't. I could have talked Frank out of the ring, and rolled away, closed the book, failed experiment, but I was 42, and was never going to reconstruct an angry sexually dynamic beatnik for myself, even when I dated his double. All women, all girls, know how to do the math, and Frank paid a terrible price for his aspiration. I lost my temper, we had escalating bouts of domestic violence. I punished him. I punished him for his misogyny, for strangling his first wife, for his low life son. Did I get anything back, at all? Yes, living with someone is not the same as being marred for life by what we think we want and can never attain. Frank, however, was not emblematic of the Quasimodo, distressingly brought to life by a queer, rescued by the cerebral and rigid Frollo. As great a humanist as Hugo is, his flaws hit you like a cold August drought, signaling the movement away from the Sun's life force, raising hairs and goose bumps, and Frollo's dramatic turn into madness, borne out of lack of living intimacy, while entirely credible, isn't as convincing as Hugo might have made it. The priest was drawn too well as a Catholic, doing his duty before God, in saving the bell ringer, the freak who didn't have intellectual accretion tied to the respect his sheer physicality demanded. 


If this freak is to save herself, she has to sever/e these ties with Riverside Presbyterian, and accept whatever calamity then ensues, even if former freelance cleaners call her at ten in the morning in the middle of a post. Though I may have misinterpreted the gesture, a voice in my head warned me that Karina wasn't phoning to check in on me. I had the sense she needed something. I am probably not the best person she can call on for counsel, as I need a consigliore of my own, always behind my own goals: I have a small window to stall for time, but Trudy Richardson believes she's cowed me, and this is one linear minded tootsie roll who is sadly mistaken. She has crossed too many lines. I've marginalized her even in blind fury, outmanned as I am by mass stupidity, asking  as it does why I cannot see my own limitations, be a compliant passive angel. UCPA never did me any favors, between this rock and a hard place wherein I wedge.