Patterson's Poor Execution

What is missed in penile insertion into the vaginal orifice, the depth of which is rivaled only by the anus, though both are out done by the esophagus, which I believe metastasized into a lump and killed Cousin Albert, a form of terminal demise to which I am privy, and rate second only to locked in syndrome as an expiration most desirous to avoid, is the heat of this highly sexualized piece of cartilage. The heat of a penis is a positive sensation, like the pilot light in an oven, and I never truly experienced it as a form of desire for me, as a liberating escape from ravages of conscious identity. It was only a curiosity, the few times I was at it, outside of tongue. Albert brought the Jewish blood in, as with most Italian families. I never see these favored cousins.
At this stage in my lifespan it is probably too late, any future potential sex little more than a violation and discomfort, rather than consensual adventure, or an act of love. We see how romantic congruence translates on the set on a daily basis, know what chemistry is. Frank tried his best to run through his paces, in fact, but as far as the dowager was concerned he might have been one of her groping clients, men and women, black and white, from whom evasive maneuvers were necessary: now the air we breathe is compromised. I did not realize, until recently, that Zoo was in its third season, with Billy Burke ever the intrepid survivalist. I have never read any of James Patterson's  stories, do not intend to, as much because of his inane commercial advertising as any of his other marketing strategies, but will give him this: Zoo is a nice revenge fantasy poorly executed, even if my rather late glimpse into what is going on felt like an episode of The 100, with every actor hiding behind skype and simulated computer graphics, signifying that complexity and catastrophe go hand in hand in our current populist age. I may have recycled this sentiment as well, but merge it with the pragmatic sensibility of the Amazon customer pointing out the opening season's rushed, choppy feel. Trump upbraided Lisa Durden for her vitriol, and I've reached a kind of plateau where no one truly cares about mine. I recycle too much of it, to the tune of tone deafness, and my white hot anger has not translated, quite, into consequence, as my COPD occasional flare ups slipped my mind. If I am actively in my early dying stage, I've markedly eluded emergency medical care. Perhaps it's too easy to blame barometric pressure, but how many good resets I have, this Thursday morning after Salvation's disruption, seem suddenly precious.
I cannot tell you, despite the grooves of my trauma, that I have been latently butch all along. Were that the case, the lesbian passes I've had to absorb, forced, would have gotten me off. This never happened. Not feeling well, I fathom getting back to bed without incident, shins swollen, wondering if its worth pushing matters, manufacturing a hate crime, on a strong day, rolling dice with God in a failing machine.

Supernatural Silhouette

This Jazzy is basically fucked, (and called, in impoverished futility, this medical supply company from Twitter which has no Pennsylvania location) and since it only charged for an hour and a half after I got back from the libertarian committee meeting last week, where, after three years, I was educated that getting into the Cafe through the back alley was less strenuous, and no asshole in this city could tell me that before, right, so, staying in the building, I have run the battery down, carefully, on very small spurt plug ins, and just managed to get it to charge two hours, meaning I have to charge it less frequently, and by so doing, just perhaps realign the memory, despite the short, I don't know. I am basically doomed, and should have selected ABC's Somewhere Between over Midnight Texas. Somewhere Between takes the inexplicable desperation of damaged mother and the blackout drunk cop seriously, and is plausible in the sense that something happened to alter dire circumstance. Do I care? No.

I am rattling my saber at my mother's sister on glorious Facebook, and if so desired could really start shit, black bile from the gorge secrets never to be forgiven. Pause.

Benjamin is only my half brother, and never deserved what our mother's wayward life inflicted, so I will not really start shit, in an age where low pressure storms suck our ligaments back into the space wave particle dimension explained by math but just barely within the configuration of our brains. If I can, I'm lying down an hour or more. Not that I wish it, having listened, slept extra, ate heavy Spanakopita. I have to hold myself together long enough to deploy my plan of action, not that I know if it is plaque, impeding stroke, pancreas, or appendix. I have learned to chase law firm 800 numbers during claims court television. 

Jeff Goldblum's Extroverted Exceptionalism: The Corrosion of Expulsion as Metamorphosis

Treatment of a body of work as complex and open to multiple interpretations as is Freud's risks inappropriate emphasis. Judith Van Herik

Journalism, as any established journalist will tell you on any given day, is a cutthroat industry, its players necessarily competitive, but paradoxically, they provide each other with a  peer support system: so when a divorced mother like Dorthea Stillman, who had her brand break in Newsweek, could inform me at the turn of the century in rather circumspect fashion that most editors don't respond to freelance queries, it wasn't something of which I was necessarily unaware. It merely made any kind of response or inclusion seem privileged. When I put my feature up on New Mobility, with Tim Gilmer's cooperation, he never gave me any indication that there was something wrong. Indeed, the fact that he included me on the periodical's 2004 contributor's list indicated good work. I got paid, they honored that much, and I would not start blogging until five years later, but I feel I deserve an explanation for why he treated me like a light switch: on his list, then off it. Whatever my problems, these online  internecine cordons are a reflection of how quadriplegics with cerebral palsy are treated in three dimensional space. I had not raised my voice about the methodology of Josie Byzek, or anything of the sort. The actions I took, thirteen years ago, included reporting a belligerent wheelchair couple for engaging in rhetorical violence. I was still hurting about the Poets & Writers board at the time. PW had banned my account for "atypical trolling," and at New Mobility, I got you damn bitch I am going to rape and slit your throat. Something of which I've never been guilty, even on Blogger. What I am trying to say is Tim ostracized me, with no explanation: was it my visit and conflict on the board? If so, why not tell me? Josie was a regular contributor on my Yahoo group until she forced me to take away the users freedom to post, but again, in terms of a sequential timeline, Tim dropped me first; the old man, who puts such a premium on his emotional stability, simply cut me off, five years after I had to go through my title IX violation at the disability center. These were my secondary families, my support systems. I certainly cannot blank slate it now, and pitch the old grizzly with my ideas, bypassing my contempt for the spinal cod association's tortoise lesbian, but how would you have felt, within your group identity, being so exiled, under a hostile, criminal, landlord, with that entity's constant, incessant badgering and duress? It is this which draws us into the dynamic representation of a comic actor's embodiment of Satan, the corrosion over time. It can buckle any will. Mr. Frost does an excellent job of illustrating how.

Mr. Frost is not a perfect film, by far. It anticipates graphic documentary captures which would come after it, like Schindler's List, plays with some  of the same which came before, and mixes this up with turmeric biting melodrama and a dose of camp which borders perilously close to farce, threatening to unravel its moments of stark gravity, but for what Goldblum has to do, within the trappings of Jewish demonology, it is a decent effort, aiming for the implausibly naturalistic. The opening isolation surrounding the character, nearly idyllic, using the pupils as a mirror to reflect white crosses, nice touch, and the devil as an amateur chef speaks volumes, with Goldblum's horror, at the height of his currency, essentially mocking Gentile suppositions of apocalyptic judgment, whether in his finer rendition of The Fly, or in this curious British effort which insists, that like matter itself, evil is an energy which cannot be destroyed. My father, my parents, institutionalizing me for seven years, this was not my doing, but as a nine year old child, I was vaginally penetrated by minority orderlies who denigrated me: she's just like Iris. And I might offer Josie's limitations more leniency if she had the courage to go on the record. She and Tim both. about these cyclic abuses at the hands of those of African descent. Getting past each incident, this is one thing, but when it keeps flinging, like oatmeal, what am I supposed to do? The conduct of the paraprofessional from Unlimited Staffing, her voracious appetite written into her face, like an Okie in the swamp, reignited a revolt against HUD's procedural cruelty which is going to cost me further still. It doesn't amount to selling your soul, or giving a fallen angel the opening it needs to possess, to expulse torture and brutality in radiating waves, but it comes down to an equivalency, whether we believe soul has tangible energy or not.

The Edelweiss Pathos in ZapIt's Webmaster Error

The verbal disease above noticed may be reserved for diagnosis by and by. --TS Eliot, The Perfect Critic

You are going to have to bear with me on this one. I rely on the WPHIL syndication system more for quality than any other free broadcast access I have, and I was going to digress in frustration that all Amazon Prime and Netflix amount to are content distribution systems, making us all jackasses at the end of the day, though I'll stay with Prime as long as I can. We'll save this for later, however. A minor internalized hilarity occurred because WPHIL17 listed the wrong 21st century film with the same tile: ZapIt had on the grid the Concussion 2015, about the NFL's grand medical conspiracy. What WPHIL actually aired was the 2013 Concussion, and what is the 2013 Concussion? The 2013 Concussion is bored lesbian housewife, after taking a hit by her kid, seeking out prostitutes for sex, and then lets herself get pimped. You would figure I'd have a field day with this, and you'd be entirely correct, except for the fact that Stacie Passon is a courageous director, and this film is representative, outside of its subject, with what I am starved for: a story for mature adults, with mature themes, which ends on a curious Lionel Shriver note. Everyone stays in their places. No police, no Candice Bergin grand scandal. It has a very chromatic libertarian undercurrent. And as I critic, I liked it, but Passon in her dual role as screenwriter and den mother with unsparing eye, ultimately proves my point about the blinding insulation of gratuitous pleasure. I'd ask Sara Posada, while visualizing her astonishment, if it is really like that for women these days, all these wild catting moments and flings and actually rather tepid sexual secrets, and if it is, I am out gunned, mocked by you all, and weep in profuse preferential self-pity. Sniff. The obese teenager who is Weigert's first client is my heroine, personally, for realizing in herself that heterosexual pair bonding is the better part of valor. I was ready to break out the pom poms when she ended this business arrangement, I kid you not.

But let me take a swing at a tricky knuckle ball: if Gretchen Laskas can forgive the dowager for once ballistic outrage, why can't that same forgiveness be granted to a dung mother like Josie Byzek? Let me put that issue in these hypothetical terms: certain lines crossed are flag indicators, and I never ridiculed my more able writer friends personal relationships. Josie broke code. I don't care what he posted that offended her, I could talk to Cecil, he could keep up with me, and she took that away, and doesn't have the armor available to shield herself if I so much as ever set eyes on her again. Cyber relationships, on the percentages, are mostly ephemeral. More than likely I could never have coaxed Morales to dinner, but every time I consider the cost of my isolation, I send a secret prayer out that someone slaps this rancid Lancaster excuse for a Christian across her face, like she deserves. He was the last effort for the vigor I had that might have offered me a reasonable chance. I won't find it on a site like Our Time. You know that; I am too pared to the bone.


Sara, by the way, astonished me first by following me. I would not have asked, and it does provide me comfort, but I cannot treat her like a confidante. This is primarily due to age, and I have taken a care toward reserve. I like her very much though, and demand you all behave. She is possibly a happy future I shall not fully see.

Big Box Pits

"we have no housing options at this time" --Pat Toomey's office, my fantasy avenger

One of the most sophisticated of the late Law & Order series, before Jesse Martin left and the fat poster boy for nigger grievances took over, now making his drum roll rapid timing on black-ish, is "Bottomless". Purely as a story, it opens like an exquisite floral bouquet, with an implicit acknowledgement of the fact the we're all expendable on the basis of income, career skill set, and age. It doesn't quite come out and call Walmart a devil, or simplify old school identity politics through Lieu and her retired boss of yesteryear, but it is a rather deft spin on ableism, white privilege, and the truth that one person's pain may initiate an investigation, in this case, grieving Chinese dry cleaners with a dead daughter fresh off her bar exam, with a frivolous lawsuit opening into criminally complicit sex which winds its way back to how deft Beijing is at playing the lack of accountability game, to the point the initial manslaughter is virtually obliterated from view. We're all little drops in the bucket, blanketed over by multi-billion dollar corporations, and I ridicule what, in contemporary terms, is a mortal emotional wound, one which I can no longer quite control (it's hot), with nicotine or fish oil or my usual methods, by tap dancing a mafia godmother game. Psychologically, it no longer is one, but for the fact I soften dissolute menace by putting the people with power on a pack of cards, and trying to hold myself together by rationalizing that I do not want to be placed in a psychiatric facility over ignorant vermin. Fine, but the problem: I've never, ever, gotten a victory for the cruelty I have sustained. Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will no more than likely get a slap on the wrist for the devastating damage I've been forced to swallow for 32 years with "fraternal corporate" contractors with HUD's localized housing authorities. I've only ever had one of them, but they are all collusionary, and  complicit, with inept federal civil servants. In the end, it is all the same. Politburo or federal civil servant. I cannot sit and cull law firms on my cell when I have a fissure in my chest ready to burst my body and spray the walls with hemoglobin. The day I spoke to the gentleman at Silver & Silver I held the oar steady and just said okay, resigned. He is the one who said "wait," and gave me a referral, but it is too late. I hate Debra. I hate Trudy. And the disability activists. My humanity, at the moment, is too compromised for my grit. I am 56, battling elisions, repetitions, fear of my family, fear I'll never publish a brand article again (ie, people who publish in The Philadelphia Inquirer don't wind up like half-assed idiots on niume, or do they?). I had to reach for William Shatner's name, an actor I've known as Captain Kirk since I was a baby. 


Libertarian writers only hit liberals on the most general terms when it comes to Walmart. They need to take better aim, and have my courage, if not the cliff face on which I am so precariously ready to topple, to illustrate that it is also federalism which leads companies like V Halter to stick its thumb up its ass, as there are no private contractors for naval fleets. Today is my 27th, corrected, anniversary with AT&T, as the grand old utility reminds me. I almost left them in 1999 for unlimited Internet, never howled at them, or complained, and they've rolled over for me like a beached whale. This is my stand in for interpersonal intimacy.

Dick's Torch

We all have bad days, and the Jazzy's battery memory, despite all my precaution, is on the way down. This is not a machine worth repairing, but caramel bitch started terrorizing me during my first equipment failure, and I cannot do it again, not with her nor her bull dykes, and the stress weighs me, vanishing in pain and out of the way because I left internal medicine and refuse to go back to Jefferson. This seems to make the brutality of High Castle applicable. I am in mid stride on S1, E3, with one operable ear plug to match my "bad" ear on the right. My left, which was my better ear drum, either has a permanent wax affliction, or lost sensitivity the last time I was actually on my bath chair. My acumen can only compensate for so much, and I'm telling you what I said years ago: staying at Riverside is destroying me. Linda Dezenski never fully understood what her conduct toward me did, truly leaving me without any allies. I have never heard one disability advocate, ever, systemically examine independent living corruption and suggest reforms. It's difficult because at one end of the spectrum you have Krauthammer, the crippled shrink who still plays policy doctor, and on the other end people like Cherry, barely in the world, and then Joe Delesio, the savant who imitates normal until he exposes his idiocy, and me, the outcast, terrorized by Africans who jump ship out of guilt, or stay on because they are as thick as SS guards in a New York skyscraper. I am going to die as hard as I've lived. What the fuck can you do?

Nonplussed Sunsets, McCain's Blood Clot over Osha Regulators

"When I was a little kid, I had a problem with God," David Carradine, Endless Highway, location 1


The Newshour itself belies Paul Krugman's righteousness when it runs stories about the naval yard worker who got his skull crushed in by the very piece of equipment of which he complained, because here we have yet another mode of horrifying existence, a human named John Williams operating on one half of a hemisphere, past any age beyond viable recovery, whose care takes away from the more functional who are no longer welcome contributors to recruiters. I am not a regular reader of Krugman, and do not know what all his bullet points are on tax and spend, and I am capable of distinguishing between his advocacy of rationed systems as not being responsible for the corruption embedded within them, while still being angered by the fact that he blinds himself to the suffering beneath these compliance models, the video footage of Williams horrific countenance just more gawker shock, the kind of modern peeping tom recoil, which, if run on PBS, or investigated by Politico, is a secular hagiography, similar to this Mephistophelian waltz over McCain's decline. It is not my business to tell eligible voters in Arizona to relinquish their maverick, but how is it this on which we hang our hats?  VT Halter is not the villain simply due to the fact that heavy metal construction is dangerous. Risk is a fact of life, and if American workers can't accept it, then walk away. What is it we expect, that civilian regulators can snap their fingers and eliminate hazard? But when harmless if overzealous tweeters like Sherry Willoughby post about blackheads and human hyper parasitic issues, they get suspended by social media administrators for spam. Normally, I stop following people like Sherry, but left him in peace in case he came up with something useful. I am the one who should be banned. Sherry just wanted attention. I want to overthrow government and restore some form of retrenchment, but because I am a battered invalid, one whose ethics have been repeatedly trampled, I'm given latitude, at least until I initiate my plan to agitate. I cannot yet discuss this in detail, as the agrarian neanderthals Trudy and Debra, with their slovenly minority postures, are capable of adducing my intentions. It isn't that I'm not sorry for Williams wife. We're all capable of commiseration, but yes, defense capability is more important than surviving a graphic injury which in any normal parameters, we shouldn't. I'm the spastic outcast forcing herself on the energies of a dynamic libertarian youth, a spastic outcast fully versed in institutional hells, despite all the regimentation we deploy, and my first instinct is to cry for legal euthanasia for cases like these, not that I know enough. Perhaps he is partially cognizant, and we'll all foot the bill for his cranial reconstruction.

The Dana Andrews Menace in Pursuit of Freedom

"I never thought you were worth killing, until now." Lines in a script

Whether we desire to see it as to his credit or detriment, Otto Preminger creates an ugly scenario in the Joan Crawford vehicle, Daisy Kenyon, and he creates it in the standard conceit of patriarchal dominion we all know, a married lawyer discontent with trivial familiar discord who manages to worm his way into an independent career woman's affections. You would think Crawford's Daisy would be smarter than that, and to some extent she is, weary, even in 1947, of being icing on a layered cake, from the opening. So she marries her date, here a loquacious Henry Fonda being as nearly bohemian as I've ever seen him on screen, a World War Two veteran with PTSD and a dead wife in the closet. She unifies herself to this damage, much as she kills for the sake of the Helen Keller knock off in the roman de clef Esther Costello, ten years later, and then she essentially becomes a bean bag between Dana Andrews' Dan, the antagonist lover who cannot let go, and Fonda's passivity in the face of doubt. Beneath the surface hair gel and aerosol, Preminger extracts a good deal from his matinee idols with their linear one note line readings. Dana Andrews has the second rate affectation for a migraine mastered, as, when men were men, they displayed suffering by rubbing the bridge of their nose. Fonda, being the father of Jane, who isn't dead yet, and should be, is the only human on the set. Yet Crawford, loved by the camera even in grandiose derangement, something shared with Bette Davis as their glamour withered before our eyes, does a decent bit of work here as the permissive mistress torn between being needed, desiring to heal a damaged soldier, and having her reputation torn to shreds while we're waltzed through sanitized variations of child abuse and domestic violence. However stylized Preminger's direction is, this film isn't all that much different from the sheer comic unpleasantness of Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney scarring their boys in The Squid and The Whale, two selfish, narcissistic Protestants who rebel against the limitations of middle age. Are we really any better off for the exorbitant rise in case management as a result of Otto's negative exposures of what we still never see until a beat reporter back drafts some tragic saga of a schizophrenic delusion unchecked until a family is destroyed? My vehemence toward Krugman with his word choice of "serfdom" and employment flexibility in Iowa was not an act. The controversial economist, with his aggregate flag waving for rationed state model systems, never really looks at how hard it is to navigate the bureaucracy of poverty. For all the tons of paper Pennsylvania wastes keeping me poor, Medicaid is now essentially useless to me. In the nineties, at a minimum, at least it got me repairs, dental treatment. I have not had a primary medical practice to help me in well over 24 months, and never see anyone but some half assed Asian resident who knows nothing. This is my health insurance, which is why I rarely pay attention to deadlines. I can't even get anywhere to be evaluated for a new power chair. What does Paul, the obnoxious gold shitter, know about spending a lifetime fighting over medical equipment and wait times, due to his blessed rationing? I am happy to see age wearing down the prodigiously read professor with his self sanctified halo.

Whether I write illegal threats or not, and I came close Sunday to seriously giving my audience a frightening dose of sadism, it should not be this difficult to fast track spastic quadriplegic vulnerability, to have some certified loan system available that doesn't require so many back stops. My poor mind has simply moved from one generic environment to another: Dixon Hall with my best friend's sister Carol Davison, Marie's row home, tossing my own commode waste on her stoop, Diamond Park, which turned me into Fonda's character with his cold sweats, and Riverside isn't even accessibly designed, this heartless, impoverished studio, shriveling my strength. I am having a harder and harder moral struggle every day: I might have had a decent excursion had I planned ahead and attended the American Revolution museum with LOTR, but knew I'd be impacted, focused, concentric on beating disaster in the bathroom, so couldn't engage even this venture, but as usual, had I tried, always by myself. If I succeed in shortening all this, some of you will feel sorry about it. If I cross any other line, then I am just another brand of American psychopathy. But like Andrews lawyer, there is no trump card in being the relegated scapegoat, a denouement of recrimination for those who fool themselves about trade offs.

Residuals

If I did not stop doing this I was going to die.--Cheryl Strayed

On the whole, I was predisposed towards prejudicial distain of Salvation, simply by virtue of dealing with fifty years of the asteroid meme in the industry, and I could have made myself sleep, as CBS re-aired the pilot Friday evening. It had a few libertarian brush strokes, but the fact that Dell flat screen computer monitors and Apple phones have become supporting players in television science fiction doesn't translate well, as far as I am concerned, which is why I might have paid more attention to The Mindy Project; its twitter account followed me a long time ago. I haven't written about it because I am ambivalent about the humor in The Office, but at least these situation comedy offshoots from British models still focus on character. In an alternate world where I had mobility on my feet, as you do, I might have been Mindy as heroine, playfully acerbic as opposed to caustic, in the varying degrees of hostility humans have, mocking their own behavior.

I need to be cautious in reconciling with the maternal voice of my sex. Children need to be reared, but in the developed world, we've lost perspective on the matter. Reconciling with Gretchen, and getting too familiar with Robert's liberalism, reminds me why I've gotten banned from the collective social voice, and I cannot wade back in like a holistic penitent. It isn't that I want to hurt them, or be disparaging. I know Robert hopes I find my way to peace, acceptance, some sort of happy extraction, and Gretchen probably forgave me because she knew she wasn't the target of my antagonism, but sometimes, the second sex, with its pasteurized, urbane husbands, is insufferable, and my Speakeasy past, not wholly absent in social media, recollects my unease with clacking hens. I've kept Cheryl Strayed on twitter, but the memory of her authorial voice about her journey into horse and needle tracks had a vaporous quality to it, a sort of conspiratorial nod that her lack of control with narcotics wasn't serious. I forget why she and I connected nearly twenty years ago, and as I've written before, that she ignored my greeting on twitter doesn't rankle that badly. It might be simply that she doesn't remember we used to post to each other. We would not have become, or remained friends, however. There is another whom I haven't mentioned. Diane Kirsten Martin, Robert's workshop colleague. She and I sparred over my bias toward Africans on Facebook. I did not get banned for being civilly frank, thought I might, frankly didn't care, and we've ignored each other since, but this still reflects the lassitude of Robert's nature. Diane is catty, I'm the brass bitch, and Cheryl, his wife, smiles mischievously. None of this is my world, this San Francisco Episcopalian middle brow curvature, and it never shall be. But if I reject it, then what exactly was I aspiring to, defeated as I am by urban progressive corruption? 

Misery

I have been rather silent about Niume and Virily both since I've joined them and since gone awol, though I have a post in my head which may please Virily, when I can get to it. I am busy not being busy because this damn foster cat I adopted for my dead baby boy is going to kill me. Kimmy is a good girl, but she is my fourth pet child, my semi-second female, and one cannot help but love them but she refuses to let me drive my damn chair, refuses, without first combing the carpet for prey. This, and controlling my summer bowel, is my life, not to create an affinity with suicidal post modernists, but you have little idea how much I have refrained from constantly talking about the tyranny of stool movement and control, and how remarkably well I have done thus far despite almonds and four pints of ice cream. I have mainly ceased eating ice cream because whether or not I'm lactose intolerant milk makes me sick and speeds trots, but I have had so little I had the pints to create mucus, cursing fate. I am not a day person as is but my age, in these temperatures, in an environment where I am constantly angry and want to hurt minority women who are so ignorant it makes you question evolutionary process. How can such stupid people exist? I hate shallowness and have worn thin with baby pictures, but it takes no great degree of temerity to realize that perhaps collaborative blogging isn't a troll tamer. I do not generally like niume content, and I am still traditionalist enough to know that computer graphics don't translate well, whether the artist's creation or a photograph, like oscar's work. It is not the same experience as viewing in a gallery. Virily, I haven't really read, but I'm slightly too leery of Russian hackers. Nato isn't going to exactly do a hula hoop for the sake of Estonian sovereignty, and I am about as poor as the average Russian female trapped in Chernobyl. Both sites say they miss me. Very nice, but they too, will kill me before I ever see any real profit from either. Fuck em. I have other priorities right now, like enough coffee for a caffeine overdose, despite the weather.

It is not losing someone in a state of negativity

Wife says 'never go to bed angry' after waking from row to find husband dead on sofa https://t.co/H6SbFQk6bL

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 11, 2017

Domesticated housewife bullshit. We cannot control every circumstance, and what it really comes down to is learning to live with what we cannot control. My last words to my brother were "get off the phone you fucking psychopath." My surviving brother feels guilty for not helping my father bathe him, but I cannot hold Ben accountable for that, as I feared to kiss him when my mother walked him, zombie on a leash. What I do not do anymore is lash out at evangelicals, though they confuse my sympathy with faith, and eventually pay the price, blocking me after a feisty libertarian discussion, proving that Catholics are tougher, and are the one true faith, the rest of you be damned, a hint of conviction there in the exhortation. But the moniker "atheist Catholic" isn't a Derrida linguistic game, as some of you think. It embraces the dialectical contradictions which agnostics just whine about. 

1. There is no God. That is fairly well settled, but disaffection with materialism lends itself to Catholic stricture, and on another day, if my plaque doesn't cause imminent catastrophe, my war with Protestant doxtology goes on, and shall be victorious. I truly thought Google would have had it in for me by now, if I used Plus, and that FB would have long ago banned me. The sole reason I don't close my FB account, literally the only reason, as my family with their pesky skeletons annoy me (I know things some cousins do not know I know but I am in too weakened a position to ignite tensions, as all of our parental generation are vulnerable, on their last legs) is so that I may chase sources, or get blogging advice.

I am working and in bad humor. Leave me alone-- yelling at my viewers as if they're the proximate cause of all my trouble🙌

Order of the Coif

when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

Robert Bierman insists New York City's congested skyline contributes as much an atmosphere of corrupted Gothic in the 1989 Vampire's Kiss, given his opening pan of the Big Apple's skyline, the dome of the Empire State building glistening with golden portents, as does Transylvania in Stoker's original horror story of subservience to evil's insatiable appetite. In the most reducible terms, this is vampirism, its enslaved withering before an all consuming gluttony which can only be triumphed over by the life force of sunlight and the power of faith to flare against it, recycling old atavistic animism like a forest fire, upon which we've layer innumerable interpretations   Despite the fact that in some ways it is a better extended metaphor than its younger cousin, Wolf, the dowager never particularly liked the film, not necessarily due to what Cage has to shoulder. He does well enough, after his more ebullient gambit with Cher, evoking the melodramatic gestures of Max Schreck for ironic gratification, but what Bierman seems to aim for in suggesting that humanity's most efficient ecological environment, the metropolis, creates its own graphic malevolence, just as the vast space of the west does in expertly paced thrillers like Breakdown, with Kurt Russell, is belied by the fact that his ensemble cast function like fashion accessories, against which Loew slowly loses his smooth, wearied of being rolled in aesthetic refinement, as if it was analogous to a lifelong coating of garlic powder. There are a few really interesting scenes, capture shots, which, with a little more verve and daring, Bierman might have done a homage to The Day of the Locust, with New Yorker's actually turning against our celebrity thoroughbreds, intrepid matinee idols like Cage, when he's running out of the nightclub, taunted. Staying with that might have given the narrative juxtaposition greater impact. What drew me into a third viewing, however, wasn't Elizabeth Ashley's prima donna superficiality, more exaggerated as the delusion and irritability grow more insulating, or the made for television appearance, so much as the city's nearly sinister innocence twenty years before Osama's operatives created their indelible image of civilization and its discontents.

Is it a no life factor? Possibly, but it may also be that I live in Pennsylvania, and knew people who witnessed the downing of flight 93, and also lived in Manhattan before Giuliani, a correspondence to what Nicholas and Bierman are conveying in my citation. I was irrevocably altered by the great blow of 9/11, without, however, deriving any sacrament from the great piss hole of NGO's, Kabul, and GW's stupid war of misdirection in Iraq. Saddam had nothing to do with Saudi Arabia's disreputable passing the buck of Hadi extremism, while the EU just sits and takes it. If we do go to war, eventually, we need a really defined objective, even if the Middle East and parts of Africa get redrawn. Bill Maher too was impacted in the aftermath. As a challenging observer to manners of reserve, he once stated, on air, that nothing had changed in the aftermath of this country's greatest shock. He is right in the sense we're still a shallow, material world, too glib in some ways, like Bierman's gilded script, with how many other dead alives waiting around to provoke their own ludicrous cessation. It would be overreach to assert Vampire's Kiss is a predicate illustrative of why the agrarian mindset recoils from meta-cities, but simply reading what Bierman does with exteriors, you can see with the Taliban's eyes why Semitic bedouins hate our hedonism. We answered with the ultimate embodiment of  "this is New York," as Trump's election attests. 

Searching for a link, Google suggested flight to avoid apprehension. If they wanted to amuse me, rare as that is, they succeeded.

Hackneyed Contremps in Ankara

So you don't like stupid people. Susan Sarandon


Although I'd be perfectly content to eat fish for the remainder of my shortening lifespan, there is a degree of disenchantment with the gelatin texture of the flesh, less prevalent in shark steaks, but I happen not to be big on flounder or salmon, that unpleasant jaw jutting stream fighter, except in a pate; when consumed in copious amounts as a spread, on anecdotal testimony, salmon reduces vitriolic levels of intense recrimination, but it will not change how minorities in an urban environment created scars too prevalent to give way to remorse. I have a last battle to fight with blacks whom I cannot perceive in anything but reduced terms, as harsh and impolitic as you may find that sentiment, and despite my former co-worker's optimistic Jesus advocacy on Facebook. I cannot tell you why I approved Cheryl's friend request. In our energetic adulthood, she possessed what I cannot, charm, a touch of class, like Cosby's television daughters, but the public square is one thing. My private life is another, and black exploitation, attitude, particularly when preying on my former naiveté, progressive guilt, if you like, has taken too much out of me. Trudy Richardson may have backed off because I've fought her like a hellhound, and used the Diamond Park assault to scare both her and Debra Horne as to legal consequence, but in eight years, I had threatening letters under my door once a week, in addition to her unceasing, back stabbing attacks, and no ambulatory white woman would endure that, you know it, and I have to fight back. That is the way it is. I could have cost Presby a significant settlement when I was 31. I did not, and my compensation for that has been to endure 24 years of bigotry and stigma. It makes a criminal record seem perfectly reasonable, let alone my own unapologetic mindset about black culture and its vernacular, and no uptick in foreign national followers under Erdogan's lackadaisical authoritarian posture will change that. Not to say that the dowager isn't intrigued by this influx of Turkish citizenry, but sympathies for Orhan's dialectical balancing between modernism and faith as a national statement doesn't make me an expert on the Ottoman's interchange with Arabia, Slavic influx, and Western alliance. As a people, you represent an ethnic oddity in peculiar geographical circumstances. I can give you a run for your money, with a practice warm up, at a backgammon table, but happy, fluffy, four years before 60? That will take a bit more than Eastern scales strummed to a mesmerizing reverberation on exotic strings: I foment until it's no longer possible, and should have gone to bed at two o'clock, a bad Friday to creak overtired with imperative deadlines nipping palsied tendons, but you baffle me.

The Company We Keep

We were promised The Jetsons, but instead life today still looks pretty much like it did in The Jeffersons.-- Paul Wiecek

First, let me get this off my breast bone. Fuck Canada, the permanently wealthy liberal opposition, just to illustrate that the Commonwealth sycophant to the the impostor over in Buckingham Palace playing QE2, (she cannot possibly be that alive and well, just look at President George Herbert Walker Bush), is so different from the United States. They do not utilize fuck in an inverted sentence, but Wiecek did give me a sounding board which I do not intend to submit as a letter to the editor, and this is to his credit. I dropped everything for this bit of holiday writing. My other assignment is complex, and as I am not getting paid, I insist on going slowly; if I do perhaps then I'll wind up with a latter day commission on the same topic. Or maybe I'll fail, again, and that is important only to the extent I'd like to do some policy writing before my mother's sister tricks me into an institutional environment. I do not trust her. She has assisted living on her frontal lobe like a gliona. Her father-in-law could afford to die in assisted living care. I cannot, and they wouldn't accept me. She does not understand the system. I do, and it is not going to happen. This represents why I take my rupture with Linda so hard. She understands family selfishness as the enemy, and I no longer have peers whom I like, at all, except a scattered handful of writers and scholars, and I realized, when I wrote, days ago, that I was fond of Gretchen, I do not think she'll mind her sudden currency, I realize that this is my problem: I despise everyone in 202 housing, and when I knew Josie, there was an element of recoil in me, and I need more instances of this not being the case. This makes Wayne Booth's thesis more telling, even if it's problematic. Post-modernists like Jerry are correct. Morally responsible aesthetics are incredibly difficult, but this doesn't mean Booth didn't give me insight as to reading Jane Austin as a beautiful, conflated, liar. Take a dip in theory now and again. For Booth too is correct that Benchley is superficial-- but this doesn't mean it lacks any value. The Raw Shark Texts, which I assiduously bunted to archive, may be playful, and derivative, which I tend to enjoy, but Hall didn't give me reason to care for his correspondences.

When I really need to be my old vehement self, I will not draw any extra button notices to my posts. The rest is up to Google's power and majority indignation, but don't kid yourself about the damages to my moral compass because I allowed a black girl my age, named Terri Way, to dupe me into moving into this hellhole which robbed me of my life. Not every wheelchair user gets sucked out to dry like this, and Presbyterian Homes shall pay the piper, or I am going to prison.

One If By Land

"I want TO FUCK you," Lionel Shriver's Post-Birthday World snooker athlete

The only emancipation Susan Hayward had was a vivacious personality hemmed in by the fact that she seemed incapable of having a profession. I know of only one film where she isn't the vibrant victim of sacrificial circumstance, but even there, she trundles headlong into marital discord with a child. Michael Craig is ludicrous in Stolen Hours, my birth year film. At least in Dark Victory, however frothy, George Brent's character is appealed to, convincingly, with a feminine outcry beauties have used for ages. Those eyes of Bette beg for deliverance from peril, and the damsel's pieces fall into place. Everyone undercuts Dark Victory, with good reason, but it lives, in its many remakes, because of a preeminent dramaturgic defiance. Daniel Petrie tries to tone down the roar of pathos in this Kennedy era upgrade, and while the comparisons to the other versions shouldn't be discarded, Hayward doesn't really give us a rationale for why the ERA surged to the forefront, and then failed to pass not much more than a generation later. She isn't self-made, cannot project herself as a manipulator capable of wielding power, like Stanwyck can. She is the perky bitch with an underbite to whom men apply their fists, and it is embedded in the way Hayward's romantic males treat her in this film. Craig bullies her with his adamant stance. "It must be marriage," really means I need you to submit, properly, for the good of my social standing in merry old England. We cannot snoop around with my eschatological fascination over your impending doom, and it isn't credible. Men will fuck anything, but shackle themselves to lost causes? Hayward's socialite rebuffs rescue, but not the need for a high end trollop to cling to bravado. It is mildly disgusting, in a way, this tactic of hers, with so little range, all this energy, with nothing to sate it, except to apply her knitting needles for new mothers giving birth. Hayward's merger of her kitten with a whip vitality into Barbara Graham's saga almost pulls something off, something close to the female fury of insurrection, five years earlier, in 58, but even this is mired in revisionist controversy, as journalist Edward Montgomery purportedly skewered himself over Graham's culpability. Did Graham deserve the pink butterfly of the gas chamber? Is it really less humane than lethal injection, especially in light of the fact that pharmaceutical conscience is overriding American law on the matter, by withholding the drugs which allow death penalty state executions?

Yes, much has changed. Women now run countries with the same ineffectual parity that Trudeau junior makes Keystone pipeline deals. They've managed homeland security, which should be constrained as a bureaucratic nightmare. They've run state departments, and Harvard, and lost money which was never there in The Big Short, but our primal instincts still lurch in emblematic pursuit of Hayward's need to cling to masculine anchors toward her end game: getting snuffed, extinguished, despite desperate advocates on her behalf, who never really stop to examine just what it is about her presence which needs to be preserved. She certainly has no idea of why she fights the straight jacket she challenges but yields to continuously, as long as the script offers her the appropriate stature, a working class woman with no education who mimics a certain degree of brassy cosmopolitan hauteur.

The piece I am working, which I bounced of Wiecek giving Twitter the polite version of the Canadian finger, may take me more time. I am writing it specifically for an unapologetic Facebook magazine whose publisher already told me he wasn't sympathetic, and I pushed back, and then he hedged, so I've decided I need a few different versions, but my above hostility may just make a pop culture deadline for another market, which I'd like to meet. It closes in ten days, and with a little tweaking, maybe I'll make it. See defiant dowager post it raw, just like Hayward micro-managed: dead woman walking. I am both pushing myself hard, and not hard enough, as I really should bite the bullet, and allow my analytical ability not to break in finding an attorney who will assess my case before I do something unwise, and I am not joking here. My building manager humiliated me above, beyond, any legal authority to do so. She has a case for eviction, and instead, she appears to prefer to jeopardize her own personal security. No one really sees how angry I am, and why I really cannot drag this out another year, winding up in jail, sacrificed on the liberal corruption of which large metropolitan areas like Philadelphia have an inexhaustible supply.