Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.