Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.

Segnatto Esatto

Who are you and what makes you so important?-- Twitter user frog contessa, whom I answered tersely

I have to confess, despite the fact that social media is increasingly passe, even for me, the nativity of plebeians like the above contessa still has the capacity to throw one's ego off the mount. I am important simply because I tweet back to Speaker Ryan?
 

Three years ago, we began a great journey to set our nation on a better path. Now, my season of service is coming to a close. Tune in live soon for my Farewell Address as Speaker of the House: https://t.co/RrNzrxPmYU

— Paul Ryan (@SpeakerRyan) December 19, 2018

As a disabled, disenfranchised American, I am entitled to my ambivalent sympathies for the 54th Speaker of the House. He wasn't always mercilessly excoriated in the press by those of Canadian Jewish ancestry, like David Frum, but when the deputy prime minister of Italy ferrets out and follows your account, it is best to run your research fast and furiously and pay appropriate homage to the man in his native tongue. I knew Matteo was right wing, like Beppe, who isn't as right wing as English media would have the five star movement in the homeland appear, but when it comes to the political power Salvini holds, the spastic dowager dropped the ball, and aspirates:

 

"Se uccide i cristiani è nostro fratello". Queste le parole di odio del 20enne somalo arrestato per terrorismo internazionale. E voleva mettere "bombe in tutte le Chiese d'Italia". GALERA ed ESPULSIONE, via dal nostro Paese questa gente. VIA! https://t.co/8hCp35z8WV

— Matteo Salvini (@matteosalvinimi) December 18, 2018

Augh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A stiletto through the heart! 

Matteo, questa donna rotta vuole morire e baciare i ciottoli a Roma per favore! I cannot very well excoriate the man for follow and drop behavior which I'd otherwise normally deplore. When I calm down and renew my grammar studies with vigor I will *speak* to him, but yes, the Deputy Prime Minister of my homeland, the blood of Roma in my veins, followed me, for three days! Who isn't the Empress of Italy under these transcendent hues of a cathedral's stained glass?

When Mickey Rourke Still Had A Face

Our mothers were right Charlucci, it's better to stick with your own kind.-- the post dexterously maimed Eric Roberts, as Paulie

I no longer get offers to family gatherings. What I was invited to attend this afternoon, and not attending after all, is a birthday party for my 96 year old grandmother here at Fair Acres. This is where her daughter Mary Worrilow, with her cyborg joint replacements, wishes for me to relocate, as if I need to keep an eye on the vacancy of identity in Pauline Cristinziani's emaciated frame. My father's sister Marie is diametrically opposed to the idea, preferring that I accept my lot here at Riverside, with its understated ideas of significantly abusive minority competency, while I play shuffleboard with the skepticism of a world weary soul. This is an image of Pauline in her ever so slowly stoic withdrawal from her sense of herself, part regal Catholic warrior, devout, unshaken, part peasant, the life she led during the war era makes us look like a group of distressed hatchlings saturated in fossil fuels. The spastic dowager should honor this grandparent in the celebration of a life extended beyond any reasonable meaning. She appears to be miserable in the Fair Acres visiting room, well groomed, hair white and nearly matted, her hand grasping her knee, she bears an appearance of anguish. Septa's route 21 is onerous, from Chestnut Street to 69th Street Terminal, it is damp, and although it would be good to get away, and I would be seeing family I never otherwise get to see, Saturday morning, a spastic colon pole vaulted into a lovely stress attack, ever so slowly enabling death through sepsis in my feces, domineering beyond what we would wish on enemies, presumably--

My administration is reviewing the strength of this ruling. In the event any court damages the #ACA, I will do everything in my power to direct state agencies to protect Pennsylvanians. https://t.co/pVOaLtBkKn

— Governor Tom Wolf (@GovernorTomWolf) December 15, 2018

--unless it's my governor, willfully maintaining the forest of the Commonwealth's poverty-stricken, as careless, otherwise, with the deciduous oaks, still wondering whatever happened to a citizen's self-esteem. And this, too, is an image of John, nearly 60, playing games with his vanity and conceit; it was partly his rebuff, as I've written, being the propeller behind the reason I boomeranged into the inner city in the first place.

Arguably, however, things might have not been appreciably different if I had played my cards closer to home. If John's post-graduate partner, whom I saw once, while they were totally into each other in a slow dance, parted ways with him, or he her,the link I give you provides ample reason why. If I had been able-bodied, with an appropriately toned body, would the demise of what I thought I wanted. birthing his children, among other things, have taken so much out of me that I never loved again? My novelist friend Gretchen, in the interim, faces the possibility of losing her son, Brennan, to an interior brain infection already surgically tackled once. She's such a polished writer that I am living this with her, but it's also why Facebook is anathema to me (and yes, my account chungs along). Even if she was still in West Virginia, I couldn't help her.

My beautiful boy is in deep trouble. He's got an infection. They seem to feel they have caught it in time but he was doing very poorly. Please help Adrian's Cancer Fund. Every person in our family is struggling at our limits, Adrian most of all. https://t.co/jK2LFuMqtX pic.twitter.com/V0MQZb2xB9

— Troy Blackford (@TBlackford3) December 16, 2018

The same applies to my steady follower. If Troy Blackford's plight with Adrian is genuine, I feel for the child. Even if I had the money, even some expertise, I couldn't change the outcome, but this is different in kind, again, from mobility medical indifference beating hordes into a pulp. Those of you who truly believe health care is a right, have no damn idea how you're referencing it. It is certain not inalienable as a pathway to freedom.

Green Room Dialogues Toward Cultural Relevance

But there are questions about Foster, now, that any reasonable person-- much less any reasonable employer-- should want to have answered.-- The Ringer, in a voluble chorus against a franchise over-valuing marketing skills against trauma we never used to discuss.

Ross Douthat’s appearance on Rose was the first that I became aware of him as a vivacious, enthusiastic analyst with an optimistic outlook. The link I selected for my viewers to stream is arbitrary as opposed to the actual segment with its few sentences I recall, the show where Ross deconstructs Harvard as a pulsating progressive mass with a model libertarian overlay. It was not so much what Ross said during the interview, as much as his engagement with his answer. It caught my attention, and that was it. It was not enough for me to rush to Amazon to purchase his book, or resubscribe to The New York Times. I am more interested in The Wall Street Journal at present, but that his tweet about Michel Houelleberg's byline, his underwhelming column about the ruling elite of yesteryear, his brazen assertion on Twitter about membership within that elite not being all that privileged as it’s cracked up to be, led me to do some background research on his biography. Ross Douthat and Niall Ferguson, in combination, with a little Sullivan in the mix, as you gasp that my virulence against homosexual identity momentarily makes allowances for this argument, represents a reasonable approximation of a writer’s life I thought I could sustain. All of them have scheduled appearances on television, and this is something I’ve no idea how to do, nor have the work product to make the effort feasible. Is this an agent’s responsibility? A publicist’s? Arcane details within the supposition that knowledge acquisition on camera doesn’t lend itself easily to mnemonic retention. I have been on television, purely for gawker purposes, but never as an analyst with access, to serve as a conduit, or to engage as an equal. Krauthammer, although he is no longer around to ask, presumably needed assistance in his daily living activities and was still able to manage. I no longer know now if the biggest joke is that which I have played on myself. Still, one receives the sense that Houelleberg is disingenuous in his appreciation of our Trump transformation. The president has thoroughly exhausted me and everyone else, and under Douthat’s playful assertion that we’re living a libertarian West Wing in realtime these days, I rather interjected that it is unfair that I can barely keep myself afloat within the labyrinth of a punitive public housing system while he almost had his career handed to him on a silver platter. This is not the “fusion” I envisioned in being able to go toe to toe with someone like Kathleen Parker. This is why I created this account in the first place, to reach across the divide, whether to a conventional moderate such as Parker, or Ross as her slightly more contrarian alter ego. The opposition to his Wasp nostalgia on social media was misguided, although that opposition to his prominence is the only battlefield Ross engages for his salary, but that doesn’t mean he defined his parameters all too clearly: JFK certainly emulated what being part and parcel of American royalty entails. His Catholicism was virtually an afterthought, and Truman, as the heir to Roosevelt’s deified mantle, didn’t ascend upwards in national politics with a silver spoon in his mouth, and the historical lens through which we view LBJ isn’t necessarily urbane, polished. Johnson was a local color Texan who played the ends against the means, cementing the Medicare disaster we live with today.

Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

Rosewood Massacre, circa 1923

serious question. do you have any African American friends, because you really seem like a racist. I always thought you were a great actor, but wow! you come off on here as a very bitter person.

— Ddot R (@Derrick82397251) December 10, 2018

For what it's worth, the dowager reads this tweet from Ddot as an authentic attempt at a dialogue with Woods, and James made the choice not to meet the sally. Is James Woods a racist? Depends on the prism through one wishes to view it. In terms of inner city paternalism, the actor's views certainly skewer toward a highly charged prejudicial attitude, and yet this is a man who admires Kanye, and Kanye West is at the very least diffident about black identity politics. Ddot may have missed, as well, the actor's offer to pay for a sweet nappy-headed child to go to Disneyland. And while spastic could care diddly about West or his music, she does, with sincerity, admire his gracious act of charity and generosity to the family of Jemel Robertson. What happened to this man in Rahm Emanuel's city (the former saving grace operative of Obama's soaring expectations) is the worst of American sins, more horrific than the 1923 events in the Florida panhandle that gave Michael Rooker his asinine role as a law and order man willfully allowing minority property owners to be lynched in the name of a loose woman who was treated like swamp sewage and might have given Harper Lee her chilling revelation of shameful sexually held secrets which lead to the defendant's death in Lee's self-same novel and in Gregory Peck's canonical approach to deconstructing falsehoods on our silver screens. I cannot and do not dispute that the actions of Florida's citizens in this early modern century was a Reconstruction era hangover worthy of a purge by Mussolini's authority. This is where my great grandfather was at the time, in Roma, a caste level artisan oblivious to Europe's refuse somehow unfathomably creating the world's last superpower on fear and loathing burrowed under by Protestant magnanimity. What I dispute is the industry's reconstruction of what happened, and it amounts to as much paint by numbers chicanery as any hard line intolerance of America's ruling class. Ving Rhames was only cast because he is a linebacker and Apollo Creed rolled into one. No doubt the death toll is open to dispute, but trenches filled with corpses of 140 colored? This is one quadriplegic who sees the agrarian tendency to exaggerate the numbers as being a colorful fixation of liberation theology. 

I've honestly forgotten what type of article it was I hoped to do with Woods' sympathetic and charitable cooperation. It has been 13 months since my near elimination from society, and I was not taking notes, only struggling toward a thesis-topic here on Entertainment Arts, but if Woods has reasons to be bitter, it may be due an indubitable realization that Hollywood executives huff ether in their creative parallel universe. I esteem and admire the European intellect and picked up another variation on this theme in a bio-engineering Icelander, who, if she bothers to absorb the implications of this link, will be appalled. The reason it truly no longer penetrates is because I in turn realize it doesn't matter. I have been murdered, as it is, by a broken-hearted graduate lunging into a progressive holy grail, all of 23 years old, never able to successfully rectify her mistake, a little late now, oozing in symptoms and disposable wear, as expendable as an innocent blacksmith.

Meuse-Argonne Offensive in Smallville's Evenly Distributed Portions

It's easy to mock Coulter, who wrote a book titled In Trump We Trust, for ever thinking she could trust Trump (and I will probably go on doing so), but at least something mattered to her. --Charles J Sykes, defuncted

Raspy breathing, still not readily able to marinate and work on my other projects for a simple reason: I need my furnishings in this malevolent studio apartment rearranged, and one of my cousins first volunteered and then reneged on assisting Gallahad with that. It took me awhile to realize my pet paraprofessional, like the dead mothers whose skins we use as camouflage, has bipolar disorder, and this has further diminished his standing. I try to forget what happened last spring, not that I don't comprehend that volatility and understood it even back then, but this is a highlight to what I mean when I simply pole volt over the barriers and convey that bipedal people want spastics like me dead. Gretchen Laskas, my novelist friend, whose son is battling meningitis in his brain, has asked for help in her new San Diego location, and she and husband Karl receive it. My family, on the other hand, won't lift a finger. Do you see? Welfare cannot do everything for me, nor do I truly expect my followers to form a creche for my benefit, but I've been asking for assistance since October of 2017, and I was forced to reach back out to Liberty Resources, the same center that reported me to the FBI, and only I really understand the stark lunacy in that: Jimmi Shrode is afraid I will actually try to hurt him, the fat fucking 50 year old toddler homosexual jackass.
The histrionic undercurrents in the female. Regardless of ideology, this is one reliable indicator of the difference between men and women, the hyper nerves involved. Ann Coulter, Candace Owens, the ferocity of the cat fight makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like the reincarnation of Emperor Joseph. Candace interests me, in the way that perplex anomalies always do. I do not have to accuse myself of hypocrisy if I reconsider and follow her again. She did help me garnish 34 likes during the Kavanaugh  confirmation hearing, 34, but I am not that self-abnegating. There are racists who, as I almost did last spring, develop a hate-fascination with the indigenous whom they eschew, and I sincerely prefer not to navigate my old age in this direction. It is the major issue I found in the CW summer series Burden of Truth. Kristin Kreuk opens the pilot with a deft and polished brass as a corporate player. Don't turn. I begged the writers not to give her painful revelations that made her soften into a crusader for a group of toxin exposed high school girls, but of course, she does turn, shepherding along a Canadian Indian lesbian half sister, no less, still casting an oblong glance at the half-breeds borne out of tortured squaws from westerns over a half century old. These are the way things flow away from me under JEVS and its victorious paradigm, but my mind can also reclaim and capture: The Resident differentiates itself ever so slightly as a medical model drama by illustrating that free market wealth is necessary. The SGA makes a turn in this series too, but not so drastically that viewers cannot see why we'd all like to be nouveau riche. I bookmarked a platform to highlight my published articles, and I will have to find it once again through connecting the odd dots of incongruity. Digital doesn't always mean easier.

A Moabite in Judah

"I think it started when Burr shot Hamilton."-- Dr. Randy Barnett, Georgetown University

What I wanted to discuss Tuesday morning, with a certain degree of blandness in my demise, is the destruction of Paul Ryan's legacy. Jack Posobiec, local Trumpian jackass whom I followed briefly to see what formula he was using that I wasn't, in order to support himself, blockhead who treats his followers like eighth grade civic students, collapsing the lack of virtual dimension on social media with the invocation to raise your hand (and where, Jack, are people supposed to raise their hands in the automated continuity of cloud computing based storage?) Damn stupid fuck, Posobiec. I attend three universities and get out-shined by a Protean buzz head like this fellow, who observed earlier in the week, "Ryan has been in the legislature 20 years, can you name his accomplishments?" That was a stinging rebuke to a tax reformist, and I think, not entirely fair, not even by the standards of Chait's summary for Intelligencer. When I was still on Niume's failed public blogging platform, I too jumped on the bandwagon, badly wanting the ACA repealed. It has made my access to reasonable standard of care that much more difficult, and this was the one thing I had hoped the GOP could achieve. While it's trues that Trump was light on policy details, Ryan was an experienced legislature who committed a stunning ideological failure. This diminished his prominence, and that was the end of that. But instead, let's switch gears
to Twitter's detractors, once again delivered by Dr. Barnett and his delightfully cribbed humor. I happen to enjoy the way Barnett delivers his bon mots thank you, and he was kind enough to tweet beck to me about the demise of the filibuster, which I believe is an overlooked issue in contemporary legislative battles. I happen to agree with Reynolds, particularly in light of the fact that I mistook Sergio Siano for a Korean lesbian and got into a brawl with a British faggot named Farlene, or some such spelling, and half the international disabled community. I am laughing to the point of burning tears in my eyes. 
My Samsung Galaxy is larger than my old Apple, but if I do not open the actual thumbnail pictures of account holders, I cannot see them all that clearly in miniature. I knew the retweet came from a follower in Singapore, and leapt to the wrong conclusions. On my computer screen, Sergio is clearly a male who didn't want to be embroiled in a date rape. However, if you examine his thread, he claims he was accused of being gay, does gay things, and isn't homophobic. He insists on it more than once. While the old fashioned term "gay panic" actually points to the possibility of a psychotic break, people need to cease and desist on the issue of homoerotic fear. It is perfectly natural to be afraid of letting go of that kind of inhibition. I told Sergio, as I have written here, that I was molested by an insatiable black woman from the inner city. It was one of the most difficult episodes in my life, and this is why gays and lesbians get killed. I comprehend violent reactions against such prevaricating tactics of exploitation. Gender fluidity is going to take us quite some time to process, to hit on equitable solutions for all, including insecure heterosexuals. Speaking of which, I have not read Douthat's wasp piece yet, but he is defending caste poise, dispensed to the masses. Why was Ruth, as King David's great-grandmother, so important within the Torah? Think about it for a while. There are a number of lessons in Semitic apocrypha. 

And the Erstwhile Ottomans Go Skedaddle

"You confided in a Jewish woman?"-- my incredulous paraprofessional, late spring 17

I just wasted three hours of data writing this. I left the tab open offline, but Google wouldn't cache or publish it, even though I've done it this way before. I am going to start crying, and need editorial support I'm not going to get, but I'll move on, for now.

Consider The Ostomy

A colostomy is an opening-- called a stoma

The reason I am shortly to terminate my Facebook account is this: my half-brother convinced me to join, then his fucking wife went ballistic  on me because instead of cooing at her illicit grandchild I wrote lose some weight Ben, and the indomitable Dawn rebelled. Dawn is, front and center, Florida trailer trash, and by degrees, my animosity towards my extended family prevailed, and I want nothing more to do with Facebook. Never did, certainly not to restore a man like John P Tassoni among the living. The only reason I haven't closed the account is loose ends, nothing more. I am also wavering about Twitter, but that is the dilemma of a loner in the crowd. Facebook is a personal distress, but Twitter is another kind of tax.

My tirelessly researched post which I flubbed early that morning was my flub, not mighty Google threatening a poor cripple in jeopardy, and yes, I am in literal medical jeopardy and the single payer Medicare/Medicaid option could care less. The post was a construct surrounding my fascination with Audrey Hepburn, which I can restructure, but what I was dancing around, and search leading me to an Israeli outlet, Haaretz, was the particularly insidious nature of anti-Semiticism, the flaming righteousness of Jewish liberalism-- is there a covalency here?-- and my follower JD Landis question about whether or not Trump's ascendancy led to Bowers. Landis likes to test TwitterVerse with collective inquiries, but I believe he contextualizes the issue wrongly, and I'll return to it. I live in a near continuous state of being overwhelmed, and wish I too, like cousin Tommy, could enjoy watching the Flyers live on ice. I love hockey. Watch out for what compromises you make for younger siblings. Benjamin cut me off his feed, and he's my blood for whom I've sacrificed in the name of our slut bitch mother. Want to talk about hurt, do you?

La Vie As Giet Jaune Under The Specter of Article 13

In Paris, masked and hooded protesters picked up and hurled crowd barriers and other projectiles in running battles with police-- Les Miserables, redux

The failure of my Toshiba laptop in 17 did not directly affect my relationship with Writer’s Market. I was simply forced to miss my billing renewal date because of my hope for rescue from an over-valued computer technician. The Writer’s Market website never coded particularly well. Their emails reminding me of auto-renewal were sporadic, and the renew never took place, perhaps due to the fact that I purchased 24 month installments with quotidian regularity. I had to manually renew the use of their directory services, sometimes under the advisement of customer service through F+W’s 800 number, only to discover, late fall 17, that the website stopped accepting credit cards. Through necessity, setbacks mandated other options. I have let sleeping dogs lie, moving on, and Duotrope has better mastered the art of automated updates for creative writers--  psychologically I still live in the ecumenical adhesion to the newsprint directories that Writer’s Market and Dustbooks represented, and in fact have long contemplated a revisionist obituary for one time playwright Len Fulton, the demi-god of the independent presses which I have ever so reluctantly started to eschew. I did not mind coming up through them, like a rag time impresario, but I’ve begun to see, again reluctantly, that literary journals, bloviated as they are through their college department budgets, are as extraneous as decentralized independent living centers. My friend Robert Thomas is still committed to them, because like me, this is how he grew up, what he and I both were taught about publishing and generating content, and neither he nor I need directories to canvas and update information as much as we used to, but I spent a significant amount of time this morning galivanting through Newsweek pages looking for updated guidelines for freelancers, and this dinosaur brand is also somewhat diaphanous on the matter. Duotrope doesn’t list the publication due to said inconsistencies. Automation has definitively changed the landscape, but that doesn’t mean code itself isn’t a chimera. Twitter is increasingly embedding with traditional media outlets, but at its core, like Facebook, it is inherently unstable, wreaks havoc on human physiology. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stay adhered to it on a daily basis, and it is absolutely not helping me retain my grip on journalistic pretensions, even as a counterculture figure. Examples of that are Charlie Kirk, whom I culled off of Nick Gillespie. I followed Kirk for a while, and still read his tweets with recurring frequency, but find his ideological stridency tiring, even parroting. Facts are by and large contingent, but the retaliatory way in which Kirk uses those facts to defend the right at all costs is debatable. Candace Owens fares better in my esteem, but I cannot follow her lead. Old sows like myself aren’t telegenic. I cannot do podcasts, and if I even attempted it YouTube would have my head on a platter. If Writer’s Market is foundering, its corporate owners might take a page from Fee, which folded The Freeman, and cede the field to digital innovation.

Once upon a time, I was ready to defend Twitter against Milo. Not anymore. If Minnesota wanted to elect Omar to the House, then Minnesotans can reap what they in turn sow, but the same applies to Laura Loomer. Her fervor makes David Frum look relatively paltry. However, herein truly lie the seeds of our doom. If genocide is a form of political extremism brought about by reactionaries fueled by severe economic stresses, Loomer's post-Twitter insignia is a cosmetic mockery behind which looms Orwellian defeat.

Pedestrian Faultlines

Bring God’s tenderness and mercy to all those who are discarded by society.

— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) December 29, 2018

Jerzy Skolimowski’s The Shout opens with an English cricket game in process at a modern day sanitarium, rather upscale for the decade in which the film was produced. Such ostensible recuperative getaways are still to be found in the 21^st century. Phil McGraw doles them out as a reward for guests who agree to be sensationalized on his daily program. Tim Curry, as the writer receptacle through whom these impressions pour, strolls the grounds, as only the British can saunter, while engaged in a query with the doctor, much like a pretrial discovery, about Crossley’s history, a character sturdily embodied by a then thickening but still commanding Alan Bates, and then meets Crossley himself in the score keeper’s shelter, which looks much like a charming doghouse. They begin to have a conversation about what constitutes insanity, the implication being that Crossley, a superior intellect, is above it all, speaking three languages. We also see John Hurt and Susannah York stroll on what constitutes a Devon coastline, whether before or after the intrusion remains unclear, for at its heart this is a movie about urbanity being supplanted by a more primitive usurpation, much like Philippe Setbon’s Mr. Frost. Setbon’s later Goldblum vehicle is reminiscent of the industry’s somber unease during the Me decade. Western civilization seems triumphant, and yet a medieval hysteria lurks beneath the surface. Everyone wants to do The Exorcist, leading to Setbon’s send up an odd score later. It is only upon reflection that a hamstrung blogger under siege sees a striking similarity in Skolimowski’s and Setbon’s dramatic approach. Mr. Frost has more of a satirical bent, but both projects are about significantly nefarious subversions to pedestrian sensibilities. Robert Grave’s concerns, overlapping with Jerzy’s effects, aren’t so grandiose as to posit Satan in the temporal world. Graves is in pursuit of aggression and warfare through an examination of nomadic culture. In the very opening roll of the credits, which I often miss during this movie’s often cycled airtime, there is a negative image of an actor playing an Aboriginal shaman, or warrior, engaged in intimidating displays. Skolimowski then opens with the close of the film. Susannah York is fully restrained in universally recognized nursing white, with a short black cloak fastened under her chin while she pulls sheets from the bodies of Crossley’s grimaced characters. The bracketing of this scene is probably a concession to Grave’s preferences for formal structure, which is something of a contrast with Doris Lessing’s transitional fluidity. Both writers were pursuing similar themes in the same time frame. Graves would simply be dead sooner, and was more integral to Churchill’s generation than a colonialist like Lessing. What makes Skolimowski’s direction intriguing in The Shout is his willingness not to gift wrap Grave’s intent. Scholastic comprehension may be a breeze under Goldblum’s performance arcs, but Jerzy only provides hints as to why the Fielding’s are coerced into such insatiable gluttony under Bates’s wiles, broken only when John Hurt destroys the stone. Composing has something to do with it, the brutish sound effects Hurt experiments with: amplification of a housefly buzz, or the distortion of cigarette ash, instances of unpleasantness which break barriers. The Shout, like Dog Day Afternoon, and a select handful of other films, is the 1970’s in which I grew up. Something about a cinematography grounded in the nitty gritty, the underlying anxiety that humanity hasn’t truly prevailed, our values counteracted in an instant, make them far move innovative than today’s computer generated animation.

Wrestling Federations

I do not watch Fox News regularly, sampled Tucker Carlson on Twitter briefly after his exchange with Durden caused her financial security to enter into a tailspin, and still interpret that interview as Carlson baiting the horse. Philadelphia is basically a black city, and I got the gist of Durden's defensiveness about whites, didn't mind it, and truly believe Carlson is too linear, lacking the requisite Jewish urbanity pounded into us on a daily basis, but he did not cause Durden's employers to terminate her contract. Is he a racist, or a hypocrite? I label myself a racist so as not to be hypocritical, but make an effort to be fundamentally fair, unlike the leftists who terrorized Carlson's wife. Galahad wouldn't have lasted as long as he has, otherwise, and our morning ritual of personal hygiene issues is the dream job of no one. Terrorizing him [Carlson] because his rhetoric is reactive to Otherness gets us absolutely nowhere, except to someplace worse, an environment of little leniency. I unsubscribed from the Thrillest because I purchased The First Purge 2018, and Christ people, no right wing government needs such an elaborate scheme to legitimize micro-genocide as a policy solution on a once a year basis. Welfare states do it by turning health care into factory farming. Public housing does it through punitive stricture. If you're as poor as tenants who need 811 or 202, then paternalism is the rod on the back of the aberrant behavior which led to the impoverishment, just as Apple may lose its profit margin because it no longer has a stabilized monopoly on which to base long term development. AT&T had it for about a century. I've written in the past that sometimes, violence is necessary, as it was when T. H. Lawrence became a chameleon in Arabia, or when the ANC traded places with the National Party, and Cape Town is marginally better off than Kampala, but swarming television anchors and politicians of any political stripe with mob intimidation, this simply amounts to civil unrest in a republic becoming too leveraged to either over saturated professions or very high levels of expertise. 

This time, I only missed 36 minutes

If only I could do something important, like bake a souffle, or pick out a tie. --Audrey Hepburn, Wait Until Dark

What I wanted to dismantle this morning, and possibly rectify, is my diffident sensibilities toward MeToo, Nick Gillespie, and his associate editor Elizabeth Nolan Brown. I got into an argument with her about date rape, and although I am capable of respecting Nick and his intelligence, and he mine, I swiped at him in a personalized frustration which will not help me return to the field with the stresses I’m undergoing. I wanted to explain all of this just a little better, and explain it in the sense that I do not need to become a Reason Magazine contributor, but Reason’s staff are often intellectually sloppy, like Brown is with her notions of Kavanaugh’s credibility, only I let my spool unwind too much Wednesday and leaned into my cousin about the paraprofessional who has eaten up a number of my posts on this account. I want to terminate my relationship with him because he lashes out constantly at the way, and how, I speak, and I’m near a breaking point, must have been out of my mind to have ever entertained the idea of becoming his lover. I have been through worse with this outsourced care, but never every single day of the week. I want the nigger out of my life. I can make it happen, but it means grief, possibly his termination, and absolutely nothing of this sustained duress will change for me. Not now. Starting over with yet another minority will wind up in exactly the same place, until I opt to attempt a failsafe suicide method, lose my mind, or give in, go to a state run facility, and if I were stronger, I’d put this torrent fusillade aside and teach myself to work differently, and simply cut him loose. What’s holding me back is I don’t want to keep recycling people whose behaviors are far more abhorrent to me, and that is all. I don’t feel for him in any real erotic context, and beneath the surface, his animosity toward me is taking its toll. There is little to no intervention advocates for victims of [insert category] can offer me, and Nick doesn’t see this, the limits on progressive modality here. Neither, I am sure, does Brown. I was wrong, last spring, to allow my loneliness to let this man cross the line. I crossed it too, we backed off, but cannot quite depersonalize, and for a quadriplegic, aging and always fiercely protective of her independence, it never stops. I’ll have more to say on the matter.

The Acrylic of Glee in Anarchy 99

Despite the hardship of a nearly bigamous entanglement with a direct care worker on a daily basis, despite curious crimping in her sternum, not necessarily but likely related to bowel evacuation, the dowager's confidence is slowly returning; if she wasn't tinnitus-oscillating weary, she would attempt to slide herself on to the toilet without benefit of the shambling cocoa panda man who thunders through the door between 10 and 11:30 am daily. He still inhibits me into anxiety over doing for myself, as the last thing I want is for the yo-yo man to throw his back trying to insure I do not lose my balance, so I am cranky. When you live under the mantle of a fraternal order such as this, however:

Another image of Presbyterian scoliosis. pic.twitter.com/mlj4cahdCx

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) November 12, 2018

Then espy the actress of Charmed like a reigning fury while an honorable man undergoes the most outrageous form of character assassination one can conceive in a Republic so beholden to Roman institutions:

Then this, the destruction of Malibu, earns a spastic in a bubble of her own,  the merit of telegraphing a visceral level of satisfaction. Californians have created this bottleneck disaster on their own, without any help from the rust belt or the northeast corridor. Yes, the horses did not deserve to suffer, and apparently they did not, but Milano earned a few cracks in the dome. That she is a sexual assault victim herself doesn't earn her the rectitude of privilege. There are thousands of us, and yet there it is, the exemptions, the exaltation of Hollywood, in a festooned appearance in the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. I, who have been head butted by a remorseless medical single payer option for the last 13 months like a termite queen host carrier of cholera, will not maintain a moment of silence, nor spare the "victims" of Woolsey so much as a dime. Mandate capitalism is one thing, the superficiality of opulence is another, and the utter barbarism of the clinical model towards non-compliance is another still, especially when medical objectification is merely a liberal form of intimidation beyond a certain point. Woods gets a pass, for reasons previously stipulated, but one understands this is his milieu, luxurious as it must be toward constipation relief. 

Richard Burton's Alacrity of Overbite When The Sole Keynote is Rage

There is very little unsaid in Look Back in Anger. Jimmy Porter lashes out verbally at a huge variety of topics – the class system, American evangelists, Alison’s family, women in general, flamboyant homosexuals.

Every writer who has any degree of aspiration in the U.S. wants to get into The Atlantic and similar periodicals. The popular highbrows, interchanging bylines with senior fellows even, those minute analysts of detail, like Fallows, who effortlessly seams up space in The New Republic and The Atlantic, as easily as filtering sea water with gills, reserving a land organ lung for gulps of oxygen when hauling that reptilian ancestry on the beach. None of you have any idea how hard it was for me to once come as close as I did to both periodicals, though I wised up in my pre-internet era and ceased submitting my poetry to the magazine that made Henry James into a sub-academic gay decoder for the untutored. Anyone of pretension keeps the Atlantic in orbit, knows that James Bennet went to New York after Hitchens passed away, knows Frum took over, without necessarily caring how far this descendant of the Roman working class has fallen, in mortal combat with her marshmallow nigger aide on a daily basis. Conceivably, I could argue I am being abused by this man, verbally, daily, on the eve of the midterm results, Frum rather inconceivably tweets

A female friend just lost a job for being "difficult." As she narrated what had happened, it struck me: a difficult woman is one who asks for the things I get without having to ask for them.

— David Frum (@davidfrum) November 6, 2018

He was mocked, but my response was not satirical, rather a throbbing pulse of pain, none of you really give a fuck. I took the man off my feed, genuinely indignant, genuinely more than indignant. Given his paranoia over Trump's ostensible Manchurian qualities, I'd be persecuted for cruelty to Canadian expatriates if that poor mother Russian bear shredded his jugular in a particularly creative mortal gerrymander. Do you read this as a victimized outcry?  Maybe it is a sentiment we can expect from a Canadian blunderbuss who was 43's speechwriter. 
I only ever saw the black and white film version of Osborne's explosive movement drama, find it a consolation that Burton is somehow incapable of anything but a commanding grandeur, and in that, he's irreplaceable, even if cutting feminine love for him into the forbidden orifices is a trifle superlative, wishing that you might have a child and that it would die, the agony he created then triumphant over him. This wasn't the post I wanted to write this morning, obviously, but I'll toss out a discordant positron: The delightful optimism of Antonio Paris pleases me. He honors me, even if the alliance isn't everlasting.

The Prohibition Against Pork

"I hate it when there's no bad guy."-- Joe Mantegna

In the week before the Tree of Life massacre occurred, there was a significant reaction on Twitter to Farrakhan’s now excoriated verbiage comparing Jews to termites, and I knew nothing about it, and raised my voice to suggest for those of us who wished to remain in ignorance on the matter, the collective scolding gave Farrakhan an undue legitimacy his fading relevance had long bypassed, at least on the merits. I mentioned that he had the same linear minded fixation with Jewish identity as when he appeared on Phil Donahue in our prehistoric analog era prior to the Digital Age, and it was suggested to me not to be too dismissive, especially in light of the fact that Keith Ellison's political aspirations are stained with Farrakhan's sphere of influence-- such influence he still holds with Nation of Islam, and I admit I was stymied by the brief colloquy. Then Bowers had his rampage which mortally wounded us all, collectively, whether Maga or never Trump; indeed, Trump rather capitulated that this casualty list out of Pittsburgh was too much for our collective psyche, and we're gamely flailing ahead, recoiling.

I myself am no longer quite capable to experience such devastation as that which lead my follower JD Landis to ask if Bowers would not have happened if Trump had not won in 2016. By this I do not mean my conscience isn't troubled, only that the quivering dissonance has been muted by my own personal calamity. I did not engage with my occasionally prurient gallows interest in such rhetoric as this, and what The Jerusalem Post offers up as confirmation is the farthest I go in an examination of Farrakhan's nefarious notoriety. I have reasons for this, reasons which, if I am to be sincere with myself, demand that I torture the matter out, follow the curve where it leads me, in between horrid power chair tilt naps and my current domineering submergence to the interpersonal regression to the care giver always at me, like a battering ram. If I am lucky, the grist will turn the mill further later this evening.

Arthur Miller's Larynx

"What are you, my wife?"   -- a harried paraprofessional who was grateful I recalled he forgot to fax his time sheet

When management turns on the radiator, I always tend to destabilize in my intestinal region, though somewhat unbeknownst to me, I was vulking waste into my disposal briefs because of a summer cold, so the situation has somewhat reversed itself, even though my interior air quality is now analogous to a fabled Turkish bath. And we've had so much of this lately. Erdogan's authoritarian hypocrisy, the House of Saud and its Janus face. If I am familiar with Khashoggi's writing I cannot remember it. Of course he did not deserve death in a choke hold with dismemberment, but I am going to assert a truism via which I only diminish my once vaunted desire to return to the ranks wherein those with contracts club each other over the head: Saudi Arabia is an enemy.
It is over now, the cold, but I desperately need to regain some independence. I cannot continue to function like this, with or without this minority and our near affair. I don't want him, and this is a near 180 degree turn, but I can't feel anything for a man who disdains my thirst to return to analysis. Our welfare partnership nearly tore asunder this past Monday. He became furiously angry that the kitchen was in moderate disarray, given my punishing helplessness in this Quantum model. I love my godfather, but the vendor he runs, Mainline Medical, failed me. My suffering is obdurate, and my purported nurse blew a gasket because I did not make the fill-in aide do a better job. He frightened me as if I had actually been weak enough to sleep with him, and it nearly ended that morning between us. It is probably the way it will end, although he grew tender, appreciative, when I simulated "being" his woman, reminding him the time sheet had to be faxed, after we closed the rift which only fuels my confirmation bias. A failed little boy who cries for his mother, this fellow. I'd flick him away like a speck of lint, remembering I too can reject able bodied men. I'd go on, colder, harder, bigoted, but you've had enough implosive virulence from yours truly whose first priority is weaponizing anesthetics against homosexuals, mounting them with pins, despite the papal voice of Francis: Do not condemn them. Indeed, I admire the illumination of Foucault despite his resistance to thesis, on body mechanization. AIDS was in its infancy as a known pathogen in 1987, so I cannot, much like Erdogan, go "too" far, but I respect Foucault's use of a structuralist approach to make us see the insidious nature of control on our physiology, invidious , ever encroaching. Perhaps, the more rigorous the work product, the more sexual risks Michel Foucault needed to take. Well, he was French.
Into this, the Facebook engaged in a mass purge last week, and Breitbart, nonetheless, stirred me into empathetic anger for Brian Kolfrage. I am following him on Facebook, not yet on Twitter. Here is the article informing many of us about why we lost PM Beers. Here is the press release. It may read like a conscientious consumer protection plan, yet I never trusted social media from day one, and have some degree of difficulty placing a three limb amputee with a family to support on par with Rasputin. I will have a more focused post on the conflicts herein, perhaps on LinkedIn, which censored me briefly from participating in groups due to "lack of relevance." Now I simply do not engage. Before my older more functional Quantum failed, I made a tremulous job search on LinkedIn, and nothing ever panned. I received letters of interest from unfunded grants, like Plato's cave wall. I have to broaden my efforts. However weakened, the dragon wakens once more. Help me.

Syndication Block Edits, The Fallow Fields of an Elijah Price Warp

Searching for the shining face of God Jean?-- Burt Lancaster, Scorpio

In the sense that poverty requires patience before gratification is achieved, it took courage for Coronji Calhoun to allow himself to be exposed as the obese kid who gets picked on by everyone, including his mother, in Monster’s Ball, but like the late 20^th century Big Night, one of my favorite Tucci films, Forster intends for Monster’s Ball to be a rather convoluted allegory of the post-civil rights era in the American South. The Amazon app announced that it was free to Prime subscribers the same evening Bounce, the black programming channel—which as often as not airs blockbuster setups with Sylvester Stallone on flimsy pretexts—made Ball available to viewers during the conventional prime time slots we all had to depend on before we were cable subscribers. Your poor dowager had a momentary tug of war. She cannot quite afford a streaming device for her flat screen, but needed her other devices free, thus opted to trust that the syndication edits did not diminish the full effect by any significant degree, as they did with Unbreakable.  As her beleaguered pessimism makes rather self-evident, the dowager has been slowing down to a terrible degree, never envisioning the crack of the powder keg crumpling me in to this extent, and thus, utilizing free broadcast to catch Elijah’s appalling rationale for his genocidal miniatures to Willis’ David Dunn, was what I tuned in for, except that this last muted monologue, the darkest of all megalomania’s expansive graphic excesses, is what Bounce chose to edit, in my precious expending of my energies, exasperating, but not nearly as much as Thornton’s conflicted correction officer, harboring a suppressed appetite for the dynamics of diversity in his sweet tooth for bowls of chocolate ice cream? Both Hank and Leticia have ambivalent relationships with their progeny, Heath Ledger is actually dead, with no real world repairs necessary for a Glock’s trajectory penetrating the furniture. What is Sean Combs here but a misguided, regressive boy hoping to evade a truant’s penalty? As Musgrove, he is the softer underbelly to the brittle ruthlessness Jackson’s Elijah exudes. Forster admirers may disagree, but I do not see reconciliation in the story’s conclusion, not in Halle’s speculative glance as she looks toward the headstones in the yard.

Both Shyamalan’s perspective on graphic novel culture and Forster’s powerful parable are turn of the century predicates, and Jackson’s portrayal of psychological malignancy is one of the greatest theatrical feats of this young century in which I perish, but there are still African stoic majorities who insist on an inflammatory deafness. Though I cannot weigh in on what penalties Weinstein may actually deserve, the culture of silence surrounding Cosby's behavior was broken by blacks themselves. Ta-Neshisi Coates, not known for emulating the once titanic comedian he covered for the Atlantic, is on record believing Cosby is guilty, and yet, this black free press still feels whites were out to punish Cosby. No, to the extent that the prosecutor acted, it was to placate feminine fury.

Tommaso Landolfi's Amityville Horror

Ovviamente non poteva aspettare di liberarmi di me-- Tommaso Landolfi, An Autumn Story; p38

Occasionally, Hollywood will toss supporting actors like William Katt a bone, give them a lead in relatively superficial dramas like Steve Milner's House (1985), then repeat the formula ad nauseam for sequel syndication. A quasi-novella length idea of mine was closer to what happens to Doris Lessing as narrator in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where Western civilized world order is peeled away towards a tribal, and ferocious, transhumanism, if that resonates with any familiarity. On psychologically stressful days, Doris Lessing's rather inimitable parable frightens me, in our post-911 world, and Landolfi is somewhere in
between the poles of a two dimensional commercial product and Lessing's obfuscating, ambiguous, sinister novel. 

My tale never moved beyond 15 pages. It was about a daughter with a bisexual best friend who returns home to find the walls somewhat pliable, organic, and it was left unfinished during the time I was crushing on John Tassoni. I am having a devil of a time about removing or leaving him on my Facebook stream, primarily because I am in the preliminary stages of actively dying, and the paraprofessional tending to my stressed spastic body really didn't understand what he was restoring to my life. I don't love John anymore, and I'm not sure I even like him. Before I admitted my first love to him, cowardly, lying across from him on opposite bunk beds, perhaps we amused each other, and then in 85 I fled the home where he visited me. Be kind to the cripple. The home I link to is about our 3rd suburban house after my parents divorced, where I grew into a naive collegiate. You don't hold onto these memories when wellness flumes out of your intestines, no, what you cling to is the power of access to a celebrity like James Woods. I wanted to say goodbye to him, even if I had to do it through Kristen Bauguess, if she's still his fiance to be. From reporting I've scanned, Twitter will be deleting Woods' account permanently for non compliance. I don't care how hypocritical the left paints him due to his trophy dating, he kept my spirits lifted. Then again, why should Jack Dorsey give a fuck about the end of a torrent quadriplegic's life.

Christina Light's Turbine

Hoping, praying for the best, she wrote her letter, and sent it on its way.-- Constance Fenimore Woolson, Anne, p. 120

Unlike Louis Begley, who writes a fine introductory defense of The Other House, yet another Jamesian outlier in the master's long, illustrious, life, I do not immediately equate Rose Armiger with the more villainous Kate Croy, particularly as she is embodied by Helena Bonham Carter with a voluptuousness I do not always wish to see in James' works, which isn't to argue that it isn't present, as it certainly is for Isabel Archer's vitality, acknowledging that Portrait is one of James greatest hits, I simply do not envision sexual repression and its illicit fulfillment in the late Victorian era as being on parallel tracks with Hollywood's version of what James means to imply in his demands on his audience. The latter day daguerreotypes of Woolson betray her wan and downcast weariness, and it may have been the height of arrogance to assume that the aging James, no longer a young Twinkie, could have saved Cooper's niece, even if he had given in to traditional monogamy for the sake of propriety. James suffered intense depressions too, but would have never been so uncivilized as to jump through a window in Venice three stories up. On the immediate level, Woolson exemplifies her uncle's pioneering spirit in the manner of her death. It is the *American* thing to do, meeting suffering head on with like minded violence, take out your despair with a bang, fracture your skull on the border stones hemming in the waterways of sleepy Venetian canals, or perhaps that fracture hit a cement walk below, hard dirt, or even a stoop; perhaps she simply broke her neck, and oh my, an expert has surely set their eyes on Woolson's death certificate by a seedy Venetian coroner who with bafflement finds Americans inscrutable. But Armiger isn't an approximation of Woolson, as May Bartram might have been, towards the end. 
There are, actually, many images of Woolson death certificates available on search, in the innocuous comforts hunting genealogy. Foucault, on a much different wavelength, (in retrospect, perhaps not so contradictory) was a fervent advocate for the genealogy, the illuminating detail, the comfort of arcane points in time. Begley makes an entirely legitimate comparison to James's late great master works which heralded the end of what the novel was, as art form. Croy, Stanton, do have designs which destroy innocence, but my comparisons, in order to justify the rescue of this "ugly duckling" narrative, is with the governess in The Turn of the Screw. Masterful authors always compete with themselves, and what the high Victorians didn't like in 1896 was this: James doesn't allow us into Rose Armiger's mind, and the clues that she will kill an innocent child under the age of reason are of scant brevity, whereas the governess of James's Christmas story, always lunging at Dickens, I write with an irritating grind of my failed 20th century salvaged teeth, loved her charges, seeking to protect them with a surmounting hysteria. We don't see this in the converted text of the failed play of 1896, only a mysterious, unwarranted combat for a widowed banker, haunted in the violence of a dead wife's prohibition and Rose's combat, within varying degrees, with the charming ingenue who is Jean Martle, and with Mrs. Beever, who wants things her way, for the best, without a hitch. I am more sympathetic toward Rose than many of James other heroines, not for what she does, but for what her acuity desires and demands to take shape, believing, if she succeeds Julia Bream she can transform Julia's husband  into someone more refined. The Other House, is, on its face, the last of James's major fictions which I didn't know, perhaps a fitting jettison, whatever I, in turn, enact.

Minimal Awareness, Astute Aim, Channeling Kundera's Wry Commiseration

If every second of our lives recurs an infinite number of times, we are nailed to eternity as Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross. It is a terrifying prospect.-- Milan Kundera, Chapter 2

This is the best image I could find of our flaccid koala in my tinge of remorse. He would never have had the heart to excise me from sustained interaction, as did Maria, in my mere hint of expression as a sexual being, woman unfulfilled, never perceived for herself of what sensual liberation could offer in my bond, and yes, it is painful. Such slight acquaintance as I had with Maria. The Gladhandler was too emasculated, in generational terms, to boast or engage in erect virility, and alas, the dowager doesn't have a gelded eunuch in the life of those persecuted gender non-conformists to ask if this defines what they mean by this new-fangled  coinage of non-binary, but John, being a masculine weather vane of of exquisite simplicity, had smiles and greetings for all.

My Facebook post summarizes the remaining challenge of fleshing out a blank slate, his last attendant one of the most destitute I had ever seen, as the radical left would often spar with me, he derived his self-worth from those rolling congestive marches of clanging titanium wheel rims. I do not, being from the planet Krypton.



There is no further need for pseudonyms, such small delight as may be derived from that. I teased him about forming an insurgent militia to kill you. He took pleasure in my whimsy.

Before Dishonor

Presumably, ABC hopes to hold its audience for A Million Little Things with a certain degree of incompatibility between Ron Livingston's upbeat attitude juxtaposed against his character Jon's decision to act, and throw himself off a balcony: was it due to realtor graft, his wife's affair? Oh yummy, but let's do the conscientious thing and offer the audience a public service announcement for suicide prevention. I have little objection to Yvonne Villarreal raising the issue of "romanticizing" the character. She is on target, at least from the perspective of the issues surrounding the ensemble and their collective affect. Rescuing Roday from his third rate mediocrity on psych was a mistake, whether or not asininity is an effective mechanism for levity. I simply fail to see how making a purportedly mature drama about the tincture of despair ameliorates what is now a national crisis. There are no captures here of modern medical barbarity like Inglis House, or losing function. NBC's Reverie may not be Black Mirror, but it at least had the courage to touch upon centralization and its cruelty as the very last business model we'll willingly forego as we stampede toward the end of history. 

I am sorry I've been so long away. I shall address it in a bit. Many issues are distressing me, not the least of which is Jack Dorsey's herd mentality, on top of my personal situation and the horrendous need to readjust. I miss James Woods' voice on :TwitterVerse, and that investment is the least of my problems.

Capitalizing Martyrs, Weaponized Allegations, the Consequences of destroying due process

"In late July, she sent a letter via Eshoo's office to Sen. Dianne Feinstein of California," Emma Brown's scoop, in jeopardy of life and limb.

Dianne Feinstein rose to political prominence on the back of Dan White's use of force and reconnaissance skills against a localized, and perhaps hypocritical, progressive expansion of identity politics. Progressives, and Andrew Sullivan too, often say that reactive bigotry invariably leads us down the road to such tragic conclusions; perhaps, but White's pressures were primarily economic, and again, while Feinstein was the authority in charge, White committed suicide. The dowager had parallel issues, and even had an email referring to Omar Mateen forwarded to the FBI, but this threat of authority rather vaporized. The dowager has not committed murder, the spectrum of progressive-homosexual corruption is alive and well in the northeast, but when the golden state goes cataclysmic, it certainly blinds us into fury with solar storms on the horizon. Despite my hostility to rainbows being culturally appropriated by less than aesthetically pleasing humans who engage in hedonistic abandon and consider it paradise until felled by diseases of sexual transmission, I will not write that I believe White to be a martyr or even a hero for the active predicate of "to conserve". He killed Mascone and the Milkmaid in cold blood, and perhaps made Feinstein more cautious than Pelosi, but sadly, this woman, Dianne Feinstein, on her way out the door eventually, like McCain before her, bears responsibility, as does The Washington Post, if there is any bloodshed pursuant to Ford's allegations. Brown's article is an outrageously partisan smear, virtually admitting that Ford targeted her accusation to coincide with the Judiciary Committee hearings. She omits, as Dan Mclaughlin does not, that this polygraph was administered under the security blanket of the law offices of Ford's attorney, that polygraphs are not admissible, let alone fool proof, and Mclaughlin virtually nails it on the head that this psychologist comes off like a guilty teenager whose irresponsibility led to an outcome she doesn't like.
But yes, I am personally and politically outraged: next to Alison Botha, myself, and many of the individuals for whom I fought during my career,  many victims sustain much worse, and Dr. Ford should be ashamed for trivializing womens' suffering for the sake of a political scorecard. I too, did not particularly admire the way McConnell handled the Merrick nomination, but the Senate majority leader had a legitimate political lens through which he viewed a lame duck president meeting the constitutional obligations of the chief executive.

The left may destroy Trump, but this is not fine if it ultimately destroys our faith, as citizens of the most successful democracy in the world, in the procedure of governing. That's what Feinstein just did, and achieved, but maybe this is what you learn by living gallows humor in San Francisco. Ford's timing is too opportunistic for me to see her as credible. She names Mark Judge as a restraining rescue, but any Sanders' supporter might know who CPAC youngbloods were in the day. Feinstein's cynicism is self-evident, as she sat on Ford's letter for weeks. That's a tactic, not victim's advocacy. I will never, never, vote for a Democrat again. Whatever their sins, I will sink with the Republican ship. And whatever happens, I will never forget. This time, I am truly, truly, outraged, even if I admit this story is too huge for me to pitch a quick bite.

Trophy Cases

We all live with raw nature towering above us, and working inside us to challenge our civilized veneer.-- The Philosophy of Clint Eastwood

There is nothing wrong with not taking life too seriously, and Burt Reynolds cruised through most of his films doing just that, being a hot and heady swashbuckler who didn’t have to internalize. When you’ve got the swagger, you’ve got it. There was simply too much of a hard on in that swagger for the dowager’s taste, with notable exceptions, like The Longest Yard. Is its Southern insolence contrived? Certainly, but this is good old Americana, with all its feel good bluster, a favorite of mine that of a sudden evokes the man’s absence, and this absence, preserved in his presence on camera, belies the dismissive attitude I had for Reynolds throughout his career. Comparing the jaded pro baller Crewe from this 74 classic to the tightly wound Pentagon brass starred general in the 06 End Game as Gooding's moral arbiter comes as something of a shock, even as we nag ourselves with critical annoyance. Why was the optic capture of Woods meeting a publisher so critical to this Hillary as wish fulfillment film? The action figure ossifies into a mannequin before our eyes in this disappointing Clintonesque fable. We knew we were saying goodbye, even 12 years ago, with great affection, never to be back this way again. And also, coincidentally, one year into my looming obituary.