Pascal's Wager

"If it were up to me I'd burn this place to the ground!"-- Titus Welliver

Insofar as this haplessly imperiled woman is able to puzzle out the threads, Zone Blanche is a more diffuse provincial version of Bosch with unexplained phenomena. The central plot involves two murdered women, and then we have the backstory surrounding the lead detective’s earlier victimization in the same forest, the suppression of that event, a series of additional crimes with men on the edge of sanity, a suicide attempt, and a wolf spiritual guide, a land scandal scheme, with the external malevolence emanating from or causing the corruption of Villefranche. There are no overt allusions to the Islamic State attacks, and this series falls under the rubric of the “mysterious village,” but the layered fantastical elements is a method to broach difficult issues without causing riots in Riyadh, or asking viewers to reflect on Sunni women drivers. Many of the automotive scenes in Zone Blanche are spooky, suggestive of vulnerability, and the opening shot of the pilot, skillfully done, (how easy it to experience crippling paralysis, in the blink of an eye), might have been a homage to George Romero, and the ever enduring living dead, while grinding the buttock to ground beef, yet another therapist, aged and brusque, stopping by to treat the Muslim pampering my disposable underwear with far more direct marginalization than the dowager engages in, jabbing a finger in the air, you follow me down to the car. Saran is, quite truthfully, too infantile for antagonism of the sort I am used to, but like most paraprofessionals, she is unwittingly brutal, physically aggressive, pragmatic, and severely limited in terms of intelligence. I have about a week and a half to go before I transition if she doesn’t land me back in the hospital. If she transfers me badly, as happened Friday, she’ll step back and watch me flail on Mr. Wheelchair’s golf cart. It took all my willpower not to fire her while I struggled gasping to keep my balance. Unless I can outwit the system, or throw money at it, it will only get worse, so close to giving up, I have to be cautious with the despondency. It took a good Sunday with Dana to realize my biological memory skills haven’t entirely vanished, latching on to Bosch precisely because this is familiar territory. I’d say his life was worse than mine, yet hesitate, supposing it is difficult for you to conceptualize the first 16 years of my life were virtually in a home very close to that of Bosch’s orphanage. I have little idea where the writers will ultimately take Zone Blanche, but the moral guilt is nicely woven in with the inexplicably ominous, like a Medieval Catholic allegory.. 

Elusive Hotspot Mastery

There isn't going to be a next time!-- Ryan O'Neal, against his romantic inclinations in an unhappy monastic focus.

There is something off kilter about Los Angles which, succinctly, is integral to its geography, integral to California’s veneer about its own progressive sensibilities. The dowager may no longer offer regressive members of ADAPT the tolerance she once doled on the teaspoon, but Jimmi Shrode was not in error when he warned me about the state’s cosmetic fraudulence, after a fashion. James Ellroy seems to pick it apart in his novels, gets at its essence through rather brutal citrus peels, terrible phantasms, grotesque, obsessive drives, like Harry Bosch going flintly in the face of a threat. Welliver’s character is an unabashed liberal, playing off a hip sidekick of a partner and a lesbian lieutenant who has parity with the title character when it comes to testosterone and an honorable pair of testicles, but he is also a frightening vigilante, and this behavior stems not from liberalism, but from cowboy culture, easily superimposed on Walter Hill’s exposition of the sprawling metropolis as a location. Just as Ellroy’s literary LA has a very dark undercurrent, one that is not comparable to Austin but might run parallel to tortured white male psyches. Walter Hill’s LA is a function of the underground. Though The Driver has scenes shot in sunlight and even pastel-light backgrounds, it is a movie about what happens after dark, beneath the surface, by those who have no desire for Bruce Dern’s zealous attention. Ostensible reality cop shows too though, illustrate LA’s bizarre bicameral indigestion with cultural appropriation. Only in LA does a patrol officer allow bygones to be bygones, counseling a crippled white gimp about a twenty dollar fuck with a toothless black ho whose gaunt frame was claimed by narcotics long ago, sad, but just as much Hollywood kitsch as real, and rather fragile, glamor. Entertainment’s intersection with the street is only a part of the whole, a synecdoche distinct from other cities with stark impersonal landscapes, like Tokyo, part sprawl, part superhighway, part architecture which looks like pastry boxes. Somehow, we don’t all get along, in this desert of 4 million, iuterlaced with a nearly predominant Mexican culture and so much sometimes tragic, sometimes braced, tension, by disaster or design.

He died of a heart attack in a swimming pool; so much for igniting headlines like an earthquake, coast to coast.

Beleaguered Castle Asteroid Shield

The murder of Andrew Petrie, ex-United States senator, changes the lives of his wife, Yvonne, and two brothers, artist Hugh and the mystic Stephen. Here's a brilliant analysis of relationships that miss, of introspection and misunderstanding, and of repercussions.-- a sympathetic reviewer

 It was disconcerting to realize only in mid-sentence that I was disagreeing with Joyce Carol Oates about the alleged non-action of the Parkland security officer when I scrolled search under the literature section. 

I have not researched the facts on the ground, but if he stay out of range, that was wrong.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 24, 2018

The sheer volume of her output is rather daunting, rivaling that of King, even if she is too cerebral and literary to have King’s popular appeal. I know when I’m out-gunned, and wouldn’t have responded to her point at all had I caught myself, but I am not really an aficionado of her novels. A section of The Assassins scored beneath my undergraduate breast. Oates was up there, one of her central characters silenced by a respirator, undermining my expectations, and I am always down here, in the mucus mudpies, getting nigger fucked over every time I try to restore my work and submission routine, waiting on another visitation by a woman who until recently tended my hospice downgrading stepmother. More than Victoria herself, I want to sink to my knees and beg her fiancé, who claims he can convert anything, to restore my files. Even if the alchemy of how we react to the famous is somewhat integral to our own psyches, a star like Woods doesn’t faze me in the digital distance, but Oates does, even if longevity has dimmed her shine. Her celebratory profile of Mike Tyson was too convenient and self-serving, Blonde was a mixed bag, and tapping her for a White Oleander jacket blurb was in questionable taste. First time women novelists coming out of MFA culture have considerable lag time, and nothing White Oleander’s author did felt authentic to me. The main character was like a watered down Lolita with a flat tire. It came, went, movie deal, hackneyed as anything else.

Oates’s impassioned liberalism doesn’t leave much room for air, but I still feel she’s wrong. Cruz was on a rampage and had significant fire power, but security officers are hired to face such risks, and this officer might have done something short of martyrdom to save lives. That is the role for which they get paid. The actual instructors themselves should not have to function as police too. There are enough accreditation hurdles teachers face just to teach; having them armed in class has predictably bad outcomes. It may not be an impending world’s end, but Trumpian brinkmanship has increased my anxiety even as my range eclipses in this unstable meteorological shift of season. I need to stop punishing myself with procrastinating despair and get back to work while I wait to fix and upgrade technology, but I’m near breaking point, not sure how to scale down to adjust. Marie’s family is contemplating an exodus from the city due to taxes. This is radical for this branch of my family. It may be too late for me, the cruelty and paces Presbyterian Homes, constriction and loss of independence, my tonnage caving in my birdlike shoulders, catching up with Oates’s wrinkled visage.

Funeral For A Friend

"We need to tell them she's human too." -- a sales vendor named Jeff who has no idea

While Sean Hannity broadcasts CPAC 18 live, and I only make note of the physiological inability to drum up the enthusiasm for what the speeches and mini-bar raids signify in relation to the state of conservatism in America today, always vocal enough, whatever its failures, to look askance at social media purges, Karina breezed back into my life because the Muslim who will soon be redeployed back to her own kind, suggested, “Call her back,” and with great reluctance, I did. Thus I was treated to Rover the dog, flash drives of her men, because I allowed myself to be persuaded. It would have been more optimal had I remained firm when I told her on Facebook to let me go. The mother died from her melanoma yesterday, and Miss Kraus had the presence of mind to text me the information in a simple sentence, a sentence which might have been a rebuff, as pertains my own growing weakness, or simply the need to connect. I am domicile to the region, so is the mother, a woman I spoke to once, chaffing against the burden of this circumstance. Gretchen Laskas posted about the passing of her best friend’s father during this mild oscillation into my daily living, and I am not going to recant it specifically; it is her world, experience that belongs to what made her, and I couldn’t enter into it even if I consider her a friend, which I do, but she hit on what I had once and took away from myself by returning to the city, the conspiratorial intimacy with someone you’ve bonded to. Linda and I had it for a little while, and it is how she defended herself when she threw me off guard preening about spastic climaxes: she meant it as a conspirator, as if my love life was commensurate with her marital intimacy. (It wasn’t, and for the record, I doubt my convulsions make my orgasms more pleasurable than those of more mobile women.) It may seem inconsiderate to raise an objection to my former cleaning woman’s loss, but Karina cannot fill the void she thinks she can for me, just as I could only be a temporary economic support, little more. I can’t comfort her as if we’d known each other all our lives.

I can, despite this machine, wash my own hair, but I’d never hear the end of it from the Muslim, and have to consider this something of a write off herein, the corrosion of all this dependence is like the autonomic shock conclusion in Carnival of Souls.

 Though it is a different genre, this movie mourns humanism to nearly the same degree Amazon does with Electric Dreams. It takes us awhile to realize we’ve bought it, still trying to swim  while we sink.

The Dining Room Table

When I could still enjoy solitaire as a form of recreation rather than psychological duress, some of my favorites were the two deck game, St. Helena, and the small table game, Four Seasons. I made Four Seasons harder than it is on Warfield’s software, allowing only one move on the tableau per pile. I won rarely. Another was Hit or Miss (or Roll Call), a simple count and discard game, Accordion, and oddly enough, Perpetual Motion, which is a simple pattern game which can last a long time. I would not recommend playing it on the device, in my teenage mind which had no idea I’d plummet back into this distraction at this age, not helping myself. I have to wean myself away from all this awhile, upset that I allowed Karina to prey upon my sympathies, giving her money to wash my hair. Instead of being conscientious about the matter and giving me advance notice that her mother would be entering hospice, she took my money without finishing what she started, flimsy woman. I read this a long time ago in her and knew better and the Muslim, who is up in arms that I’m ditching TLC even though I’ve told her this for weeks, won’t do it, and my father’s ex attendant, whom I said I was going to hire on my dime, won’t shut the fuck up, so much so I’m having second thoughts about honoring my verbal assurances to her. She lost her mother too. “When Momo calls what you going to say?”

This is Saran, the big African child who cleans my stool five days a week. What does she think I’m going to say? I am a racist Momo and I’m sick of your accents and skin color, sick of not being able to have any time to myself, at all. I may not be dying, but my strength is gone, and all I have is my mental capacity struggling against my mechanics, not even positive I can trust my uncle’s company to restore my independence just a little. Mike altered what he sold me, but I shall never be fully functional in this machine, and it may be too late; fine, but I am losing my ability to cope. In Philip K Dick’s Electric Dreams, this peels off under your thumbnail like mica, a sad series, aptly casting Terrence Howard and his moral rectitude, carrying the burden of incendiary individuals like myself on his back. For me, this is going to bed early. I will make edits tomorrow after the Jewish nurse dashes off. She has achieved nothing in terms of making things better. I am under no illusions about moving on, what I’ll continue to face.

Tu peux répéter s'il te plait?

To once again contravene my militant stance against humanity, I have taken more than a cursory interest in the French series, Zone Blanche. (Nursing homes will have to allow their residents some form of streaming, or face anarchy!) I may try my provider's patience by eating up my plug in so I can read the subtitles more clearly. I get maybe 2% of the French, and wasn't positive the female lead was a police officer. The French, being French, had a protest in the pilot, whether about the crime rate or the forest, yours truly isn't sure. I would have to keep rerunning the episodes on my phone to get it all, and may wind up doing that. Much as in Hand of God, being comatose in Villefranche has larger portents, and, entertainment issues aside, this may be a coping mechanism I'd certainly dispense with, and like Madhavan's Danny, pull the plug. We often don't realize how arbitrary we are about life affirming values. I am more intrigued by what's going on in this town than I am with watching American Horror Story. Does this mean I'd really be happier as an ex patriot provincial across the Atlantic? If it meant fewer minorities up my ass? Homogeneity can be a blessing. 

Bill Paxton's Heart Valve

 you have to be considerate of other people-- an adage

The Tom Hanks of Forrest Gump and Castaway is barely recognizable in The Circle. This may be partly due to age, but in this incurious vehicle it seems a deliberate masking, a submergence of the Everyman to Silicon Valley monoculture, despite the fact that the actor’s Eamon Bailey, in a conglomerate stage-on conversation with Emma Watson’s Mae Holland, gives testament to the fact of having a son with cerebral palsy who “lives a full life,” and benefits from the circle’s collective muscle. The dowager cannot speak for all spastics, but she doesn’t live vicariously through video feed, any more than Bill Paxton does, in his composite as Mae’s ailing father, stricken with multiple scoliosis. Ponsoldt, through his attempt to achieve balance, and kayaking in rough waters as a metaphor, leaves the audience behind with a vacillating conclusion, uneven message, and seems more desirous to embrace Google’s abandoned corporate motto, “do no evil,” than not. There seems to be more affect on Holland through her capsize as opposed to Mercer’s vehicular death. Her friend was a limpid foil at best, ditto Paxton’s resistance, yet another lack of recognition in relation to his small screen role.

A johnny come lately to nearly everything, I did not have access to cable when Big Love made its splash, but since I have some scruples about Mormon mainstream legitimacy, I never saw more than a clip of Paxton bringing real time bigamy to life. Smith’s anarchy isn’t particularly compatible with a true scale back of federalism over smaller state governance, though he was a true and mostly half-cocked enemy of state who seemed to think living in a harem would slate his hypersexuality. Though Mormon resistance to mixed marriage is courageous, there is still dubious moral value in cultist heretics calling the kettle black. Hollywood has always had an ambivalence about populism. Ponsoldt is passing the torch to the millennial heirs of Facebook blandishments, but traditionalism reminds us this isn’t as new an anxiety as we like to believe: cf, Andy Griffith, A Face in the Crowd, or Network. We’ve been predicting our hurl over the cliff, mindless lemmings marching toward the death of history, for some time.

I peruse mediocre films in my captivity much like readers engage with franchise novels, nothing wrong with it, and The Circle nodded me off to sleep, not making much of a dent against conglomeration and the limits of its efficacy, but Ponsoldt, since he touched upon bio ethics, individualism in the cloud, might have done more than leave us in the middle of the lake with customer service agents who don’t know what kind of human connection they’re searching for.

General's Patience

"I like girls too."-- Elton John with Kiki Dee appeasing heterosexual conventions when he was a seventies concern

I was once a fanatic for the work of Elton John, and yet, for all that, could never get close, five minutes away from speaking to Taupin on live radio, the producer had a leg crossing discomfort with my question, would not let me through, and then I heard it reiterated in the disc jockey's interview. Fans let things like that go. I've come to regret it, the fanaticism, touched on it previously, and could not follow the seasoned artist's twitter account. The scathing subversive underbite of Elton at his best warped the way I looked at the world, and I had an infantile dismay with his sexuality. Exactly why mystifies me, amid his dichromatic flamboyance, more fascination with it than attraction to it, his weakness was maudlin pathos.

Billy Senese cannot be accused of maudlin pathos. Closer To God alludes and alludes, and yet it is a very crisp film, and rather realistic, however unfortunate this is for the genome project. The tracks of a shrieking baby stay with you. The true climax of the film pierced, and it pierced despite the fact that it was gaming the viewer with Larry Cohen's monster baby. Right before the close of the story, Victor's original child, not meant to survive, goes on a rampage. Jeremy Childs croons to it, Baby Ethan, to lure it in out of necessity, and then Ethan runs to the doctor. flinging his arms around the waist of creator father. The shrieking stops, consolation mitigates its suffering, momentarily, only to be betrayed by a lethal injection, the shrieking starts again, desperate with pain, crescendos into a collapse, overpowered by the chemical overdose. Remove the camp, as Senese does, and discover that a horrified sensibility doesn't know quite which way to turn. The script is not perfectly derivative, but Senese has courage in his daring use of pressure points. I don't envision the science of cloning as a midnight scenario, messy and clinical in parts, as alarming as some transhuman issues. The minute Dolly became cost effective, the fate of manipulating our own bodies was sealed. The only reason a human clone hasn't been done, or revealed, is because geneticists aren't keen on being assassinated, but it is also biologically regressive, like homosexuality itself. Cloning is an inefficient and less viable method of replication. Sexual reproduction was the advance, enabling evolution in its diversity and success: leave it to apes to get excited about stimulating an ovum into carbon copies.

Despite the camp, and its lack of a surgical impricator, the trailer for It's Alive frightened me. I've never been able to shake it off, like one of Warfield's impossible layouts. Patience is not an easy solitaire, but General's Patience is a brain atrocity, a pattern so rigid it's nearly impossible to break. I'd suggest, if you enjoy computer cards, hacking your download to cheat it. You'll live longer.

Raking The Blues

I was going to go to bed early, but recalled I wanted to write before about my history with Elton's work, maybe I'll hold out an hour, as this is something I can start afresh, conflicted as I was about him at thirteen. I know you turn away, but yes, I am very depressed. Everyone has their lives managed, at some point, but I am being closed in too early in my life, only as weak as I am due to bad tools, and everything has failed, from my purse strings to medical rationing, and if I take my life, facile process pushers win, just as they will if I vegetate in a nursing home. All I hoped for was self-sufficiency, some pride in that, and the right man to compensate for those whom I longed, and I let myself be shuttle cocked by a black woman I treated in a friendly manner into 202 housing. I hate you Terri, if you're still out there.

You got out, but Presby treats me like an alien species, and my family puts it on me. I wonder. Many people like you leave these bullshit positions, where a woman named Trudy now lactates at her desk, but I wonder how much guilt, how much corruption you were exposed to, led to to scuttle into Blue Cross.

Hoya Lift Suspension

"Even though we ain't got money," -- a lyric from my era

New Zealand is a strange idyll, for my two cents, although character tests aren't that far removed from meeting the  financial requirements for condominium ownership; the island's exotic sensibility manifests readily in the disappointing genesis story Z for Zachariah. I see what Seitz sees and raise no objection. The pristine cleanliness of both characters and scenery was less troubling than the consequences of Margot Robbie's choice leading to dramatic abruptness. The conclusion lands with an unsatisfactory thud, though private property is still a relevant concern. It is the girl's house, her chapel, her boredom in such a pastoral landscape, while I've been growling like a rabid animal in leg irons since Gretchen and Robert and I were first introduced in Speakeasy. The nurse, whom I shall not identify, said the wrong thing, and I threw a tantrum, with only the child-like Muslim urging me to stay strong; to my mindset, this means telling these socialist bitches to get the fuck out of my life. I can, and I may, if my death dance with Mike leads to a modification I can live with for a year. Yes. A year, which certain segments of the wheelchair community comprehend, a year for a chair I did not pursue strongly enough in 2014, though it may have been 2016, as I did not have issues with the Jazzy until a year after the P-200 expired, and the payment being exacted now is too much. No good choices, only bad to worse, with all those around me drowning in debt, urging me to go join the parade tomorrow, but like Jerry of long ago lecturing on his own triggers, if I was overwhelmed by the only super faggot I over obsessed (not the only semi-exiled fan), how much more so for a Super Bowl parade of an estimated two million. I'm only a casual observer, subsumed by a welfare state which is now punishing me.

Inimical Roman Numerals

"let's get you cleaned up"-- Geena Davis

On the controversial Clements and Ertz touchdowns (come again with runner versus receiver?), the dowager would engage with habitual cynicism and assert that the play calls were made as they were to mitigate any potential chaos in Philadelphia had these end zone penetrations been overturned; with all due deference to Al Michaels, who knows the rules better than I do my pubic hair, they looked like touchdowns to me. History may laud Pederson’s 4^th down special for the next fifty years, but I concur with the voice of urban brawn that Graham pivoted momentum in the Eagles’ favor. I missed some fairly good chess this season, to my regret, but as I posted to fellow Speakeasian, Gretchen Laskas, the intrepid, Superbowl 52 was a great game; never saw the Eagles play that fine before, not that I don’t reminisce the rough edges under Ron Jaworski, but foe once we had a real battle of wills, and Philly broke the seams of Belichick’s juggernaut. As to Brady, he may have a year or two left, but he is engaging in self-deception. Graham proved it. Brady had a cognitive realization delay on that fumble; it would not have been there five years ago, or even three. Having paid attention, however, I did not see the Patriots as invincible. Men can wave all the statistics they wish, New England is just another franchise. Brandin Cooks comical loss of orientation is ample evidence enough for jock itch folly, an ever omnipresent force.

Not to elaborate further on my own physical punishment (I knew it would be excruciating, but knowing doesn’t make living it easier), I am getting a medical equipment evaluation this morning, and as such, shall not punish myself for the sake of work beyond the next 20 minutes). You may cross your fingers, but the horrible toll this has taken on your bituminous host  can no longer lead to recovery of prior rebounds. I am convinced I am om the verge of heart failure, stroke. Hats off Mike, you prevented a future feeding tube insert. If anyone wants to sic the President onto CNN’s deceptive lede in, this time the umbrage is earned.

Voyeurs to Spastic Climax

"I've been in worse places than your apartment."--the proprietor

It is not that I cannot work, I am recalcitrant about starting something new when I was in the middle of other things, but I suppose I can marshal my forces, weakened as they are, evaluate whether or not I need to interview Woods, and then form my questions. One thing I am not interested in, and this goes for O’Neal as well, whose publicist chose not to respond to my inquiry, though I intend to persist, is prurient “gotcha” profiles. O’Neal was too candid with Tavis Smiley in 2012. The interview was memorable, by media standards a successful expose, one in which Ryan may not have meant to reveal he was a bit bitchy, but it didn’t serve his legacy, and I prefer to learn more about craft, sans Al Pacino, who has taught his fans, fantasy fuck melt girl here included, about the art. If I do approach James, this is what I want, not his sex life, or his scorecard political bites. I want the work, some intangible insight into his magnetism, and if I’ve fallen in love just a little, from a distance, I can afford it. It may even smooth out my ability to finesse over and above letting the world know I’m owed for my own continuously browbeat ability: Dana got me on the toilet, and I am weak, but not quite that weak, and perhaps should sue Mike. The code, in disability culture, is wheelchair mechanics are supposed to get it, and I feel betrayed, because Mike’s sensibility is I’m supposed to know how to build my own chair. That is his job, even if his wife is sick, I don’t know how it assuages his personal life to drag me down the drain with him. What I do may not matter if what I do is too late, and he places demands on me I can’t meet, Trudy Richardson wants what’s best for me? How is pressure sores on a bad machine good for me, not even able to go to the bathroom without a thirty year old woman pole vaulting my body because I can’t help her on a scooter device which impedes me? And the answer to this is to have a rookie cop haul me off for psychiatric care? Penn Medicine bounced me back to Riverside in record speed, the police having washed their hands, and Trudy says “well you don’t have to be so aggressive.”

Yes I do. I would not have survived independent living collusion if I hadn’t been so aggressive, if I had not made an effort to put dirty laundry front and center, and then there’s Mike, like a damn body slam, toss the product and then reel the hook, so long, and good luck, an old man with a sick wife burying me along side him, this is why I believe violence needs to create upheaval. Trauma teaches the complacent a lesson.

Not Paddock’s way, no. McVeigh was closer, and he and Nichols posed a threat to the state. This is what disability activism needs, a leader smart enough to threaten the compliance models represented by the Richardson’s and the Nancy Lotz’s of the world. But whether it is cousins, or private hires, or state aides, housekeeping takes precedence over what small contentment I held to. “The apartment looks cleaner,” a false positive, signifying nothing, other than I am right, and have been right all along. I need to be sacrificed for the sake of sanitation, and if that’s the case, why not let me go to sleep? Because the Pope says all life is precious, to the last. If we really believe that, Presbyterian Homes and Liberty Resources would have admitted negligence long ago, but we deny, then reveal too much, and burrow, the damn human race. I claim the right to pave the way for a new age militancy, as good as my word, researching Krugman on trade, a militant that will follow in my wake, since I am not diabolical nor quite ruthless enough, not gouging out the eyes of my CO, like Alvarez, in his senseless, senseless cage. Tom Brady critically injured on the field? That would be a start. A call to arms!

Congenital Kiss and Tell

On January 31^st, Vincent D’Onofrio expressed consternation for the loss of some followers due to voicing his political beliefs, and with a slight hedge, I offered a mitigating consolation without mocking him, but admit I’m a bit taken aback by how soft he seems to be outside of the studio’s insulation, and perhaps I shouldn’t be, since he is a regional performer with crossover national appeal. Woods is a little larger, but one thing the two actors share is a sense of the personable on social media not so readily apparent with others, and since fame interests me as a contextual problem, with questions about whether Twitter collapses recognition, engenders it with sometimes detrimental spontaneity, or not, with Ebert’s dictum that “[Celebrities are] just people,” coming into play, getting used to the pain of this hard vinyl seat, the physical pain and despondency in tandem. Mike the prick wants 400 dollars to convert what I’m sitting on to a base with a cushion, and if I was desperate for a usable chair in the fall, I’m not only now desperate to rid myself of torture, but the spool unwinding in my interior doesn’t know how much longer I can stand it. The man at the helm of Mr. Wheelchair has lied to me fifteen ways to Sunday. He had another chair for me. Now he doesn’t. He was coming in November to rectify the problem, then it was December. Then January. Each time he was a no show. Neither of us trusts each other. A little of that fame utilized to raise conscious awareness might be useful at present, as I’d rather not take the time and energy to consult a lawyer about this, and Medicare is its own sweet draconian process.

Today I lost a truck load of followers becuz of my views on where our nation is at right now. My liberal snowflake views,my bleeding heart views,my freedom2call out false info when I c it&my call4equlity.I have2say though it did put a smile on my face. #NoFearNoGreedNoEnvy

— Vincent D'Onofrio (@vincentdonofrio) January 30, 2018

D’Onofrio’s public worry about his drop illustrates that everyone can be affected by “the numbers game,” of automated models, unless consumed by distress which reduces its concern: Much to my astonishment, Karina refused to break off our relationship founded by Craigslist. She returned to Philadelphia for personal reasons I will not dangle before you with callous indifference, ignored my indignation, and crashed in upon me with her heart of gold hugs, however suspect its reliability, so I relented and we’ve made up, just after Amazon’s own streamlining suggested I might be interested in Breathe, an Indian series with more than one or two parallels between hero cop with his emotional wounds and his antagonist. Madhavan is interesting as Danny, a soccer coach whose son is afflicted with cystic fibrosis, due to more than his unipolar descent into psychopathy. Due to the fact that this is Bollywood rather than its American cousin, the series whets my aesthetic curiosity, but this said, I am not convinced this is how killers are made or pursued in Indian society, but why Danny descends into hell, why he destroys his own social decency, you’re looking at it right here people. I could be wrong, but Breathe seems to have its own melodramatic subversion, damned if I don’t find it funny, even if the logic of his multiple efforts for one fresh donor after the other  is unclear. 

Babel Direct

Just a quick word about subcontinent intonation: Sometimes I am able to follow the captions clearly on Prime, but with Breathe the English subtitles move rapidly, much like this entire series. I believed, initially, that Madhavan's Danny was trying to create brain dead candidates to give son Josh healthy lungs, hence mild puzzlement that he put an asthmatic grandfather in a coma, killed a cyclist, tricked an actress into taking her own life, but indications toward the season finale suggested he was bumping Josh up on the donor list. Fine, but he was also targeting AB negative donors, like the cop's  ex-wife, so I am still confused, shall review. In the last episode, the detective and Danny meet face to face. Amazon may have Westernized the hero, the villain, the themes, but India is still India and sorting this out gets weird, though I know about bilingual switching between English [universal language], and dialect. I am also going to attempt to rejoin LOTR locally this month. I believe I can.