"They have the right to live," Axel Steier, a Mission Lifeline founder, said of the migrants.
Do they now? There is not a high profile government official on the face of the earth, not even Kim Jong Un, who denies basic human rights, with the colorful Duterte being a quickly superimposed afterthought, in terms of being a (refreshing) exception. The dowager might not be so bemused if she had to live under Rodrigo's charming apologia for brutality, but pauses to reflect that Philadelphia's regime has no discernible difference against Filipino distributive poverty median. If life turns pretty cheaply for the vast majority of the world's estimated 4.5 billion Asians, it is merely a reflection of our evolutionary bottleneck crisis still at play, the mayoralty of this city like so much shuffleboard, at least since the Rizzo family relinquished power. The key center city districts, like my ward, 187, have the concentrated opulence of high finance and gentrification via condominiums. The residential neighborhoods are territoriality marked by fried chicken franchises, regardless of the name we draw in the raffle: Wilson Goode, John Street, Ed Rendell, once the potential scourge of gun manufacturers, Michael Nutter, and even Jim Kenney, his soda tax jeopardizing retail establishments in an already poor city, doesn't change this dynamic. The evolution of money, the concentration of wealth like spokes on a wheel surrounding city hall, by implication, are far more important than dying city residents transported to dialysis treatment at 7 am. Or a woman with cerebral palsy being beaten to a pulp by systemic corruption, all the sudden, and necessarily, bending over backward for a care worker to whom she was, however briefly, more erotically inclined than she was to Tim Artis, her other long standing passive minority who was paid out of pocket. Just because the game of an interpersonal relationship is a lie without legs beyond her acquiescence to Medicaid's contract doesn't mean she cannot be hurt. She was Monday, another indefatigable blow, even if counseled not to compare her quadriplegic physique to an able-bodied woman walking her dog. Well defined buttocks win every time over the buddy girl aroused, then burnt back down to carbon, and this cycle will repeat, indefinitely, unless I bolt, for more of the same, endless misery, and I don't have the stamina to hire, fire, another 50 people I do not even want in my personal space.
My cousin thinks he cares about me enough that this is "real". But I knew from our fight at the end of April what I forced him to tell me was the brute honesty: I am only tempting enough for him to struggle not to sleep with me, and I do not have the ability to transcend what the malformations of this city have scarred on me not to relegate him, despite, despite the woman in me who keeps sounding if he really cares. Not enough not to smote me where it counts. Fine, but all of this is draining me, a mere shell of my former self, hardly in the grip of Locklear's crisis, as much fading relevance as her loss of control due to substance abuse?
I am less diffident about Salvation now that it is back on air, relieved to have a show to follow with a degree of eagerness. The series was put into production too early to forecast Trumpian politics. Indeed, Tovah's evergreen character actor carry over, from Danielle Melnick the crusader, to Danielle Melnick holding the strands at the end of the world, may have anticipated a Clinton administration in error, with Sasha Ruiz merely the usurper who has to be defeated, a Trumpian villain whose path to the presidency can be blamed on Hugh Hefner, Charles Krauthammer, and Bill Clinton, depending on which columnist's byline is in stroke recovery, but Salvation, nevertheless, feels like the industry is throwing a bone to the cops: be a good electorate now, we put a woman in charge handling the asteroid, the Russians, and cyberterrorists! And we gave her a Libertarian (Tanz) to elevate to the Vice Presidency! My right to life, meanwhile, lurches on mission creep.
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