Collard Green Extraction

"I no longer walk with a limp," James Woods, Against All Odds

My old flame of 37 years ago, (concurrent with the invasion of Grenada, no less) reminded me of a word I rarely use on Blogger: morale. It is a difficult state of cohesion for me to locate as a writer-journalist in hindrance at present, but the liberal-progressive bandwagon follow then block my account on Twitter isn’t helping. To a degree this is arbitrary, sometimes not worth mentioning, like the British transsexual RD Ronald who followed me and then beat a quick path back to her disturbing body decals of gunshot wounds. Seconds before she fled my digital space, my question read, “Are you a real transsexual?” I was baffled, found her Facebook page and excoriated her deliberately. If the LBGT activists want to play mind games with me they will be dealing with smoking skid marks, particularly as consequences for the dowager are negligible. There was too the donna from … Naples, was it? Her cut stung, as my use of nomenclature was only an attempt to welcome a comrade; but the BrowneProject, which as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, consists of a guitarist named Chris, followed me on July 28^th, and barely gave my palsied forearms 48 hours before he blocked me for querying the question as to what he wanted. Yes, we all unfollow and sometimes block accounts daily, but in this instance, whatever his circumstances, his virtual cut has the semblance of discrimination against a disabled woman only attempting a reminder that I have never been a paid music critic, though I will give the forthright the benefit of the doubt, like Ali Spagnola, who came to me through Medium. I admire her spunk, and have filed away to my ailing synapses that her oeuvre is due some consideration, as Russ Still will also receive, if I can accrue some semblance of my own autonomy as I had it last year.

Having asserted this, however, music will not heal my present anguish over a night to day helplessness from loss of machines and furnishings that kept me functional, nor will the social psychology of Mark Goulston, the doctor from California whose suicide prevention tweets aren’t relevant to my medical vulnerability. I let him go, wish him well, but my existence is intolerable, and needs more intervention of “boots on the ground,” and additional technical devices than the American welfare system will ever provide. Empathy isn’t going to prevent the collapse from infections borne of my own waste, if it continues. If Chris Browne is representative of the best the British left can do, “loving his friends,” believing in lyricism’s healing, but blocking me in a simple attempt at conversation, it gives me insight into British conservatives who’ve friended me and proven themselves resourceful.

Brilliant end to the day with my twin bro @BrowneProject 😁😄🤩😍 pic.twitter.com/a2d6bdAXIf

— 🌣 Nature Druid 🌣 (@n_distractions) August 25, 2018

As I cannot spontaneously visit my family and raise a glass of bubbly, these twins are cruel people. I'm the one who can't walk.

Gillespie’s Oblique Defense of #MeToo

A friend says Chris Janson's 'Take a Drunk Girl Home' perpetuates rape culture even as it appears to attack it. She think it implies sexual assault can be accepted or even excused during "boyhood."  What do you think? https://t.co/YzIku4jvhS@BroadusErinn

— Nick Gillespie (@nickgillespie) August 5, 2018

My sudden surge of page views from Ukraine at the mention of Mawson Dave may have led to a certain Slavic misapprehension. In reference to my last post, I was not indicating my approval of Dave’s work with Syrian relief efforts, only that this low key social media user was more on par with an affinity in terms personal attractiveness over and above my present-day direct care worker, nor am I attempting to ostracize him beyond anything other than the usual digital dissonance making me feel worse for the inability to connect, as opposed to its inverse: I am alone in this near total new found helpless and lack of control, my limbs now beginning to tremble, and Mawson came and went beyond my ability to fathom, tainted around the edges with a tinge of suspicion. I may have earned some brownie points with ant-war humanists in my earlier posts when the out-lying areas around Damascus were beginning to slip beyond Assad's control, but the realities of Hezbollah and ISIS at each other’s throats, with the Russian army engaged in strategic asset protection, does nothing to restore geopolitical stability, or raise the ghosts of massacres, such as that in Hama, under the father. Barely governable deserts are a mirage of benevolent compassion, at least when we examine the number of expendable citizens in the name of authority and power. If the al-Assad regime didn't lose credibility in my pulsating cerebral student days, at this point the current regime is a mere marionette. I give it up, allow it to evaporate within the current administration's disciplinary maneuvers against chemical attacks. It led to the martyrdom of Mevlut Mert, the futile murder of a Russian ambassador, and why we even characterize it as a civil war at this stage is beyond me.

I take some issue with the student's Quora post that Putin wants "a multi-polar world". The Georgian conflict, the backing of the separatists in Ukraine, these are pacification efforts even in the newfound disorder of a kleptocracy.  Against this backdrop, my additional acquisition of Muslim accounts beyond my remaining Turkish followers was done so with unease, inclusive of a Saudi princess named M, who wisely only tweeted hello. What she offers to me in terms of perspective remains inexplicable. I surmise, however, that the gateway account for these Islamic followers is Angela Stewart, a reasonable facsimile of  a moderate medical paradigm progressive, even as I finally lit a short fuse with Reason and Nick Gillespie, the expanse man of all causes. I pushed back against the columnist above in relation to women and personal conduct, and this is not blaming the victim. If I had told my direct care worker in April not to fondle me out of pity, I could have let him go before we bonded in this semi-aquatic fashion of the familial and the erotic in which I always lose. In the mechanical essence of it, sexual intimacy with him would be a mere ineluctable progression, but also an act of self-hatred, romantic inclinations dead but dead alive, one and the same. Every time he clocks out I hope I never see him again, I don't believe in it, us, his limited ability to apply himself, the fatalistic indifference to Ralph Ellison, for instance, and the novelist's influence on Obama.

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian

Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that. 
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.

The Constructs of Stupidity

Reinstating a question about citizenship in the 2020 Census is a small but salubrious step. And it would also help weaken the grip of identity politics, a destructive force that is now racializing all of society.-- as the law tweaks

Before I go off gallivanting on another news item more pertinent to my interests, it is due to the beatitudes of a plow horse losing itself to daytime program viewing that I caught the horrific video footage of uniformed officers gunning their way into this Port Richmond residence to try to save the baby, as tersely summarized by Michael Tanenbaum. His piece cannot match the horror of the live footage at the scene, and apparently, this is what Jim Kenney's victory against the administration as a sanctuary city amounts to, human animals too stupid to breed lying a baby on a carpet without first crating the dogs, which are known to be aggressive and tenacious when they maul. Regardless of what the ongoing investigation uncovers, the woman should be sterilized and charged with negligent homicide. The Heritage Foundation's study on "Hispanic" intelligence may have vanished after Jim DeMint left the Senate to take up the reins, but the evidence to contravene the controversy it ignited seems scant.