Conquest of Galactic San Francisco

Vervoort, 40, suffered from incurable, degenerative spinal pain. She said in an interview in Rio de Janeiro three years ago that she only got about 10 minutes of sleep some nights and described the pain that caused others to pass out from just watching her. She said sports kept her alive.-- as disseminated from the Belgian press in its clinical mercies

I have always been a Johnny come lately to viral fads. I was diffident about blogging when it became a form of media counter culture, had the misfortune to select LiveJournal as a starting point in 2009, and my scar tissue was too raw and unpolished despite my publishing experience. I was diffident about Twitter, and only ran afoul of it as a platform after I adapted to it and its staff in turn adopted Facebook censorship tools, and I think we're all cognizant of the fact that less screen time is beneficial, but this wisdom is difficult to apply when we become prisoners to socialist models of impoverished tenancy housing, and my recent lacuna towards posting anything at all is due to pain and apathy of defeat in an essentially nigger city whose values will eventually destroy the success of European colonial expansion. A mild mannered technocrat like Ev Williams, and indeed, few others, even libertarians, can understand how such hatred within me evolved, as we are taught to condemn what people do, not who they are, and costly solutions like extermination aren't feasible, except as it pertains to the reality that humans kill each other, most often because familiarity breeds contempt, or men have a visceral fear of femininity, less often out of ethnic hatred bred by politics, and I've been desensitized enough to be aware of my own impulse triggers, however ineffectual, but this isn't why I have an intuitive dislike for Medium.
For a significant time, I did not even assemble the platform as the original collective platform on which other models like Niume or Virily were based. Nevertheless, I've paid into Medium membership and the partnership program, primarily because I could die from sitting on my buttock in a disastrously assembled Quantum powerchair. Pennsylvania's Medicaid and federal Medicare is killing me faster than my age, allowing me to understand Vervoort's excruciating embrace of euthanasia better than most of you, and the right to suicide will eventually overcome ecumenical and secular opposition, yet I balk, despite the apathy and the peril and the poverty I am fighting. I balk over every justified suicide tourist, and like the rest of you, even grow angry when it can be viewed as an extravagant contagion, the suicides of despair which cannot even visualize urban honey traps like mine, me with no one, no more positive bonds with former supervisors, no more dead lovers, cheating husbands, just tissue paper underwear and a mentally hobbled black man tending to me whom I would do anything to cut loose. I pity him more than not, as I have excuses which he doesn't, and I am, after all, this close to sixty years of age, and may not make it. This Blogger account will remain open as long as I am able to type it, but I have to slow down with it as I need money desperately if I can hope to circumvent the destruction of civilization through social welfare. Some content I've done here will go to my Medium account, some won't, and I am always, in some form, working toward a scholarly end. And if I can hold out maybe I can repair my horrendously bad environment.

Archives

"Please don't."--Sims, pleading constraint before amping his rehabilitation

I took a longer segment than anticipated doing background research, strolling through my older posts, looking for a quick lift with some polishing for Medium's curation team, and I have my work cut out for me. I've gotten better over time by treating my hotspot like a guerrilla maneuver, but in earlier years my clause connections have a muddled roll along. I don't envy the curation team its work, but if they're already an enemy, I wonder why I signed into the partnership. Early Medium users heralded the platform with a celebration of transhumanism, and I shrug, Queen Elizabeth waving her hand dismissively. Single user platforms are now voled into The Collective. Ed's curation team is a primitive borg vindilum. I already knew beforehand I took a dim view of cacophony and cascading causes. As a practical matter, even if I merge aesthetic and political philosophy as I do on this account over there, I need more surge protection, needing to view some films again, which is all very good, but hell's static indigence awaits, wide hungry mouth for the damned.

Ulee's Tributary

"I'd take that into consideration Mr. Bailey, if this was a democracy."-- William Shatner, now a wily spokesman for CPAC cleaners

Even before I started this account, I'd track certain actors, particularly if they expired of cirrhosis of the liver before their time, attempting to gain insight. Peter Fonda was not one of them. Like Michael Douglas after him, Fonda was a pretty face with a shag haircut, engaging in a valiant, dismissive struggle in Futureworld, where Yul Brynner manages to be a better robot in this fraying and cosmetic liberal decade which does indeed seem to have ended in 1978, than Brent Spiner manages to be an android in the Clinton era, and no, this is not a swipe at Data's endearing naivety, only a suspicion that a machine with consciousness may really not wind up in an ontological category which humans would necessarily find favorable, and Brynner perhaps captured just a little better the malevolence of circuits and diodes simulating a gunfighter whose liberty was a facade, an entrapment, and an evil which could be defined as such exactly because it lacked dynamic of the soul. I have no need to reiterate admiration brushed off in my more energetic archives, (nothing if not energetic), about Ulee's Gold. I remember the drug addiction led to the punk show of force upon which Fonda's character prevailed. Certainly not every nuance of this quiet film's local color, and it was a better film for its self-depreciation, but Fonda never fixated me, not like Cassavetes, and did Gena Rowlands consider their match lucky, fortuitous? Or did John's alcoholism rate him as just another more incisive greaseball, as all Italians are? His performance in Rosemary's Baby on those crutches only offers up mitigating hints. Nonetheless, even if I never sought these answers in Fonda's demeanor, his passing Friday morning elicited a mournful, instinctive yowl. Something felled, it clangs in my head in my desperation to get out from under the thumb of the sterile black psychosis unto which I continue to weaken, in every withered African frame the cry of Kurtz, "the horror, the horror!"
This scoring pain Medium's generation shall never understand, as I was busy last week buying into their paywall. Before I kill myself, or decide to try to, some of my posts here may become more ambitious columns there, as if agony actually transmutes.

Hail the Hinderland

"She was tied to a tree and shot in the head."-- a forensic entomologist whose expertise is fascinating in a repulsive, macabre gawk

If I simply iterate racial slurs with repetitive vehemence like a raptor species, say a bald eagle, lacking capacity to embrace veterinary rehabilitation of its injuries, then I am just a shade closer to the finality of derangement which takes all our strength, debating plagiarizing myself, but that is double the effort in my end game of extraordinary duress, as if the curation team under Ev Williams will allow the grim reverberations of despair. Galahad doesn't realize the depth of my rage, my sheer relief at visualizing weaponizing this punishing machine, the worst fucking chair I ever had, against that stupid old bitch bellowing like a calving whale. Trying in vain to preserve what hearing I still have, the force of her screams set off my tinnitus, and I can't keep fighting my now crystallized hatred forever. I don't glorify in it, that this uncouth old woman contributes nothing to the world, and if someone likes me uses machine power to break her fucking legs, she deserves it; she isn't worth it, but any progressive who dares to tell me minorities who engage in such aberrant behaviors on a daily basis is my equal hasn't the slightest idea of what they are talking about. Common courtesy? She did not stop to think that many people here are ill, and don't need such volume in building front vocalizations. Vivian, another long term dead resident, told me I spoke too loudly with a great deal of frequency. That was just in terms of outside portico conversation. I no longer doubt that primal fictions like The Purge

have already seeded a reality we're starting to face, and it's the price of progressive totalitarianism. I'd sell my soul to see governmental contractors, led by the nose by the avarice driven Presbyterians, annihilated, all because I made lust driven, obstinate choices. If I run, even the idea of running, it is just too late, and I live in the greatest republic on earth. And yet, it's true, I wept for Morrison, more courageously sordid than I ever could be. She certainly would have been deplatformed for her "black bitch" of her first novel, driven insane by an incestuous rape.

Loosely on the Cuff

Did he have a noose in the background? -- Whoopi Goldberg

Having once complained about not having a favorite Marilyn Monroe picture, viewers might be surprised that I liked her youthful supporting role against Stanwyck Clash By Night.

In the movie, Stanwyck is all but a prototype Hillary Clinton, or Kamala Harris. In many ways this RKO stock reel is a sartorial grimace, suggesting monogamy is, after all, the best form of partnership despite the foibles of the human heart, and Stanwyck plays against her type, and deconstructs its regal queen aspects at the same time. She returns home to her seaport town, not so much humiliated as defeated, after her affair with a powerful politician grinds to a halt in New York, marries a lug who's a steady earner, and then, lacking other options, fucks his buddy who manages the movie theatre. Rinse, repeat, and see Marilyn as an innocent ingenue who doesn't stray far from Keith Andes as Stanwyck's more inflexible brother. Do I think Stanwyck's Doyle is overactively promiscuous? Certainly. She was a reigning matinee idol until she forgot her lines with Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds. Do I think the embattled Senator Harris is overly promiscuous, (or in harder morphemes, a slut)? Possibly, hence her prosecution of Backgate is at least problematic. She didn't sleep with Brown for money, but there was, nonetheless, a transactional collusion taking place, and I should have backstopped my ponies and aligned my facts before defending James Woods or Fournier on their "heels up Harris" segue. Let it be noted, for the record, that "noose" also connotes violence, just as it denotes memories of lynching. Just as slut is still a word, however, a noose is a complex knot, a simple technology. Did anyone protest to ABC that Whoopi's use of it threatened violence? Her use of it in defense of Biden certainly had a more direct correlation than my bold tweet.

Violence in the Voice

"And you will never touch her again." the Rose Armiger of Henry James

I was going to back date this post into the archives, but decided to leave it its currency, as I am in the process of wiping myself off Twitter, both like, and unlike, James Woods. It was my one real time outlet to the world, now that I am in bondage, but I am sick of it, and unlike Laura Loomer, I am not going to let the company have that kind of power over me for uncouth knocks, though it was my only friend, not realizing that my correspondence was going to their law firm, as if I am in a position to bite. I'm not, and I am not even angry, merely finished. The only reason I deleted the hard tweet defending people like Ryan Fournier on Kamala Harris and the sexual insults against her was to delete the account. I then deactivated, but thought the better of my data. Parler is all that is left, and that, as Trumper Darkness to Light says, sucks, no hostility to the said Parler app developer intended. I can't really *talk* on Parler. Paul Joseph Watson and cronies aren't interested in deconstructive sagas of how I live worse than a dog in its own shit. They are deniers and info wars. I am not, just vitriolic at my worst and ugly and mean, trying to hang on, with occasional fine points. I don't get a hard on over Donald Trump, but when he bucks one in the net, good for him, and American liberalism otherwise is vomit. I have grown too ossified, and, simultaneously, not thickened enough. I knew the monitors would target me eventually, but didn't think it would convey my doom is foretold.
I had the strange inclination to start rewriting my faded novel idea that JJ Abrahams ran the long yard to innovate television with. I thought forcing myself into the flow, taking a retreat, would insulate me from my suicide planner playing deck. Telling you my quadriplegic neighbor Jay is dead certainly won't do that. He was a true C break quadriplegic, my age, younger by only weeks, and almost akin to my sister's husband, if memory is accurate-- that I cannot guarantee--, he went into construction at 19, fell off a roof, and like me, had enough, and smoked and drank himself to death. Since I now have no viewers, why not be as utterly frank and blunt and inconsolable as the case warrants. Instead of rewriting those chapters between a bell diving anguish, I nearly finished James The Other House, but not finished enough for the whole, and watched Garak stumble into the Dominion War. His incisive mendacity makes him one of my favorite Trek characters. If any stray reader wishes to tell me why I should continue dealing with feces riding into my vagina after I taught myself how to take care of it with all my power chairs low enough and built on the right slant, that is, until 17, go ahead, take a crack at it. Like Jay, I've fought all my life. Unlike Jay, I hate the niggers in their diffident service of my needs. I don't truly know what he thought. His airway constricted. He's dead.

Adrian's Erasure

"You sent that creature to its death!"-- Kate Mulgrew in the species 8472 crescendo episode

To spend the evening realizing how you're going to die in your own mucous, coughing it from lungs and convulsing it in the geriatric processes of bad cholesterol, holding Rick Berman suspect, is tantamount to resolving the mystery of Marianne Williamson's candidacy. I did not need to read guru shit nonsense in yet another of Ross Douthat's parallels, having grown up in the 70's, but never truly exploring New Age spirituality, I only now begin to see Berman had his own radical agenda about the consequences of military occupation, an agenda I didn't quite grasp when Voyager was gasping along to it's seventh season finale, or Deep Space Nine, in somewhat insipid fashion, had the Cardassians represent the Serbian military: I did a relatively cruel thing and removed  Troy Blackford from my ever oscillating and now dwindling Twitter feed, but I am getting too worn out to have it truly be concerning, disappointed to discover I cannot delete my post with his tweet without substantial revision. No matter how much humans love babies, and sometimes they don't, if Adrian's glioma is so virulent, what is the price of this fight we all seem to wage? Conservative speech writers like Michael Gerson can be circumspect, but Troy Blackford pisses and moans like a weakling. As of this writing, he is, along with the bariatric surgeon, still reading my skeptical nihilism. I hate the softie minority care technician behind me, waiting for me to finish so we can commence the clinical disposal of my puss. That's simply what I've become. How unfortunate.

Missing The Deadline

Robert Mulligan's  "The Other" is a movie that is maybe about the supernatural and maybe not.-- Roger Ebert, glands at the footstool of God, diametrically.

When the dowager checked the X-Ray Prime Video captions for Case 39, and saw that Paramount had to delay the release of the film, she presumed that delay was due to the ostensible impact on families like those of Shane and Dominique Decree. Background sources indicate this wasn’t the case, but was due to a fire on the set, which opens another set of possibilities. Maybe a member of the production crew was unhappy with the doomed straight to DVD pay scale, as evinced by the film’s critical reception. The besieged subscriber knew nothing of this upon the film’s selection, and was transfixed by the near death in the oven scene. This rather crucial opening of the plot occurs shortly after Renee Zellweger, inhabiting the overworked social worker Emily with due diligence, does the initial spot check on the stoically apathetic Sullivan family. Jodelle Ferland is adept at behaving like the ambidextrous mimic Alvart wishes her to be, as tightly wound against the slew of prepubescent possession films which vomit out of production companies with the regularity of recurring reinterpretation since The Exorcist, just an anxious little girl whose red flags don’t justify any extraordinary measures on the part of Emily’s supervisor, a diligent minority who remains untouched by Lily’s rather overwhelming onslaught of anguish, which doesn’t delay itself too long, leaving the viewer to wonder why she affected such helplessness being gassed in a standard convection oven her parents vainly seal with duct tape. Emily receives a muted cry for rescue just before this, colludes McShane into validating her urgency, and what is a purported Christian strike against a legitimate manifestation of malevolence is defeated, and then a sweetroll like Bradley Cooper puts up a brave fight against terrorizing himself to death, the facile childhood psychiatrist universally distained in horror movies. It doesn’t take much of a leap to superimpose the tragedy of the Decree sisters into this constantly churned out formula, and psychiatric diagnostic classification does indeed make allowances, in muted percentiles, for the possibility that humans are enveloped with demonic affliction. Senese offers a much sharper construct with Ethan in Closer to God, which puts a dimmer button on Shelley’s pathos involved in scientific over-reach, so why am I bothering with this almost A-list mediocrity? Because its subtext is an indictment of the childhood welfare state, rather suggestive of the fact that despite  protections, safeguards, courts, first responders, social workers, the system is overwhelmed with splintering force, allowing evil to thrive in misplaced accountability. Linda Blair’s invidious marionette, mutilating its vulva with a crucifix, was a cautionary check on feminism’s ascent. Alvart’s oven containment scene, unfortunately, wasn’t something of which we aren’t aware, in the worst and lowest aspects of domestic criminality. Had he not pivoted Ferland’s character so quickly, it might have been a notch or two above a mere brutal sensationalism.

Bonfire of Spectacles

With love, Jenna: it’s not the “language ‘we’ use”. It’s the President of the United States being blatantly racist and cruel. I know this is a big ask but: don’t frame it as ‘we’ doing anything. ‘He’ is doing it—and you and your dad should stand up, vocally. https://t.co/g9xOOxMYLp

— Soledad O'Brien (@soledadobrien) July 27, 2019

The fact that I know of Soledad O’Brien’s name means I must have picked it up from somewhere, which holds PBS or NPR suspect, but I have no context for her recognition and so remain unfazed that she and I follow each other, and in fact, although intonation can be hard to discern in relation to social media, her constancy in berating Trump supporters over their racism has nearly as much a satirical quality to it as the president’s shrewish grimace in North Carolina while his crowds obediently engaged in papier mache pep rally incantations, this too being a woefully inadequate strategic move against the encroachment posed by Llhan Omar. No less than a crusty old veteran like Bill Moyers backs up the argument pushed forth, at times with the reactionary force of a battering ram, against Omar’s representation, as with striking independence, he asked one of his interviewees (within the last eon) “Why is Africa so badly governed?” The question remains in full force today as it has since de-colonialization and the unraveling of imperialism, all but expired by the time of the Kennedy administration, with allowances for the Soviet frolic in Angola. Search cannot always provide the context to a frame, since we media dependents are discussing narrative frames in relation to populist challenges, but even frames are nothing new, as admirers of Joseph Conrad would comprehend. When Miles O’Brien replied to me on air while anchoring his then most recent Newshour story about not wearing his prosthetic arm, that was cause for a mild dose of slack jaw astonishment, partly because you learn not to expect such interstices despite digital folding lengths, but also partly due to anchorage, the familiarity of being a known quantity. Mr O'Brien had this for me without my ability to recall before and after bookends. Soledad doesn't have that and neither does her vehicle, Matter of Fact, but neither shall she have it. Sometimes, the best strategy is not revealing the hand you hold. Cato Institute contributors manage this particularly well. Johan Norberg orated on video that Africa would demand that its energy needs be met, on par with the developed world. This shouldn't necessarily mean that indigence in more privileged countries continues to downgrade, as under Llhan and her sympathizers it surely shall. By this reasoning, I'd admire Trump more if his administration brought federal charges against the congresswoman, popped her off to the ANC, wherein she'd have like minded company.

The Avoidance of Wedding Ceremonies

You are such a nasty, evil bitch that no one wants to be around you.-- family feud online

I am going to Magee Rehab for a proper wheelchair evaluation, which I'm not sure will achieve much, at this point, as I think of the toe polish of Elizabeth Nass and Mayr, mummified in Ellicott City. We probably cannot classify their deaths as a live burial. I will pick up after the hobbled pony ass next to me clocks out, like Gilbert Osmond shutting out Isabel Archer's lights, one by one.

7:14 pm: The reason I contemplate these derailment deaths is that I was relatively new to social media's real time immediacy in 2010. I did not participate through commenting as news of the accident spread through Baltimore Sun's coverage, but I felt the same sense of dissonance most of us feel in such situations, the dissonance Eugene Robinson felt about Cosby as the great comedian's stature was diminished. They were crushed not minutes after those images of their feet made the rounds, and no, this fragmenting attention spans of ours  cannot lay blame solely on software coding, as our attentions are assailed, inundated daily, not simply with people like me saying what happened, but people like me framing the issues about what happened. Locomotive engines are the industrial technologies of the Gilded Age, barely streamlined out of their 19th century mechanical application. We no longer have foremen with shotguns lording over Irish immigrant workers they less rarely massacred in secret, in Pennsylvania (sorry NAACP), but we do have derailments, passenger and freight. The robber barons of yesteryear are the conservative laughingstocks of today.  The guy who ran Amtrak under George W. Bush would appear on television mildly scathing with "Would you like to buy it?" In the sardonic voice of age, and a company like CSX is a nuisance to the multiplicity of classes that inhabit Logan Square, or form the graphic horror of unique films that ushered us into this century. Hopefully thet didn't have much time to suffer, Elizabeth and Louese, which writes like an improper variation of my stepmother's name, but outside of those who procreated them, they're nothing more than a statistic, like footballers.

A Fury Almost Not to be Recognized

"New hope for the civically exhausted--" TNR's rebtanded tagline

Coping with false allegations is never a pleasant experience, but I doubt those in Twitter's scrolling immediacy paused to reflect on the hyperbolic decibel level which surrounds American physical intimacy as it rolls back its blinds on the sexual revolution with some degree of diffidence. The catfish operatives who trolled on Buttigieg's character in mid-spring were the first to wither under a crisp recoil, as per the announcement of the Burkman/Wohl press conference.

Jacob Wohl plans to hold a press conference on his Pete Buttigieg sexual assault smear on Wednesday pic.twitter.com/BS2R38PFBr

— Will Sommer (@willsommer) May 6, 2019

Not Dale Peck, but as I read these persistent entrails of innuendo, Wohl was taking a page from Me Too as a reflective lesson. If Kavanaugh was going to burn, then why not a favored son from the midwest who has the admiration of former right winger Tom Nichols? I looked at some paragraphs of Peck's screed and with some piqued irony saw myself in his words, as some of you must have read me in my delineations of Erik von Schmetterling, the failed female medical intern with its freakish androgyny, and Jimmi Shrode, its pallid partner, but Peck is wrong too, too infer that educated people such as myself, once a supporter of gay marriage, could steer my starboard in the other direction, turn my back, and yet preoccupy myself with Mayor Pete's private life. What is that to me, aging, vulnerable, in paralysis regardless of policy nuance? The National Review, for all of my restlessness with its content, offered me a better grasp of Buttigieg's executive limitations in dealing with the lethal shooting of a black resident who allegedly pulled a knife on an officer. Dale Peck simply continues onward with the destruction of a periodical which many of us have lauded as a Beltway institution. I can say quite honestly I wouldn't want, as of this post, a byline in The New Republic. That window has passed, to echo Jeffrey Tucker when he wanted to praise Beyonce but was upbraided by someone uptight when it came to a white man writing about a black woman's music. Western civilization is so sadly broken. I can revert to my excoriating denigration on the basis of race and ethnicity, (let alone orientation) but the rest of the country has left me parked at the curb, no matter how much more dehumanization there is left to sustain in a neo-liberal candyland.

Incredibly Edible

Brazen, liberating, cathartic for the torturous glee that immolation foments, then polarizes toward a devastating regret, this image from Maj Toure, in its unbridled enthusiasm for ammunition stockpiles hurts Libertarian attempts to free those of African descent from the interlocking mesh of collective responsibility, a responsibly which nevertheless has mixed results in reigning the parasitic disease of inner city violence.

And now ALL of our @blkgunsmattr range classes have an ammo sponsor.
How are we gona support the folks that support our work?
BY SUPPORTING THEM.
Handgun? @FenixAmmunition
Rifle? @FenixAmmunition
Any kinda ammo? @FenixAmmunition
Follow em and show LOVE! #BlackGunsMatter pic.twitter.com/CW9CzOTSyB

— Maj Toure (@MAJTOURE) July 8, 2019

Toure's candidacy won't change the endemic manufacture of a permanent American underclass through title deed grants issued to realtors who contract with housing authorities to subsidize their building ownership to warehouse people who've become useless through affect, the onset of dementia, and disease.

Jeffrey Tucker asserts with nearly pristine admiration that property ownership was the great capitalist innovation, but this innovation is increasingly bundled into tranches which few of us, even if educated, can penetrate with any degree of contemporary literacy. Philadelphia Corporation For The Aging is not, in fact, incorporated like the Home Depot founded by Bernie Marcus. PCA actually evaluates the extermination value of a designated class, humans over 50 who aren't legitimized members of the establishment hierarchy. Do you think Paul Ryan, or VP Biden, are constantly getting assessed for needs determination, as I've been subjected to since my resignation from my grant funded advocacy? My eighty year old aunt, a third of her gut missing in her triage field battle against cancer, defies PCA's asset forfeiture processes through the tyranny of running a wrecking ball through her sons' lives, both of them over 50, to keep her younger brother free of medical incarceration, beyond being anchored by a penile catheter pissing his own blood, a hernia tube in his stomach. Does my uncle enjoy his constant emergency transports in and out of hospital? Is it any wonder virile niggers jack on projectile power?

Next In Line

Um. Details please.

— Soledad O'Brien (@soledadobrien) June 26, 2019

There is an incurious internecine battle going on this late but cooler Sunday, as if the Me Too movement decibel decided to metamorphize its attention to patriarchal complacency masquerading as competency. Soledad O’Brien and other women in the fourth estate have launched some scathing criticism of Bret Stephens. According to these strident feminine voices, Stephens is the worst columnist printing at the flagship New York Times. All I can do is sit back and wish for a bag of herbal popcorn, as all I can tell you is I know Soledad’s name. She and I had a brief thread about titles which may have puzzled both she and I. Perhaps she wanted to know how I got an opinion piece about Jennifer Wilbanks into the Philadelphia Inquirer and made it my own. It was the convenience of timeliness, something I now lack due to a black woman named Trudy Richardson who has used her power to abuse me so thoroughly that my fantasies of motion involving her homicide where I fracture her skull into a mortal trauma isn’t too well held in check by the fact that it is what she wants so that she can dispose of me. I may hate what my former supervisor Linda did to me to get me to this point, and I hate those who protected her criminal malfeasance, but my life has endured incontrovertible set backs due to two black women in public housing, and it galls me beyond measure that all my academic promise has transmuted. I am a rabid animal who wants to destroy the domestic matron class forcing me to suffer almost beyond my capacity to endure it, and the hen house is now acluck over Stephens and his statistical inaccuracies, his designation of a new class, the Obama-Trump voter. What can I say? I am one of them. Obama and Mitt Romney and Pelosi made my life a living hell with Romney’s healthcare plan for Massachusetts, and Trump running around goring the establishment has only accentuated the city of Philadelphia’s time honored provincialism. I never had an easy time of it with NYT. Shortly before I managed online access, they threatened me with a collection agency over a three dollar deficit. Once online, they suspended my book forum account for momentary frustration with another poster, which was nothing, teeny funnel, but from what I can glean from Google, the media brand that the New York Times is has been challenged of late by other feature writers. I myself don’t believe Douthat and David French are worth what they’re paid: I demand more of Douthat’s mindset, and French is simply a cowering liberal who pities the police when they use deadly force against aggressors like me.

As goes Stephen King

"Some creatures are able to inhabit a space you never knew needed to be filled." -- Patrick Stewart, when still able to deliver a sexually enthralling line

Celebrity accounts on Twitter can be problematic, not just for the celebrity, but for those less successful with recognition: In a mere moment of vulnerability, Ken Wahl could make my heart flutter, despite the fact that binge watching Wiseguy wasn't about aesthetic pleasure so much as laughing at the hairstyle shags everyone wore in the eighties, with a sentimental teardrop, and James Woods, (sorely missed) might have floored my miserable self with any direct validation. Whereas Stephen King incurs my wrath, and when he liked my tweet, a caustic pin in his beatitudes toward being spared, it was all I could do not to rhetorically kick his hoary ass from here to Topeka. He isn't the worst suspense writer in the world, and Carrie tapped into the hysteria of puberty with a relevant timeliness. Some might argue that Shawshank and The Green Mile were structural masterpieces on the big screen that encapsulated American innocence as a main redemptive quality. The dowager begs to differ, and lumps all this in with a dismissive hand wave, Scott Bakula falling into the same category of mawkish obsolescence, Quantum Leap here today, gone tomorrow, but enough of a rolling credit to cast him as Captain Archer. Enterprise is one leg of the Trek expansion franchise with which I'm unfamiliar, and while the premise is sound, with a protean NASA patriotic pride from which Megan Rapinoe could learn to chalk a cue stick, Bakula simply can't carry Archer with any sense of majesty. Cogenitor might have been an episode about the history of the Prime Directive, and it might have attempted to be a delicate cur-in about queer repression, but the writers fall short both on Trip's heavy handed egalitarianism and Archer's conflicted regret, and even I, watching "Regeneration" last night, noted no one ever grappled with the fact there's no hint of the Borg in the original, and no tie in with the heady conflicts in the spin offs. I was certainly into it when Next Generation was the currency of its time. I also thought of sending Shatner a nostalgic love letter thread over the classic "Incident" with Joanne Linville but then thought the better of it. William Shatner the actor in the right context can struggle with demons, but his paucity for pity is self-evident in a constant projection of joviality as a florid old man who's lost his looks, the last of the first.

Not huge on NCIS as a square peg, either

Police identified the two women killed as Elizabeth Conway Nass and Rose Louese Mayr, both 2010 graduates of Mount Hebron High School from Ellicott City.-- an social media event

Once we dispense with the problem of Scott Bakula’s woodenness, we can examine Enterprise for its positive attributes, and these attributes reside in a neo realism that was rough around the edges, better synchronized than the original Star Trek, except for Roddenberry’s pilot, which was darker than Shatner’s hippocampus, and thus, the opening artic sequence of “Regeneration” harbored an insidious malevolence attached to it because it was conceivable that such an event could occur, even if it’s highly unlikely that the Borg exist in deep space. They will exist, one day, because our technological prowess on the verge of the future seems to insist that this collective bipedal beehive will occur, because we've transgressed from murdering black abolitionists like David Ruggles, or attempting to murder them, to arguing about the lack of American principles LLhan exudes and whether she's objectionable enough to have her citizenship reexamined, but what do they stand for? Not Marxism, but Google’s efficacy modules? Possibly, and this 21^st century starship team couldn’t, didn’t grasp the odds they were facing. They simply took action, and boom, a great villainy returns to its proper spin off, threatening the dignity of an actor with the best training the Royal Shakespeare Theatre Company had to offer. His moment of masterful dialogue in the holodeck, with an Arabian steed, was actually closer to: Some creatures have the capacity to occupy a space you never realized existed and needed to be filled.

This art of excellence, alliterated by a Briton who himself was diluted by popular projection of a commercial formula, is the light of humanity we're losing. Once it's gone, then it's gone.

The Overactive Nerve

"I doggedly out myself at London dinner parties as a Leave supporter-- though I might skate safely on the chummy assumption that as a halfway sane person, I backed Remain. -- Lionel Shriver, Harpers April 19 issue

Anorexia Nervosa is a shock and awe driven disorder with a symbiotic relationship to the slasher films of Wes Craven which insist on a near fantastical resilience in the face of modern predation. In contrast to the hypervigilance of feminine mystique under threat, anorexia is a grotesque distortion of the hourglass figure torching itself to emaciation, a form of hysteria on overdrive, with hysteria being the speculative conceit that kills Milly Theale. Whatever else The Wings of the Dove imparts to admiring readers, it imparts a certain vacancy in the mist of ostentation and material need, and this is wherein its modernism resides, despite the fact that James is still the eminent Victorian of repressed portents, even at the turn of a fresh new century, in whose second decade, on his deathbed, James has a stream of consciousness moment with Napoleonic emblems. Feminine histrionics aren't that expansive, and conditions like anorexia, or fibromyalgia, which now possibly afflicts a sister middle child as well as the brow beaten novelist Gretchen Laskas, who probably will never engage your dowager on Twitter, are actually conditions of shrinkage, with force enough to liken it to the tornado's funnel. Noa Pothoven wanted to vanish. Both the state and her family allowed her to do so. As a sexual assault victim many times over, I feel more than Douthat's scolding sensibility of concern he expresses in "Dystopia," and in fact, when this piece resonated with me on the phone, I did not know this column was his, but he is right that this is Europe transmitting the wrong moral equivalence on an international scale. Our species is ill equipped to accept human suffering and it's outcry, and so increasingly dispenses with it.

It is entirely possible that continued force feeding and psychotherapy wouldn't have improved Noa's quality of life. Maybe she wouldn't have learned to cease living with her rapists, but Belgian clinical expertise seemed to have folded rather quickly on this point. Anorexia and post-traumatic stress are treatable. She might have flourished as a writer, or something else, just like the Parkland shooting survivor suicides, or the Sandy Hook parent who took his own life. These deaths are microcosms, as opposed to lemmings stampeding an escarpment, but human life was once much harsher, even in the Jamesian era. In Wings, James never spells out what reporting drives Merton Densher's passion, but Linus Roache has a telling little monologue in the opening of the movie about young adolescents driven into prostitution and then having their venereal diseases hidden by cruel cosmetic deceit. Henry James arguably leaves it open ended for Merton to attack his audience in such a fashion. Was he too principled to realize what he might have done with Milly's fortune to end the practice?

Drought in Cape Town

"Accidents happen quickly. Investigations take a great deal of time."--Jim Southworth, besieged custodian of our national triage crew.

That I feel put upon in my now estranged interaction with fantasy novelist Shayna Grissom is on my plate: she requested a critical volunteer on Twitter, and as a long time follower, I offered, despite my physiological stresses. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the effort involved a shot toward tolerance across the bow, going beyond my own Copernican heliocentrism into normalized primate social interaction, and it backfired. Shayna isn't thinking of my disability, doesn't realize this senior living apartment which I've hated for 25 years is tantamount to a county jail cell because I have no control of my own environment due to blithe fat and jolly nigger cleaning crews and a pair of white trash drug addicts who tended to my dying stepmother, that my cervical and anal regions are depleted of estrogen, are otherwise burning and sore because my godfather's staff fitted me badly to modern power chair technology under the curious vendor brand name of Quantum, and that I've never been to a writer's conference in the Pacific Northwest because I don't drive a Buick with her downturned pursed lips and limp blond hair, she simply wanted that reassurance writers need so I offered, and even though I offered, her urgency was an infringement on a critical care invalid. "I need this done now, immediately. It's been a tough week."
So I did it now immediately after an arm wrestling match with the President of City Council Darrell L Clarke, a man taken aback by an angry Italian spastic who cared absolutely nothing for the fact that the Councilman was the biggest dick at the microphone. It takes a great deal of braggadocio to be a reactionary when African adhesion to urban liberalism is a roiling tsunami drowning you in its cubic undertow, and yes, let it roll off and down your back (meaning mine), casually as Dennis Hopper's gunshot death sprawling his body on our wondrous ribbons of asphalt that forged a nation. Only, I did not believe at the time that Shayna was lesbianistic. Thought she had given a shout out to a husband right before her conference sojourn, but yes, I will concede the now nicely bracketed block of activists (wtf does non-binary mean?) would find it difficult to accept my quadriplegic stark unhappiness near the end of its life as it is. I have, after all, lent silent and tacit support to Andy Ngo later this month. No nuanced quibble here. Antifa is a terrorist organization. It is just a sense of dismay that online contact rarely takes root and offers supportive friendships, especially in generational distances.

When They See Me

Why do I suddenly want nothing to do with you? Because you declare yourself openly anti-gay. -- Shayna Grissom

The difference between first time fantasy novelist Shayna Grissom and left wing journalist PM Beers is generational. Shayna will block my account on Twitter. Beers and I will argue with each other, then play according to the binary choices offered by the tools and unfollow each other. I owe my readers an apology for PM Beers, although she too, like Jason Dorwart, had been linked to my account long term. I knew Beers was the California version of the hard left, but I stayed with her, including through her Twitter suspension, because I believed her able to call the left on bad behavior. Last evening, she posted a link celebrating the aghast recoil viewers are supposed to feel over When They See Us, the Netflix series about the false accusations leveled at the Central Park Five (yes, I remember, the police and the DA were desperate to diffuse hysteria and things went awry, as they usually do over race and sexual crimes). I raised my voice, deliberately, on this woman's thread, because I can't even remove myself from a rental agent guilty of serious criminal negligence, when I am a woman actually and repeatedly victimized by black aggression and criminal behavior, as if the police state in this country isn't firmly entrenched.

Noa Pothoven's saga makes all arm chair theorists like myself uncomfortable, because when I advocate for euthanasia as the better part of valor, her circumstances in no way reflected what I saw as an equitable solution, and if the Belgian state medical apparatus was involved in her death, it is an involvement that goes one step too far. She was raped by two men as a child and developed anorexia, but she was only 17. My sexual abuse began institutionally at the age of nine in a Catholic home for children where black ignorance simply didn't know any better. The age of 57 sees me back in exactly the same place, in which black prejudices reflect the best I can navigate in my life. Black people are not saints. They prey upon each other with ignoble exploitation, just as whites do, especially when entitlement is involved. I do not regret PM Beers. She is an entitled gadfly I tolerated until yesterday and decided not to anymore. Unlike Austin Petersen, I do not call her "friend," which in Petersen's case, a reasonably known libertarian personality, is mainly an honorific. 
With Shayna Grissom, I was simply trying to be supportive of a first time novelist. But here's the thing about Shayna and I, our interaction for a year: she never read my work, nor my blog, and slammed me only because I lent support to The Federalist, on the issue of homosexuality, in public. After she blocked me on Twitter, she had no affliction of conscience following my account on Goodreads. As I told her in message, I was a professional reviewer. Books sales evidently trump whatever offense I impinged upon.

Draco's Fire Lunge

'passed on from hand to hand"-- Elton John, negating projectile weapons

In the differential between being helpless and being rendered helpless, it is interesting to note that the keystone for Magee Rehabilitation Hospital was laid in 1982, while I was zipping around the borough of Ridley Park and the city of Chester, oblivious, on that mainly picturesque campus, of the sterile fate which lie ahead as part of the Jefferson Health network. Magee’s masonry is still relatively young, just shy of forty years, the front line, in Philadelphia, for spinal injuries, I only ever penetrated here to be fitted, as my closed circuit institutionalization began in 1972, not that this insolent and glowering little vixen could know this, with her spitfire blond strands, uneven stare. She could not hope to travel through my varied gateway of sexual molestation at the hands of African minorities, vaginally penetrated, as if I were nothing more than a terrorized marsupial dispensed for use on the forearm of privileged schoolboys. She deserves to be slapped across the face, this single syllable expression of umbrage and bloodthirsty xxxxx’es, and perhaps she realizes, the little cunt, that a spastic such as I calls out the cannon, already in prison, with nothing to lose in the deploy of the big guns.

She isn’t much of an adversary in her bristle.

Ellen De Generes, conversely, probably would comprehend these rivulets of scar tissue in the guise of my violent stepfather, abusing one and all in my whore of a mother’s household. I suppose I fled, like a boomerang, while Ellen dispenses with femininity altogether. This cross dressing transvestite enthusiasm actually has a long undercurrent in vaudeville going back to the Victorian era. The disability law firm from Maryland, following me in a brief subterranean exchange, may be hungry enough to take legal action against the vendor Mainline Medical, presided over by my uncle, Louis Cristinziani, but what good is that in a burning vertigo on the verge of collapse?

Chachi Piercings

and Farrah Faucett's death becomes a footnote in history, a commentator on Jackson's overdose the same day

So when Mary Poppins here deigns to lecture me I will bite. She is the one shouting. No one had to respond to my cross post. I was just politicizing dependency. https://t.co/j00AtgwZWR

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) May 27, 2019

So much of a fusillade, these so many things to do while shading in the margins of circling the drain, and where does directional conscious lead? To a mild sense of astonished commiseration for Scott Baio in social media mothballs. He gets attacked for tweeting about his daughter playing golf. We should all have Mr. Baio’s problems while we lament incontinence destroying what is left of quality of life, and Melaine shouts about cooption of a Delete Facebook pushback (promptly deleted after her bout of agitation over her indignation of digital etiquette, for Christ's sake, with this country's problems). I too am now universally excoriated by the disabled community. We all die alone, the title of a German guilt novel so thick with pathos it submerges like a diving bell, or like Farrah dying on a luxurious duvet, maintaining her wounded Texan girl looks until the very end, but that very end was the most horrible transfiguration of what and who she was, inured, after years of medical drama, inured, but not quite inured enough not to find O'Neal's material trappings grotesque, purely and simply, a fetish of baubles. He'll never answer my questions about The Driver, this piece on merging Walter Hill to Carter's bubba presidency. I've worked so hard to penetrate, merge a thesis on my own terms, my life vacuumed under, much like the impression of a manufactured construct Alana Stewart leaves behind, a residual effect, Baio's solicitation of crisis management is merely a pragmatic reflection of reality. Video rules our lives more thoroughly than any impending existential threat to our existence, like medical rationing. I regret absorbing Farrah's struggle. It was rather tense, superficial. Perhaps Mr. Baio is just a proud, decent dad, but I am past accolades. If a critic wishes to appear sympathetic, Baio had a amicable mien, in the window of youthful vigor, suitable for the nostalgia toward milk and cookies. While Happy Days splayed its wholesome innocence, I was in the surgical ward, bones broken, my insane mother driving me into a squall, arguably dooming us both, those fleeting moments sparse. Have I no joy, nothing in this momentous arc? Only those moments before the end of my affairs.
I hurt Sunday evening, my face mottled in loneliness, poised to do anything to end this *home care*.

Vocal Cords of Alyssa Milano

"This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars--" Sir Walter Scott, one of the first to utilize the innovation of life insurance.

I spent the evening desperately looking to make a digital pitch, failed in the effort, but resolved to hit Harper’s later this week with a traditional mailing despite living conditions to the tune of a dilapidated bunker. I misplaced my hardcopy file in this melee of public housing and destitution, but misplaced it on my own, despite my father’s ineffectual convergence with minority fatalism and Mainline Medical’s deplorable product fitting, I had the file, pulling out my accomplishments, still making an effort to get Negro medical management to see me as human, barking them down to fleeing from me in terror, but didn’t place said file back into place. It is a strange power to have, this spark of hatred in my eyes so ready and willing to die in the name of an insurgency I cannot even define, as every sort of organizing principle has governance behind it, whatever equitable distribution we believe in or not. Tanz Industries and Darius might have saved civilization on a thumbnail, (not the only one disgruntled with the CBS cancelation) but the Variety piece tells us nothing except ratings. No sourcing, just a straight news item, no names, no tug of war between the show’s producers and the executives at the Central Broadcasting System who made the cut. Salvation was a damn good series for what it was, utilizing real propulsion theory and applied engineering, so that even libertarians can hate corporate sometimes, and certainly do. We all hate rental agents within varying degrees, and make no mistake that section 202 owners are engaged in the business of gerontology, but it is not a market based contracture. It is a taxpayer subsidy for a broad range of spectrum disorders in the elderly 62 and above, and I rolled into it as a 31 year old career professional. Now look at me, luckily so caged, so free to leave. I can roll out on this fraternal Presbyterian dictatorship anytime I please, after years of subjugated terror. Threatening the governor of Pennsylvania means next to nothing to me in this context. I mean that literally, despite the fact that Wolf and Ridge and the ailing Rendell are status quo establishment politicians we all used to favor. Put Wolf, the executive, and Toomey, the stalwart Irishman, in the same room, and what do you have? Both are pro-business, one doesn’t like the Social Security dispensary on the backs of American workers, the other is never going to say that Medicaid is merely a transposition for the descendants of slaves. Both would condescend to me, “now now spastic, homicide is not a legitimate political outcome.” But that’s only a veneer, and all a care giver has to do is have a bad day, leave me lying on the single foam mattress, move the power chair away. It would be interesting to discover if I still had the collegiate strength to get up off the floor, to conquer bad wheelchair technology.

The Anvil and The Nail

Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, was an evil genius. She said she hoped to “exterminate blacks like weeds” & so began “educating” us about “choice”. She is the author of voluntary genocide.
18 million black deaths later & liberals still defend her dream.
Sad!

— Candace Owens (@RealCandaceO) May 15, 2019

In the constant sifting through the sand dunes of mediocrity in search of aesthetic kernels, the sort of kernel which can fuel the engine for any contemplative essay, not just the pet peeves of an obstinate blogger, enthusiasm for an Australian actor like John Noble can dull rather quickly. His first ripple on the isometric weather system which hovers over this coastal metropolis was on The Fringe, a series which was an early attempt by JJ Abrams Productions at expiation for not living up to the expectations generated by Lost, and no spinoff or imitator ever quite had the same impact on popular culture as that plane crash, but The Fringe had high hopes of doing so with the offering of an invidious transhumanism which only managed to lampoon itself, which is a great deal for the dowager’s lack of interest to assert, as Noble didn’t leave her captivated as the unstable scientist. One could speculate that Noble is the tin man version of Cate Blanchett, generational descendants of penal colony exports who pay homage to the motherland but “get” America, to paraphrase Blanchett herself, her contextual framework worth some thought against her headier films. In Heaven, an extended metaphor superimposed on an already elaborate medieval structure, Blanchett and Ribisi are penitents, but is it merely coincidental that their shaven scalps evoke Holocaust survivors? Noble is meant to project that degree of enigmatic menace onto his viewers, but only does so with a rather shallow apologia, the dark side of Darius Tanz’es nimble libertarian liquidity in Salvation, and because CBS is a two bit shallow nickel and dime hustler, they hustle Noble over to The Good Wife while Salvation is still taping to get him to do another shadowy figure killed by an indignant defendant probably bedazzled by tortuous action against his harmless barking dog into the stark travesty killing which is Noble’s fate. We might as well embrace Bach.

This is something Brian Sims manages to conveniently obliterate from the latest ignition over Roe v Wade. He behaves, in that self-created video, like a patriarchal male who dares to treat women of faith like the Second Sex. This doesn’t mean that men don’t have the right to speak, but Sims engages in visceral relegation of the feminine mystique, a homosexual male helping women destroy the newborn of the species. It was a fatal miscalculation for a Democrat who has a lock on the 182 district he represents. Pennsylvania Republicans don’t have candidates to run against him or Farnese, my state senator on whom I finally, if briefly, set eyes. His lock down is also a form of cowardice. He isn’t an abortion doctor, Sims, merely a new age autocrat paving the way for humanity’s new edge transformation. We already know the adage, in our collective conscience, about being careful with wishes.

The Anvil

I thought I had already posted the picture of Sims posing with me. It is quite possible I did post it and using Google's internal search engine simply did not locate it under the legislator's name. Here it is:

If you look closely I am obviously emotionally ransacked, and you can hear a more able Mary Worrrilow talk over my head saying "that's better," after I tried doing Wellbutrin in 2003. This photo with a caviler and well groomed attorney who we do not need to envision in an anal posture occurs much later, perhaps 18 months before this last, perhaps final, implosion of my independence. Mary Worrilow is my mother's youngest surviving sister. She and I aren't on speaking terms, and I don't like her, never have, nor her husband, nor her daughter who says she loves me so much. But for the moment, I'll just add this. If a quadriplegic with a battering ram life can put a homosexual politician who can certainly pass for straight on his knees for the sake of being placated, then the world isn't going to end. When Isabella commissioned the Spanish Inquisition, Brian and I both would have been tortured, even ignited and scorched above faggots to purge Christendom of blasphemy.

Allez vous faire toutre?

Hats off to the fine citizens of France, who've presumably gone bug eyed with the not so salacious intrigue of Sebastien, homosexual extraordinaire of Mouelle with Arabic curly hair, making a pass at an American cripple of Italian descent. If Sebastien was not a fake account, I owe no one on the Parisian rave scene an apology. I am not quite as destitute as one of Zola's tenement villagers, but with a little work the asshole in question might have inferred I'm not a penis transplant in need. I am in search of independence restructuring and the restoration of employment, and I get a hundred and one page views over the utterance of "stalker". Uh huh. Whatever was the glory of Notre Dame? Disciplined artisans who believed. I envy it greatly.

The Slenderest Thread is Silver

"Help me," --Anne Bancroft in her genteel tragic fate before her invidious seduction of Dustin Hoffman

He gave me his cold. Sounds petulant, does it? Cerebral Palsy is a condition, as opposed to a disease, a very common indicator of biological trauma within the radicalization of obstetric mortality ratios. We are not true quadriplegics, like Jason Dorwart ventilating about Breaking Bad star Bryan Cranston, which in itself is a refutation of Jason’s resentment, the residual effects of critical acclaim. Breaking Bad was eulogized for giving the city of Albuquerque a rather juicy visual exposition, and it means, quite simply, that its starring actor had every right to play pretend with spinal paralysis. Jason has the community integration acolyte’s adherence down to the T-bone, without being able to actualize the distinction that managing care doesn’t make that care a business, and he’s also wrong about the industry’s predatory opportunism. Hollywood doesn’t need wheelchair users, as opposed to character actors with exotic conditions, like Alopecia. Wheelchair users would also tell me I should have told the care giver not to come in, or to leave, or use a mask, prior to battle with volcanic mud slinky. For 48 hours, I feared the very real possibility of walking pneumonia, sweating with chills, flushed cheeks, my bronchitis in ascendancy. Jamboree man needs his home owner's insurance paid so badly killing the fattened goose is not, ironically, an issue. There are growing tensions between us, and I kept it to myself that I threatened Jevs Health & Human Services division within an inch of their lives, although I haven't yet weaseled a lawyer into seeing the liability of lucre.

Jevs HHS isn't Jevs HC. 

Do you begin to see what a game this is, why I am attracted to quiet pockets like The Slender Thread? For Pollack's directorial debut, Thread is a taut, well executed game of cat and mouse in which LBJ might not have even existed. Inga's distress is handled according to the values which were instilled in Eisenhower's generation, despite the fact that it's a new age liberalism trying to reign in this woman's deceit. Pollack ends this film in such a way that he wants us to feel the impact of failure: Poitier, the rigid son of itinerant tomato farmers, fails to get the virtue of Inga's white privilege to see itself as paramount. The tack on rescue is merely a fairy tale ending to get past the willful censor of populism. You're free to disagree with an imperiled woman, but the script wasn't a sleeper success. Savalas and his medical humanism hits too close to home.

Septic Enzymes

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs-- Alexander Pope

What I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators, this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger. Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii. What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines, and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my death will begin with a staph infection.

John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.

Runs Batted In

Since I am here, finally sweltering before Mayday, a word: Neil Patrick Harris' portrayal of Jeffrey Dahmer in CI's "Want" was not one of the franchise's stronger episodes. Harris' public indifference to being outed, which he responded to with a shrug in so many monosyllables, perhaps interfered with the suspension of disbelief, a common conceit about performance which I don't think quite captures why we watch, either to admire or disdain. John Tagman was just a little too pat, his torture just this shy of too nascent, to explain why Dahmer's cannibalism suffices as an answer to gay panic, if that is what it was, his psyche being one of our species most distorted, almost immune to the subversive dark humor of Hannibal, but what stays with me about that episode is Erbe's rebuff to D'Onofrio, serving as the last line of the teleplay: What a man to go bat for, since Goren saw reason's for leniency in Tagman's need to thwart abandonment.
When earlier this evening I pushed back against Rudy Giuliani's traditional appellation of "madman"

The madman who attacked the Chabad in Poway, CA described @realDonaldTrump as traitorous and a Zionist because he has been the best President for Israel ever. The left media blaming the attack on him have reached the point of pathological hatred. They are disgraceful.

— Rudy Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) April 30, 2019

it was not to defend Earnest, merely to remind everyone that we need to stop engaging in lazy recoils. Earnest may have exhibited sociopathic tendencies for a significant length of time before New Zealand served as his trigger, just as Michael may have been engaging in behavior indicative of a cry for help before his alleged exploits. Labeling it, as Caitlin Flanagan does, as something beyond conception, is a mistake. Omnivorous primates all have an emotional range and degree, well adjusted or not so able to cope, even if we concede the former mayor, who's been blunt before, is attempting to shield Trump from blame. The president is responsible, certainly, for his bully tenor, but placing liability on his doorstep for heinous spree kills goes a bridge too far. Nothing in his candidacy or his excise of duty as commander in chief suggests he thinks slaughter in places of worship is beneficial.

The Eight Ball Visor

Wer wird ein Kind so zeigen, wie es ist? Wer wird es in seiner Konstellation platzieren, mit einem gewissen Abstand in der Hand?-- Google's synthesis of Rilke, from English and back again

In all fairness to Mr. Dorsey, who looks appalling to anyone's sartorial sense of public presentation, be it New Yorker correspondents or TED enthusiasts, almost as if he's channeling Tommy Lee Jones as Gary Gilmore fresh out of Woodstock:
  
No one arbitrarily anointed him, Ev Williams and his now streamlined Medium, or the others faithful to coding, including Donald Hicks (who certainly looks the part of a queer Iranian's dance partner), to be defenders of the First Amendment, which no longer exists, other than as concept devoid of access. If I was as much of a fiend as I purport to be, I would have weaponized myself against Yashar Ali, gaining significant insight, of a sudden, as to why his family are dissidents from the Islamic Republic in Tehran. Instead I took a break, revisiting the stark comfort of Styron's voice in Sophie's Choice. But for accidents of geography, I might have conceivably matched Styron in aesthetic temperament, despite my sympathies for the feudal caste system Robert E Lee struggled valiantly to save. Styron is to the left of that, undoubtedly, having the grace to host another canonical voice which yet eludes me, James Baldwin, but heaven forbid teaching any of this to the indignant nigger with his high functioning mood disorder who has tended to your besieged buttocks for the past year. If it makes progressives any easier with the ever burgeoning unease of my extreme prejudice, it mortifies me more that I almost fucked a black man who might have been my client at Matrix. This is the graver ethical lapse, one I'm almost ready to cut the cord with, even with the knowledge that I am trapped, Waiver services the maelstrom sucking me under.
Styron did not appear to be happy with liberalism towards the end of his life, radiating that comforting bleakness softly from him on his last appearance on Charlie Rose, betraying that he did not want to die horribly crippled, a slip in manner both he and Rose quickly corrected. What would he have made of the fact that I hold Llhan Omar to be an enemy of state? Reconstituting Nazism for his own lack of species optimism is one thing, a naturalized Somali bigot in the halls of Congress? This may have eluded the grasp of his privilege.
LLhan may say what she likes about Israel. I have certainly explored secular liberalism with my own diffidence, but she has not earned the right to be a federal official in any capacity, has barely earned the privilege of being a citizen. Whether or not she manages to get assassinated, I certainly have the temerity to see how enervating her political success is to the health of our body politic, stripped as I am of Trump's moral cowardice. If my pet monkey from Jewish Employment  Vocational Services Home Care Wing wasn't browbeating me to death for forty hours a week, I'd fly to Minneapolis and launch a ruthless investigation into Omar's electoral success, willing to place myself in mortal jeopardy to do so. I cannot change anything about my Medicaid service in this Commonwealth, even with my delightful Twitter stalker on my heels, a speculative stalker, offering to place himself at my service. It was never what I required, and any additional support will come far too late in my disaffection.

Water Pollution

How many of you remember this as one of the most notorious news segments of its time? There are two seminal events of the later 20th century which prefigure the blasted husk of human empathy and its erosions of trust in its own institutions in the 21st. Although I find it exceedingly difficult to practice the craft of journalism at this moment in time, I still consider myself one, even though admirable quacko Iranians who still have the energy to live in it have stolen the thunder of throbbing cerebral intellects gone south in anarchist glee. I am following Yashar, temporarily, to utilize his ledes when I can. The jury is still out on whether or not I despise him. Perhaps, but he is also honest, ruthless, brash, and unlike the embattled Kim Foxx, of whom my initial post was to be much longer, this not so much to excoriate the lack of impartiality in the bayous of black liberation and its cohesiveness (also hidden fissures, as Foxx seems to disdain Smollett's insecure swagger behind his body guard as much as a significant portion of conservatives do), but to illustrate how faulty Robby Soave's hastily written pieces are. Soave leads us to believe that Foxx was to recuse herself from Jussie's case due to conflict of interest. Gaynor, of Fox News, walks the recusal back, allowing the state's attorney to explain she had *contact* with Smollett's family. Where are the violins for the bedevilment of deadlines? David French considers Yashar Ali's integrity remarkable. Perhaps, but Yashar isn't truly impartial. We tried that with Jonestown, prior to the massacre. People couldn't see what Jim Jones was, but he presages more than Paddock, the Vegas shooter, just as the OJ Simpson trial is more than "the monkey is still a monkey" and got away with it, in the paraphrase of a cold attorney named Lydia Nayo. These two signature events anticipate the sense of crisis in our current populist era, a crisis that transcends Trump's narcissism, which, as a spastic woman with brain lesions of her own, I believe I intuit better than most. That a polemicist like Tom Nichols still uses the participle phrase "drink the Kool Aid" in reference to his lackluster senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders, illustrates how much of an impact the events of Jonestown had on the American psyche, our inability to process that humanity creates its own self-destructive carnage.


So nefarious, at least until we start thinking about physics, gravitational pulls, the remarkable coincidence of Earth, and how Salvation subverts the expectations of the asteroid catastrophe genre. If I could just return to a pitch a week. A pitch a week, that would be remarkable, in my shriveling beneath the weight of modern African tribalism.