The Velociraptor of Yucca Flats

"I'm concerned about the risk of the risk."-- Donna Brazile, pretense of a force to be reckoned with

The only episode of The Good Wife which came to the dowager's attention when it had currency on the free CBS network was "A New Day," and even that was only a partial view 10 minutes into the story, which I can only say, now that I realize what was going on in the stratosphere Rahm Emanuel's dismal leadership, is one of the more improbable plots out of the third season, a gay Palestinian killing a one time Jewish hook up who didn't want him, with all of forty stereotypical stab wounds illustrating gay hysteria for the sole purpose of placing Chris Noth and Julianna Marguiles in diametrical opposition to each other as Alicia begins to assert her litigious independence. Rather than striving to regain a modicum of my independence, or burning my bridges with my godfather and his troubled designated vendor, Mainline Medical, such as they've never been burned before, I've retreated inward, lost in this neo-realist series developed by the King's in an effort to pave the way for Hillary's coronation never to be? I'm waiting on tinderhooks for Will's death, which reverberated the reviewer's pens and carried over to me, reading the reverberating reviews which I in turn should be doing, getting access to those contingent previews prior to air date. At this rate, conditions of digital media brands being what they are, that's a rueful notion, that I can still stand toe to toe in entertainment media, re-assemble my building blocks, still fortunate that I do not have the shriveled post-menopausal neckline Mary Collins of Virginia.

Think the answer is yes

— Mary Collins (@MCollinsVAGirl) January 22, 2019

This is what she wrote in my lack of response to a rebuttal aimed at me in relation to Mueller's grand political theater, which has oscillated outward on the flimsiest of specters. I lost my temper to these apparently habitual terse retorts of hers, not that she could have been aware that I am not always capable of responding when I am now forced to fight a staph infection, an infection which will kill me necessarily unless I find another power chair through which I can restore some function. I don't want a piece of the story in relation to the ramifications of Mueller's over reach and abuses, unless I pick up a side lede on Flynn, who mystifies me. Mary pissed me off, believing that I cannot possibly comprehend the criminality involved in a mere logo leasing deal in Moscow, but it isn't only that. We're losing that altruism we used to have before smartphones transposed our interactions into hyper-partisan scorecards. Ms. Collins apparently doesn't realize, herself, with those tart snippets, what quadriplegic means, and how I am a thousand times stronger than she for what I've survived, even with the vortex sucking me in these last 17 months, and that vortex is a permanent condition of Ray's, the tweeter who reached out to Woods in his threats to publicly advertise his desire for self-harm. Sunday evening I kicked Ray in the balls. He claims, this Sunday evening, that his suicide attempt failed, and I retorted I am sitting in diaper shit, broke, and he needs to get over himself. His Christian sympathizers stroke his anguish, but not I, in this insulating pain of his to illicit pity. If he truly wanted to be dead that would have occurred after the actor's efforts got Ray placed on 50/51. The nurturing TwitterVerse offers about his "value" is only encouraging him to continue illuminating his pain, and that devotion to Jesus he wears on his sleeve is no doubt representative of a martyrdom complex. Whatever his mental illness is, if he desires its mitigation, it is contingent upon him to relocate a healthier egotistical comportment, and swallow the therapeutic paradigm available. A nursing home, by contrast, will not do the same for me, and if I take drastic action, I have to be able to mobilize quickly.

Pulmonary Ides Within Indications of Tardive Dyskinesia

"I want to thank TMZ for not trying to find me in the hospital."-- Whoopi Goldberg, snatched from the jaws

Sitting here trying to relax, difficult as that is when I cannot restore my rhythms as a writer, deescalating at dinner prepared too early, reading Kevin Baker in Harper’s Magazine, the January 19 issue. Just as with The Atlantic, it is unlikely that a woman with cerebral palsy, one who believed ambition would allow success, can ever penetrate this monthly periodical, not that I’m ready just yet. Though I may be slightly more sympathetic to his April hue and cry about New York rental costs, his January essay "The Crisis of the Constitution" is another piss and moan about the electoral college.

Since I first gained access to the hard intellectual left of Lawrence Lessig, I too have been reading college backlash articles since Bush v. Gore, and it becomes nullifying to constantly read about majority rights being subverted, particularly as it is sympathized by my friend Robert Thomas in his posted link material, when it has only occurred in American electoral history five times, once in 1888, twenty four years after the 13th Amendment to the Constitution passed in the aftermath of Civil War. Baker tries utilizing Hamilton's alarm over electors in Article 63 of The Federalist papers, but representative government will always be a flawed vehicle. I do not care how open a politician is, even the Democratic Socialist Ocasio-Cortez, there is a disjunction between elected official and voter. For my money, which in the present tense no longer exists, the more disconnects there are between voters and office holders, the better it is.

That isn't set in stone. Clinton was a Rhodes Scholar hillbilly, via Ed Rendell.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) March 12, 2019

Do I miss long form articles such that Harper's provides? Yes. Can I still construct them with my near insurmountable physiological pressures? I do not refer simply to *adult diapers*, as between my family and the socialized medicine which makes me desirous of raking my fingernails across Paul Krugman's face in hopes of leaving a permanent hairline scar of fury, I have lost just a little too much self-determination. Making my own coffee, incidental details such as these. Even if one day, I can still compete, and the above thread with Douthat's readers is proof enough that the malfeasance in my urban life has been fundamentally unfair to my economic security, the validation comes too late for me to be the one, the spastic who could have been important, though some of Sanders' factory saints suggest I certainly carry myself that way, and so I should.

Remonstrate on, Alex Keating

"You will also die lonely and alone instead of being surrounded by children and grandchildren who love you."-- Marc Thiessen, worthy of emulation more frequently than not.

Discombobulated. It isn’t one of those words to be touted in relation to pride over one’s range of vocabulary, but it’s syllable bumbling is sometimes best suited in description when you give up on those technological extensions that raise human to cyborg debates on popular science venues. I traded in my old Kindle Paperwhite some scant days before my 57^th birthday, and thought Amazon, in consideration of the hundreds of dollars I spent on my original models, would simply ship out the upgrade. Why do we have to keep paying, again and again, particularly if we’re part of the entitlement class, which in the States, is bundled into the capital acquisitions pyramid? After sorting out that I had to indeed buy my new model, the tracking software places it as on its way from a major sorting center in Newark. Meanwhile my left hemisphere might be under vivisection. Kindles are vital tools when mobility is compromised, transforms into a research extension for those of us who wanted career to surmount family, to transform career into family, and then wind up with poverty’s sterility on display. The smoothness we see in The Good Wife is still fictive in this regard, the mere cookie cutter adaptations of Michael J. Fox in his cashmere long coat as an emblem of his popularity, likability, yes, these things are important, even if the hygiene self-pity issues are left to his memoir writing upon receipt of his diagnosis. You put it out there in brazen fashion, but not too brazen, the tremors, the noveau riche sensibility not so far removed from how success in Hollywood translates the power of recognition. Writers take a somewhat different track, but we are all gunning for the same thing, break ranks, then get subsumed by process law, process crimes. This is the complaint these days, that the process is more important than the individual. Marie Callender is only a simulation of evocative conceits we harbor about the culinary comforts of southern hospitality.

Their branded pot pies are tolerable, nothing to wax ecstatic over in the convenient eclipse of their mass manufacture. My oeuvre, creatively, or journalistic, may not be important in comparison to those who've accelerated into the classics, but it is important to me, the preservation, even if the aging Beats assembled in Pittsburgh were anti-climatic, mostly rude, drunk, later memorialized by my most obsessed over professor, as he felt bad, it was actually the journey itself which is surprisingly a highlight of my burgeoned adulthood subconsciously more and more in alignment with Alex Keating's valiant attempt to put the bit on then the over reach of 40 something boomers. Five hours on Amtrak over verdant hillsides, Hershey, Jonestown, meeting Louis McKee. As both of us were Philly poets, he and I talked about mundane things working class born and bred discuss, bills, grants, the living dead of loneliness in my head, my cousin has a penchant for these playful images designed to milk out the last drop of a smile.

The Long Pincers Umbra

"That statue is not about football," Gleason, straining to speak because of the effects of ALS, said moments before the formal unveiling on a rain-soaked Friday afternoon.-- a hero in continuing pan shots of emaciation

What I see in the above image is the less than illustrious rise of an ancestral peasant class, with its nearly denuding and uniformless dressing of the crone age female body, mass manufactured couture, making the best of it on a parochial teacher's salary, representative of the culture wars surrounding gender today, more den mother than feminine, all in slacks. They would not use the terminology of Gloria Steinem, but there is no doubt they've benefited from the feminist generation, emasculating males who simply do not have the fortune to be a Monsignor in charge of secondary education. They submit as the obedient second sex to Catholic priests, but dare I say this is primarily pro forma. The large woman in the back right is a retired principal, and doesn't live in the same building with a priest who let her go, many years ago, relieving her of her responsibilities, unlike myself, forced to delightfully reside with dying clients and one heinous transsexual who protected and covered up my toxic humiliation at the turn of the century. More on the limpid retraction of disability independent living due to the centralized triumph of Maximus later. However bad things were before under the decentralized Medicaid Waiver before, things under Maximus are like lining up humans over fifty for slaughterhouses, and this merciless safety net for indigence is traded on the NYSE. I can only snicker, starkly, not even compliant with near dying well, with brave smiles. Oh, my aunt, she only wants what's best for me. Not offering the same appearance of frailty as Justice Ginsburg and bubble wrap, she nevertheless encloses herself in a dome, with her own fears, near to 70, with allegories of rebirth in heaven. She is upset with yours truly for throwing a spear at the sacred pantheon of her mother, my grandmother, who sits at a table with a geriatric aplomb, zoological spectrum of vacancy. And exactly what, you ask, does this have to do with Robert Mueller's Russia probe rumbling along in avalanche? Aside from the need to demystify Putin, who has the same financial inability to restore the former Soviet empire as any other colonial power, Mueller's applied brute force is destroying lives, as opposed to protecting domestic election integrity. Manafort is no more or less unethical than the flash boys of Wall Street, and my eyes glaze over with the new, if recycled, Slavic paranoia. that's right, but I got sucked into a Twitter brawl with blat, and Mary. It cost me, but doesn't it always, at that? If Pelosi decides to impeach the ignoramus in chief, and starts to chip away at Senate solidarity, it doesn't change the continuing erosion of our former unifying ties as a country. Regular readers can scroll through 1600 posts, to discover my integrity in disposable linens. From this perspective, Justin Cronin manages to convince me of world's end. We're overwhelmed with pathogens, meaningless, aimlessly frail identities. His trilogy is so similar to Carey's film I thought the series was a clever spin off. Another error. Worried? Alas, don't be. I have decided to suspend medical services, soon. That will be the start of my journey as well, as if I am the first of the last. I am determined to leave Philadelphia.

Constantly Maligned, the Fang's in Travis Kauffman's Foreaem

"They passed nations through their mouths. They sat in judgement.-- Zora Neale Hurston

The word I would use is elegiac, as opposed to Poniewozik's elegant, in a description of Matthew Weiner’s The Romanoffs, whose title itself suggests something which is a knock off of an original. I would also suggest that it is fine for viewers to be mystified by how these short movies link together to make an anthology.  The strongest of them is the episode “The Royal We,” which the NYT features in its still photo of Kerry Bishe on a cruise for modern day survivors of the original Romanov family, of whom her husband happens to be one. Kerry, as Shelly, is simply an all-American girl, bohemian enough to get stoned over pizza in her off hours, trying to sort out her husband Michael. Corey Stoll has to suffuse himself as the missing link, tying the knot between Nicholas as the disconnected Victorian Czar about to be sacrificed for the new world order of egalitarianism which we’ve all learned since is a utopian fiction, and the sobering existential angst of the Slavic dark side to brutality. To break away from Shelly’s festering befuddlement, Michael leans into jury duty, and this has its own grotesque allure. You might reflect on how “The Violet Hour” leads to a pregnancy. Aaron Eckhart, despite ostensible star power, behaves like a sheep dog in it, his pleasures as furtive as Stoll’s remorse following on its heels. I never engaged in due diligence on Eckhart following his incisive energies which makes In The Company of Men such a powerful nihilist statement, but Weiner allows the actor some autobiographical footnotes which I certainly found more convincing than his character’s overflow of sexual conquest in the guise of an American dilettante. Ines Melab does better constructing her road map with Keller than as the distressed Tunisian Hajar about to hurl into social alienation but for Eckhart’s bumbling nonchalance finding a cornerstone of appearance and propriety for the sake of what appearance and propriety entail. In its way it’s a more sophisticated upgrade on the Florrick’s marriage of convenience revealing that relationships are more complex than mere residual unhappiness of a mistake.

The dowager wearies of The Good Wife as a foretelling of a Hillary presidency ghosted into a backlash upon which Trump capitalized, and may leave off where it is, with Peter in his effervescent governorship, Alicia with her self-assertion, and Will Gardner on his rampage towards Josh Charles’ exit from the series, effectively killing it. Isn’t Will a senescent liberalism in decline as well, or Diane Lockhart? What concerns me more than Mueller’s quest for integrity, and possible failure to bring down Trump’s crust of an old boys network, is what this undercurrent of appeasement toward Putin is supposed to yield. Its five day old war with Georgia reestablished the Russian Federation as "as a military power" in the words of Sarah Pruitt. Even before Putin emerged after Yeltsin, how was this ever not the case, even with but a limited tutorial available on the Crimean War with the British Empire, before revolutionary dissents within Russian amassed under Lenin? American media figures with access claim that Michael Flynn allowed himself to be orchestrated by Russia’s imitative propaganda machine, which can mimic the western press so cleverly as to not have a valid issue to raise now and again, but even if we accept, as per Obama Administration issues with temperament, that Flynn is a cracked vessel, he spent his career in military intelligence. If were going to think along nice big and easy puzzle pieces, then the argument can be made that contemporary civilization is yoked to the US Russia and China. If their interests were aligned than the rest of Europe might be a mere pacified inconvenience. Matthew Weiner’s fourth episode, “Expectation” entangles itself in a web of mendacity ending in an emergency surgery for gallstones. Telling, in Weiner’s polite request that we apply ourselves.

The Phalanx of Walk Aways in Corrugated Engines

How about moving us up from number 3 for state corruption to 10? Then I will start to smile.

— Thomas Lynn Hamaker (@LynnHamaker) January 16, 2019

The corruption embedded in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania surrounds me like the Earth's penumbra. I have lived it intuitively, know it intimately, and had I had the ability to intern under a rational conservative such as Kinberley Strassel, then perhaps I could delineate it for you within the parameters of her no nonsense approach, but I have to strike at it with an ice pick in more dilatory fashion, wondering how much of it can be traced back to King Charles settling his debts in his aristocratic restoration with a radical egalitarian like William Penn. Probably more than we'd like to think, even though The Society of Friends has dissipated from a radical stripping down of Christian worship into a body of zealots determined at all costs to eliminate caste of any kind. Whatever accusations the left wants to hurl at conservatives for race baiting, a la Willie Horton, guilt riddled Caucasians cannot face the reality of what they subject congenital disabled individuals to as embodied in the Elwyn expose. It would be political suicide for a pedestrian such as Tom Wolf to even hint that invalids suffer even more hardship at the hands of black intransigence than they otherwise would against white indifference, and as for me, who cares? I have burned my bridges into a de facto censure from the establishment, but that doesn't make my observations less accurate or otherwise anguished: you're the one who wanted to move to the city. This is my cousin Jessica's accusation, in code, that as a deluded collegiate I too suffered from this utopian fairytale. And due to it, my rage transposed itself into the destruction of civilization that we see in a crudely constructed parable like Surrogates. Cromwell's depiction of Lionel Canter isn't as remote a possibility as you'd like to think. Family cohesion is always superseded by the institution, by the myriad clinical classifications that don't matter to the unskilled menial tasks bequeathed to African care givers. It isn't slavery anymore, of course not. They receive a salary for these crippled bodies economic necessity forces them to tend, only to have their own resentments lead them into a prosecutorial scold. But then again, I am not the only one burdened by the shame this Commonwealth's face presents to the nation. The perspective this allegation of fraud exposes is unacceptable, precisely because we all collectively deny the truth.

It Ends With The Saints

"Declining life expectancy is a choice, but taxing capital gains at a lower rate than wage income was a law given to Moses on Mount Sinai."

— Ross Douthat (@DouthatNYT) January 5, 2019

Not for some of us it isn't, so who is Douthat speaking to? Vox contributors like Ezra Klein seem to presume that ideology can triumph over biological entropy when warranted, and it is presumptuous, whether in reference to Ginsburg, Antonin Scalia, or William Rehnquist, whom some of us remember perfectly well died as chief justice during Bush 43's second term. If Douthat annoys me so much with his ironic biblical allusions I can simply remove him from my feed, but we pay these people to think, and where is the thought here? Regardless of the ideological spectrum from which we ponder these things, this ghoulish death watch barometer surrounding Ginsburg diminishes feminine authority. It is hardly an enhancement or augmentation to continually quote Colbert's "bubble wrap" dig for one of the most powerful senior citizens in the country, whose health outcome blots out the sun when it comes to a comparison with people like my aunt, Marie Varenas, who has also had her share of oncological battles with tumor masses, first in the stomach, then the lung. She is now a frail 79, which doesn't seem to be a foreshortening of the average American woman's "span," although the quality of her independence has been arguably impacted after a lifetime adhesion to the habit, three packs of Marlboros a day, at one point, but Douthat isn't speaking to her self-destructive behavior either. He merely references it as a universal critique of how the working class rewards itself, without hesitating for one moment to reflect that just maybe those diagnosed with autism, downs syndrome, muscular dystrophy, or the recently deceased Lucasian's motor neurone disease, didn't have a choice.

Does this mean I am assigning blame for the suffering obstacles of cerebral palsy's flash in the pan successes snuffed out by lengthy periods of impoverished ennui? Yes, in part, but it is a complex interlocking of ableism and its clueless ignorance, and the way we respond to Ginsburg's age is symptomatic of that, with a few, like Dr. Barnett, offering the appropriate level of decorum. James Woods, akin to my aunt, trumpets her resilience. This may amount to a form of denial, certainly in Marie's case, while conservatives like myself neigh off with her head, a "get real" concern about functionality. In truth, I have erroneously associated Ginsburg's elevation as a palliative for President Clinton's withdrawn nomination of Lani Guinier for Attorney General, a woman who might have served as Ocasio-Cortez's clit licking doubles book end if she wasn't a crone herself by now, but I cannot think of any key decisions of Ginsburg's which fundamentally improved those niceties like gender equality, or the self-immolation of affirmative action. It was O'Connor, not Ginsburg, who sided with liberalism to preserve the ADA as a hollowed out veneer to frightening anarchists like myself.