The Day Would Be A Lot of Highway

The feud kicked off after Carrey posted an original that he made, depicting the execution of Mussolini alongside his mistress, Clara Petacci.

Caption rightfully goes to Northam's repository of equally stark satirical interludes.

Before I go on with more integral matters, let me buttress a wound licking moment and yowl that I lost a potential novelist online friend, Shayna Grissom, because I engaged in my usual delight of contention braggadocio in the discovery that Alessandra Mussolini was a living facet of history, and I almost couldn’t not defend her against a farcical jackass like Jim Carrey. To me this is fascinating, that while I’m here on Blogger pondering the many roots and branches of Italy’s indispensable cultural legacies, Mussolini’s granddaughter is actually live on social media! I very nearly groveled and decided this would amount to little more than an irritant, and so went after Carrey, whom none of us like, for his hard joke about Benito’s death. It was lacking in tact, his cartoon, contributing nothing to anti-statist tensions. I only really use Facebook as an outlet, or for a question, but Shayna cut me off, and yes, I felt it, one again reaching for tentative rapport. She did a shout out for a volunteer to review her agent letters, I offered to help, was happy for her novel, and here we are, after following each other perhaps less than a year. Fragile suburban housewives, I am on my last legs, and get shafted by her neediness and insecurity, and none of this had anything to do with her, her husband, or the death of her sister-in-law. That tweet, if hers, may have been when I first paid her individuality any notice. I’d really like not to be dying by myself and get a hug by someone other than a jamboree jigger getting paid to serenade me into the Twilight Zone. I invested in Shayna’s validation, and now, I’ve paid, but if Alessandra allows me to stay on her feed, maybe I can get a nice essay out of it; I am not sure how much I can assume about my strength, taxed as it is. There is no giving up, mind you. A home for cripples would simply torture me. I either can take it on my own, figure out a foolproof exit valve, or take an institutional technician’s abuse. Those, as it stands, are my options, as my bridge to via support caved in a while back. The current caregiver, ever helpful, suggested I ask Shayna for a token fee, the same Shayna who raised her voice against censoring YA novelists. Uh huh. Any reason why I should try to keep placating this tyranny of female centric herd dynamic?

The Antecedents of Nolle Prosequi in Semi-Darkness

"nothing to see here"-- Randy Barnett, former sardonic prosecutor

One of the dowager’s waylaid theses, due to the continuing calamity of age and equipment breakage, was an examination of Jodie Foster, primarily due to her chameleon on screen swivels; her mature performances represent a chink in the armor of homosexual lifestyles as a statement of defiance. A critic need not necessarily have all of Miss Foster’s biographical details present and accounted for to actualize her thematic interest in women who provoke strong reactions, female characters violently thrust out of the mainstream, or willing to utilize violence to restore her place as a productive member of society. On occasion, these characters are guided or misguided through the process of discovery and revelation. In The Accused (1988), the mission statement film of its time, the resistance to Foster as Tobias, and the subsequent conversion to her cause, pivots on Kelly McGillis as the initially pragmatic DA Kathryn Murphy, whose methodology can be compared to the controversial State Attorney for Cook County, Kim Foxx. We might also interject here a contra-indicator to Nick Gillespie’s assertion that libertarians “suspends judgment” because in this particular Reason headline Robby Soave is being a scold in relation to the conduct of the SA. It brings to mind the rapid fall from grace of a real Attorney General, Kathleen Kane, whose white privilege was so conspicuous in the gradations of American liberalism that she is now a pariah in a Montgomery County prison, a betrayer of the public trust.

Foster revisits some of the motifs from her other films in The Brave One (2006), a mid-life dramatic failure for the darling of Martin Scorsese, but this overwrought revenge fantasy introduced Terrence Howard as a possible figure of reconciliation in his guise as Mercer, which I’ve mentioned before, in my burrowed archives of buckling strength. He subsequently garnered attention, as a short lived prosecutor for the now satirized Law & Order expansions on the basis of geography, the producer in Crash, a meridian character at best, the bifurcated mogul in Amazon’s despairing Electric Dreams. If my viewers believe my next move is to convey that Howard gives me license to enter into the Empire saga, now leeched into Chicago’s gritty underside, they would be wrong. I have been silent on the Smollett scandal, despite recent research, because nearly all players involved come out of this with the faint odor of garbage attached to them, not that hoaxes can't expose a greater hypocrisy, but all Jussie seems to have done here is snap his own spine, and then gave Foxx leeway to sabotage whatever her aspirations amounted to, in the face of such blatant favoritism. These aren't as grave as the charge and convictions thereof leveled at Kane, but there is still a degree of paternalism involved. Progressives tend to be apologists for black women, even if they fail ethical standards long accepted for the patrician class. If there is any light at the end of the tunnel here, conservatives on Twitter deserve credit for smelling a red herring early on in January's polar temperatures.

Antenna

"You think I'm having fun?"-- Cate Blanchett

My aunt called me Tuesday afternoon from the hospital where she took my father's brother because she is angry at my father because I inadvertently revealed something my sister told me which my father wanted kept quiet. My care giver is a momma's boy, Marie wants to be paid attention to, and now I have to be the rock of Gibraltar despite the fact I believe my father's brother should cease medical treatment and be given palliative care, and I'd gladly stick Galahad on a pike and inform JEVS that I make Bill Cosby's bigot from 1969 look like Caesar, and made all of my second pitch since this catastrophe and incapacitation began, killing my building manager in a quantum of neuron estuaries, an arrow through the neck, impairing her vocal chords, her blood gurgling up through her tongue, high hate for a rather characterless chocolate woman allegedly afflicted with lupus. She looks like an afflicted from lupus, with her owl's black rimmed glasses, fearing me like the devil's spawn. Erik, the transsexual, is afflicted with symptoms similar to lupus, and I missed all the fun when he lit his face on fire in the last days of winter 2019 with a tobacco cigarette. I had nothing to do with it, but you can feel free to envision the relish of enmity.
I never set out to be an ambitious journalist writing for The National Review like David French, here exposing the fissures between libertarians and traditional conservatives that the once living Charles Krauthammer expounded on with a rhetorical shrug
 

A fragile nation suffers from deep partisan polarization, mistrust of institutions, and a media in crisis . . . And you throw that garbage hot take into the stew? Have you no decency, sir? At long last, have you no decency?

— David French (@DavidAFrench) March 25, 2019

I just turned to the profession to make a living. I know NRO doesn't accept freelance queries. I know they have internships. All I'd like to know is how do I send them a fucking resume? I did ask them, without the gerund as adjective.

Inversion in the Season of Aviva

"It's always been this way."-- R Lee Ermey

Sydney Aiello, in her moderately glamourized obituary photo, (possibly for a yearbook?) looks like a Jane Austin heroine, or at the very least one of the heroine’s relations, waiting in the wings to teach us lessons about wise marital choices, but cultivated garden flowers, such as azaleas, are fragile things, clichés that stick to the wall, in the mouth of the Canadian actor who played Ellen Muth’s father in Dead Like Me. One of my favorite scenes from Fuller’s playful spin on afterlife culture is when this father in the Waffle House reminiscences about his baby girl, unaware that his recital was to his daughter’s vessel. Tender televised parenting ready and waiting for the emotionally starved. Perhaps the emotionally sheltered aren’t so fortunate after all, as the dowager trampled on the shellac of social media’s eulogy for Sydney.

And I am a former mental health advocate who worked for Irv Rutnan at the Matrix Institute he founded and know the difference between a feral homeless man with fungus on his balls and families who coddle their children.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) March 23, 2019

It fosters a pervasive lassitude, an impediment to good moral character, to accept and discuss these suicides, and then dissect them in a therapeutic valise, flashing suicide hotline numbers. Yes, I called one of these hotlines shortly before the Jazzy model I could use to maintain myself would fail, because I knew voltage homelessness was perhaps true despair once removed. The crisis counselor disconnected. I wasn’t a crisis, and now? I am aging too rapidly to do more than literally refuse treatment due to pulmonary obstruction, but may still rebel, fire JEVS, and run as far as I can. Another flight, impulsive, to unknown destinations, mucous oozing regardless.

I deserve better than to inflict that kind of painful liberty on myself, but I also deserve to be understood when indicators point to defeat. I cannot really work while my care giver is on the clock, the little jamboree man. He tires me, his television fatiguing. I do not watch Phil McGraw or The Talk, or daytime news. I can tell him this, send him off, but the man changes my underwear. He isn’t white, I don’t really like him, resigned as I’m becoming, but if I enforce my preferred coolness, I’m not sure if I’d hasten the inevitable, and this is my reward, after all I’ve lived through, masticating cluster suicides and mourning sentimentality, go with the angels. As I write this, a second Parkland survivor has rippled the contagion outward, following on the heels of Obama’s economic advisor, a 29 year old cyclist, an Olympian in his early 30’s, and I believe a recording artist, or YouTube performer. All suicides. I spent a short time scrolling, trying to find the obituaries which have riled the ides of March, in order to illustrate my currency, but we’ll allow that to simmer. There are traumatic events which create a life long tunnel vision:

1.       Incest

2.      Perforation

3.      Rape

4.      Attempted Murder

5.      Abduction

6.      Birth Defect

7.       Mass Murder

Seven, just like Fincher’s Clinton era morality play, Se7ven, with Kevin Spacey’s role as “Doe” cleverly uncredited. Arguably, Spacey was up and coming as of yet in terms of bankability in 1995, but in light of the serial pattern of allegations against him, his sadistically inclined inquisitor no longer seems so subversive and sardonic against Pitt and Freeman. One sits and ponders whether his literal symbolic creation of “Sloth” is even humanly possible. It certainly passes any boundary in the dowager’s imagination. The care giver, home now, tired, and still sorting out his automotive woes (few blacks do things the white way) says Spacey doesn’t matter. Michael Jackson does. Reverse the parameters within your intellect. Michael Jackson did change the music industry, another jamboree man, but for the worse. Motown had to present those high falsetto voices that way, doing far more than the civil rights act to break down barriers; all Michael and his handlers did was synthesize more challenging black musical genres into an edible Hollandaise dressing. Spacey achieved more artistically. I am a little in love with him. Angry about it, but he had the ability to bring my emotional investment where he was taking me, with those wry enigmatic expressions suggesting we knew whichever side his character was on, only to finally have it revealed he was a psychotic faggot. Does it take one to know one? His spasmatic gestures catered easily to the conviction that here we had one of our own. Sydney was young enough to be worth fighting for, young enough that her mother should have involuntarily committed her, strapping her wrists much as it is done in Prince of Tides. Nolte and Streisand (now Jackson’s legacy advocate) become lovers as a consolation against unbearable secrets we all bury to be unearthed, even if we know this was also her need for validation. She has to be seen as beautiful, defending Michael because she remembers the power of Billboard. Given her recent statements, she knows the same things with which I’d serenade you through the hardships of endurance. The generations behind us, pressing our bones, have grown too soft. I always thought we were better than lemmings, progressing right off a cliff.

Credulity and Suspension

Allow me to express a momentary displeasure with serials, despite the fact that they've driven the market for narratives since the discovery of the stylus and the evolution of play acting: If you have a mature British woman engaged in bigamous relationships because the bigamy is conveniently transcontinental, why would the British authorities treat the British but illegal husband as legitimate, allowing him to arrive in Hong Kong before informing him he had been duped? I was unconvinced of Anthony Wong's repressed pain as the real Asian husband of the deceased Meg Harris in White Dragon, and can see already the "good" Britons  trying valiantly to get the enigmatic Mandarins to behave themselves without the benefit of Charles George Gordon willingness and ability to apply his better disciplined troops to the matter. Wouldn't I be better off applying myself to the implied reconciliation of  The Upside?

Prison Planet traumatized me Wednesday evening when I was looking to weasel my way into whatever support we can gauge through a thread exchange. Strangely, this always intersects, despondency pierced by triggers through which I am better off not becoming open to the ferocity of fighting back, tearing through me like a lash. There is absolutely no respect for the dignity of life in what this man did, and in the era of a just monarchy he would be put to death for offending the divine. Now try putting the agony this lion experiences in a power chair through which life has been circumscribed from birth. This is why I obscure the obvious, or seem to be posting merely what it pleases me to examine, most of the time. I've nothing left to live for, that full metal jacket burning my lung, rousing my bile and a metallic taste at the back of my throat, artery under my armpit throbbing.

And this? A metropolis with aggressive neon spectrums just a little freer than the homogeneous, and frightening temerity of Beijing.

Emendation Vitae

Scottish newspaper literally saying I gave “guidance” to the shooter. This is completely inaccurate and almost certainly libellous. Please retract immediately. @Daily_Record pic.twitter.com/o5myhwDu9A

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 17, 2019

The above, and then:

Being involved in a legitimate discussion about the impact of mass migration doesn’t make me a radicalizer of terrorists, just as a Muslim criticising Middle Eastern interventionist wars doesn’t make him a radicalizer of terrorists.

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 18, 2019

I have no issues with Watson and a quizzling figurine like Candace Owens being who they are. Successful provocateurs are breakaways from the conventional human group dynamic. Candace Owens is a fool with occasional penetrations toward something intelligible. The shooter, now forever nefarious, was able to divine this, and the unfortunate Ms Owens seemed rather panicky in recent tweets, as if desirous of scattering in our cruel March winds. Watson takes a different tack, but I will affirm what his critics believe. He is culpable, perhaps not of offering the shooter *guidance*, but certainly for setting the groundwork, creating a febrile atmosphere for a new breed of martyr. That he cannot own up to it lessens his integrity.

But I do own up to it. My efforts at becoming a shock and awe blogger were gradual. I didn't start out saying to myself "gee, I am going to crucify disability activists, homosexual culture, secular liberalism and then convert to rather ineffectual anarchy with fantastical notions of destroying public housing." It took many steps, but unlike Watson, or Candace, I can't win. Beyond a certain core sympathy block, I cannot build my way into social media methods toward earned income. Does Google suppress me? Perhaps indirectly, as the search giant won't help me repair monetization. Does Twitter? Maga persons make claims in this direction, but me, I don't know. I am spammed, sometimes besieged, by purchase follower accounts with astronomical prices, but I do not have the hacker's expertise to cull dark web paranoia to my advantage, as I suspect Watson does, in our incendiary populist times. 

New Zealand

Yes, I would face Google Blogger suspending my services to be forthright about the Australian shooter, and actually danced on eggshells

on Twitter for once, rather than on my virulent non-redeemable platform, and I am nearly sure that some 4 chan users are already saying what I would say and am not, just yet, perhaps never-- though one day I may. Though fully cognizant of Paul Joseph Watson's argument that not all Muslims are terrorists simply because a significant minority among them radicalize, and I retorted to him that I accept responsibility for my damaged conscience and that I wasn't "yellow belly," what I'll tell y'all is this. September 2017 marked the beginning of a steep and crippling curve for me, and I am just a little too on edge to handle any leftist hysteria or excoriation  I might readily encounter. I feel Sam Neill's hurt for his pastoral island. Best I can manage. What I wouldn't do is categorize this Australian as insane simply as a coping mechanism, and we'll leave it there.

Higher Extremities

The medieval picture of heaven and hell hasn't been replaced  with anything more realistic.--Madeleine L'Engle, 1988, ushering in A Grief Observed

Treasure Coast Newspapers had a small scoop in disseminating Paul Ryan’s exit speech to wire services like Reuter’s and The Associated Press, but it was diminutive and low impact in terms of any breaking news story, and was rather reflective of attrition of established Republican ideology, to the extent that Ryan’s departure was a harbinger of any sort, and it was, for the core tenets of fiscal conservative sensibility. Ryan took the political temperature, told the truth about the swerving fissures under Donald Trump’s feet, and then walked it back, under pressure from whom, unknown. One might reasonably surmise the Senate Majority Leader used a careful selection of words, and the 54^th Speaker was reigned in, unlike the new empress from New York, who is seeming impossible to restrain. But when a somewhat simple-minded polemicist like Posoblec asked his followers what Ryan achieved after his 20 odd years in the House, this is disingenuous. Legislating is a difficult process even under one party rule: the Obama Trinity actually got the ACA into law and created a healthcare crisis in an ideologically aligned city like Philadelphia within five years. Insurance carriers hemorrhaged, and this represented a beginning once unfathomable. Beltway policy and execution put an already vulnerable quadriplegic in jeopardy.

Ryan and the Freedom Caucus had the more difficult task of restricting federal outreach. Sequestration proved nearly undoable, recalling Obamacare proved nearly impossible, and yet Ryan is still the boy wonder who has remained rhetorically elegant, consistent, and mathematically accurate. Entitlements will always outpace capital, they are punitive in stricture, and entirely unsuitable for quality of life, and the Rust Belt outcry prevailed. Trumpian populism lanced Ryan’s fiscal faith in business models, and Ryan, like Scott Walker, saw the writing on the wall. Yet people who live in Philadelphia row homes aren’t financially secure, let alone those who are subsidized in public housing. This may not be the case for every individual, but compliance modules and red tape have been the tragedy of this blogger’s life, and what did she want, precisely? The freedom a secure career might have offered, the esteem of home ownership, a husband. All this is a fairy tale now, bootlegged by the minority collective, lungs wheezing as readily as the PA GOP is losing. Lamb beat Saccone by a very narrow margin, D. Raja was asleep at the wheel, felled by lack of campaign contributions, and young Turks no longer emulate Ryan's exercise regime. Would it help to reflect back in time to when you did?

Homeostasis

"We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun, but the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time.--if you ask yourself did the recording industry propel sentimental crap like this, the answer is yes.

I do not always follow the topic of the day, and in concurrence with Philadelphia sage Dick Polman, who has only corralled 3,279 social media accounts, which might be an indicator of public broadcasting malaise, and a very talented writer never quite making it to the top of the heap, which means that I learned something from him within his deconstruction of the now caramelized cultural shock of Psycho, it speaks to something beneficial to veer off topicality, resist the flash points, though at best sometimes all we can do is recycle and echo each other. Where David French would use the phrase “high voltage outrage” to designate Tucker Carlson’s segmented air time within the Fox News pantheon, the dowager would write “blockhead,” and at her most charitable, simply say the little big man anchor is a well defined Neanderthal who puts beefsteak in a three piece suit. Fuck him. Out of near death curiosity I had to stream the interview which led to Durden’s termination and feel Emory was wrong to terminate Durden solely on the basis of a blowout out with a redneck, but he’s our redneck, not some foreign invader like Llhan Omar. Viewers still have the ability not to watch what’s fed into the camera, but this medieval regression seems to be what we prefer, terrorizing wife and children rather than formulating well thought out refutation. Even thoughtful conservatives like Scott Walker cannot do what is necessary for longer term viability: shrink the damn regulatory paradigm and its wilding out growth. He may have succeeded in making us question the wisdom of public sector state employee unions, but pension funds do indeed have to be examined. I can tell you here from the bottom, that Medicaid funding is a sprawling exercise in futility, in my erroneous belief that I could have a normal life, wrong word, a presumption that I could move out of my caste, but  it's more accurate to have supposed a fulfilling one. Krauthammer could do it because his paraplegia was a tragic mishap. He was still dispassionate enough to transfer his skill set from clinical psychiatry to the science of policy. Poor Joanne wanted to excise Norman Bates' mother for Janet Leigh's poise, and wound up far more paralyzed in niggerland than John's boot camp visits entertained in our graduate years.

The Occupation of Venezuela

"Guaido has grown so much politically they haven't been able to touch him," the assertions English language media  asserts about stature

Things are moving too slowly for any hope on my part that mobility medicine can mitigate what I have had to endure since September of 17. The direct care worker, whose pseudonym he probably cannot reference as the knight from the Arthurian legends, gave me most of the day off, but for all that, making an effort to cut down on Twitter interaction, discipline is compromised through indigestion due to my bowel and inability to evacuate, as by the time he gets here I am empty and when he’s ready to clock out, it is too late, is only just getting in 3 o’clock Monday, his automotive issues taking a toll on the month. I have not moved the goal post further along toward developing new editorial relationships, though I have started a back burner story about the homosexual drug addict Jevs sent me as a back up when Galahad takes time off. Obamacare, no matter its exchanges and networks, doesn’t change the nature of an hourly wage on Medicaid budgets, and you’ll get drug addicts with criminal records who can get aging tenants evicted for being extreme homosexuals with criminal records. Eviction from a public housing building such as Riverside might leave me overjoyed if it was the result of my own actions, but if it came about as the result of an extreme queer (even Galahad recoils from this man, and Galahad is an inner city minority resident),  this is something else again, and would give me ample cause of action to sue Trudy Richardson, the building manager who no more believes in civil liberties than she would that the legends of St. Nicholas has legs, but be heartened. Apathy has triumphed over my visions of treating Trudy like one of Daryl’s head shots from the Walking Dead, which relates directly to the fact that Galahad resents the fact I’m not grateful for him. Why should I be? He isn’t indispensable, and I cannot push him to help me regain strength. His time off, though earned, is primarily arbitrary. Jevs doesn’t have standards in place to be mindful about giving these individuals required down time such as I’d receive. He is frustrated with this lack of gratitude. These flare ups take their toll, the vituperations in a sphincter which exudes a furnaced laxity so domineering that a younger undergraduate took the Shakespearean’s request to write a poem about her name literately and wrote an anagram about her identity being flushed into the sewage system. “It’s it’s—” stuttered the then voluble Jerry McGuire, with his ham fisted strength yet young, at the time, less good looking, than the now imploded Luke Perry. Magee Rehabilitation, its first keystone inscribed the same year as Jerry’s “it’s it’s,” stumble cadence at a conference table on a Chester campus, is more representative of a healthcare system in crisis as opposed to something worthy of marvel. I’m not post-op; not in recovery. The physical therapists express resistance toward my treatment, the only innovation since my last visit being wall diagrams about surviving a mass shooting, oblong ellipticals in deep red blue color contrasts, with arrows. Perhaps soiled adult briefs would be a distraction in the face of such an event, burrowing the exuberant celebration of youth, a youth which truly believed in victorious conquest. As one of my literate British followers noted, when you have nothing left to lose, you have nothing left to fear.