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.