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?