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.
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