The Family Tie Clarification, Sharon Osborne

 We're not saying that sexually repressed people commit murder,-- Linda Papadopoulos, disguised comedienne

 It has been suggested to me by the blabber mouth who couldn’t come in after the northeast’s first major nor’easter, that Dorwart and his wife blocked me to avoid a flirtation triangle; it is conceivable, and to all appearances Jason is an affable westerner, not a bad looking recycle version of John Hockenberry. Hockenberry ignores me too, though everyone in the disabled community knows him, in the range of our personable voices, but the fact that I have taken the block of a liberal drama instructor to heart doesn’t have a sexual component to it. I have had sex with quadriplegia according to Frank the ex, and it’s nothing worthy of a fetish with penis pumps and injections into the cartilage. I have written about it here on Blogger, much to the unhappiness of Alphabet, in the usual turbulence, and I have no desire to nab a paraplegic, and if I was to veer toward disabled men, it would be where I have journeyed before, circling the drain with a disaster like Christian Hofstetter, the blind hacker who made a fool of me at my own expense-- love the literary arts, envisioning the downward crevice of my mouth, where cold sores and fever blisters afflict winter dwellers. Christian was actually nothing in the scheme of things, but I was furious for having been played, and had the fancies we all project onto the ne’er do well. No, Jason Dorwart was about identity, the ability to disagree. I don’t know him, but the indignation rankles because he should comprehend me; instead he turned tail, and in my limited experience, the wife was a bit queer. I have had transsexuals follow me on Twitter and realize their mistake. The British crime author who fled me and I pursued with a small degree of pleasurable micro-aggression, saw tattoos of gunshots all over her body and for those of you telling me I need help, I think you ought to look at how the British left runs the jack, and that, okay. Check. Her sorry ass bulge believed me to be sympathetic. The motives of Dorwart’s wife elude me, however. I didn’t seek a consolation prize. I am struggling with relevance and poverty, decline, certainly not the only one in the ship. In the sense of getting a read on character, I don’t get it. I’m not an actor, merely an intermediate writer who almost and always almost cracked the glass ceiling, and of the very limited cache of run of the mill actresses I know who are as invisible as anyone, I don’t like them. I chased Barbara Gordon off my premises the year I discovered my academic advisor’s demise. Barbara was kind and well meaning and was there to empower invalids whose lives would never launch. This didn’t mean she and I made able co-workers. I axed it. Without regret. Whether or not my own internalized ruthlessness is deserving of Elizabeth Wettlaufer’s ability to terminate my respiratory function is almost an esoteric moral luxury. Wettlaufer wasn’t an aberration in any real sense. She was a fat and lonely nurse, a genotype relegated and overwhelmed by the success of gerontology. It isn’t simply the crime genre which gives these people undue importance. Papadopoulos represents the legitimacy flank, the insights about human behavior containing it.

I had a horrible day, one in which it would have been great to get things done without blabber mouth man, particularly without Ozzy's grand dame catting it on my screen. Simple Simon needs these bitches, but my stress incontinence took a knee. I could be more vicious, but I don't think Sharon knows herself particularly well. She's superficial, unwilling to probe the after affects of the British invasion. She may look fantastic for her age, but she's brittle, hypocritical. I'm too strong to die, too weak to rebuild any stability, and I can't forbid my homeboy The Talk. He has an incessant need for sound. Papadopaulos knows these warning signals as well as I, but as to powerlessness, by the time I get a more suitable power chair, it will be to late,

Neural Net Diversity and Accidental Contact with Malodorous Waste on the Sole

"Please don't leave me," -- Emmett J. Scanlan , ghastly impregnator

Oftentimes, I do wish I could bring disabled performers into this account. I have been made aware, for instance, of how Aneesh Chaganty deploys Kiera Allen in Run, who is reputedly a wheelchair user herself, and in this sense, I do not necessarily feel that Jason Dorwart’s forcefulness doesn’t yield positive results, particularly in his spat with Bryan Cranston of Breaking Bad. For a reminder, Cranston starred in an American remake, The Upside, about the manufactured survival of a quadriplegic and his African baggage handler. In the French original, the baggage handler actually was an African character, who finds his lesser equivalent in Kevin Hart playing off of Cranston’s vitality. The controversy swirled around representation, and I said the same thing to Jay Gertz, years before this disability script was conceived, that Jason wrote in his Denver column after the fact: Hollywood professionals utilize our lives and leave us behind, with notable exceptions. If you are a conservative, or a Parler user with raucous diction, or even a libertarian pulpit thumper, where is my divergence with Dr. Dorwart and his ejaculation and ham sandwich humor?

Essentially, it is about the reality of limits and liability. The film industry is in essence still an industry, and there are risks to putting physically frail people onscreen. Not all of those frail individuals can transcend empowerment therapy and make it art, like Vincent Price, who fainted from emphysema in passing the stardom torch to Depp in Burton’s esoteric fable. Scissorhands was the beloved suspense actor’s final film role, and as I wrote before Dorwart blocked me, to my regret (just because I renounce IL doesn’t mean I don’t miss those who don’t), the logistics of viewing smaller productions as when Jason recommended Tribe of Fools to me in 2018 was difficult in 2018. Heading into 2021, it is virtually impossible for me to assist such peers without making use of Zoom. Who or what are they, this tribe? Jason, after passing me to his wife's account like an abused housecat, will never bother to relent. The wife blocked me after following me too. I merely challenged her with a question. Her husband disavowed me, in the familial sense of shared experience, so what made her follow me? No answer, merely the ever invigorating dynamic of death by social cut, albeit digital in nature. Some couple, so much fragile psychology, a mere visiting assistant professor,  carefully categorized after the Gibson's landmark victory, engaged in exactly the same contracultural segregation the technocracy sees as valid. Thus it follows my own expansive rationale with video, and its gluttony. Instead of once again climbing the rungs in voluble physiological distress to save my thin oeuvre of equally spartan lifelines, I discovered terrible B megalodon movies with such abstract composites of  UN bureaucratic obsessives that the shark seemed possessed of military genius, then punished myself with this incestuous horror gem.  I will give Scanlan and his supporting female actor credit for one thing. They manage to convey sibling rivalry like a blown fuse, which despite disgust, was nevertheless titillating, but what was the point? Kellee wants to assure the second sex will endure male loathing into perpetuity? Three years, two hard drive failures, one drunk computer technician stopping short of propositioning me, one Quantum Edge crushing me in spinal pressure, and my dog-tied janitor who thinks I understand what he means by Saturn is in your twelfth house. And I expected to put life and legacy back together.

How We Are Manipulated

 No one said life had to be easy.-- a trapper on Salmon River

I have been so convulsed of late with colon stress that I cannot marshal my strength of will to file a an electronic notice of appeal to Medium Support about my account restoration, and it is probably a unique way to die, forcibly shitting myself in a Quantum Edge 6, which to your untrained eye, looks much like the also deplorable plastic defunct Jazzy, but I will ask you to take a look at Wiki's still photo of Ev and Vox'es image of Justice Thomas. The ruthless Twitter billionaire who will muzzle the quadriplegic in no uncertain terms over the holiest of holy Terms of Service Jack Dorsey the penitent offered Feinstein the vacant in tremulous fashion, these reign supreme. No question of clemency. Ev's still photo connotes a holistic, somewhat messianic figure. If we examine side by side how liberal outlets like Vox portray Thomas, his upward tilted guffaw is mildly invidious and intimidating, an African amphibian out to swallow the princess who has to suffer the nub of the pea under her bedding, not that this is conscious, or even deliberate, as it was only flagged during one women's research, but it certainly can be construed as racist with inherent bias.

Eliot Page and Virtual Fiction

 He had to rent all the hotels-- John Dos Passos

Many years ago there was a PBS documentary on nomadic fishermen drowning a dugong to death for its food, and in terms of human cruelty to marine life, it was relatively sanguine. Gaunt and impoverished Filipinos need to eat, but the capture stays with me. The dugong was helpless. The men didn’t have to hold it beneath the shallow waters to drown it and lift it into the miserable dinghy to carve it up for very long. It was substantially larger than what the dugong hunters and turtle carvers do here, and yes, please pity the large sea turtle, even though environmentalists always rather lead naïve Americans to conclude the native and indigenous people are barbarians at the mercy of the Australian press. In terms of whose competing interests are more justified, these examples represent why I am not a species optimist, never will be, and conclude that evolutionary mechanisms overcompensated human success in my carnivalesque fun and games with excrement over 50 in this miserable last decade of a ferocious battle lost in the will to live. Fairly soon, given our outrageous numbers, the ineptitude of social media’s populism, China’s centrist methods will overtake all but small communities in enclaves centrism cannot quite control, and individuals such as myself will be euthanized, but avoiding extinction? Slowing a man-made climate crisis? Perhaps my physiology is over-reacting to the non-existent Eliot Page insisting it’s a transgender male. It took a small effort to realize I was familiar with the face of Ellen Page and viewed Juno casually, not enough to engage with it as an armchair critic, but these bait and gender switches are magic, aren’t they? If I desire to walk, it turns out, all I have to do is assert I can walk, and orthopedic specialists can loop straps under my armpits, and quadriplegia then doesn’t exist. This is the totalitarianism and deceit of trans identity.

Fall Any Harder

Tom Brady has a passer rating of 29.2 right now, which would be the second-worst ever for him in 294 career games. Only worse is that 31-0 loss to Bills in 2003 opener, 0 TDs, 4 INTs. And yes, Patriots somehow went 14-2 and won the Super Bowl that year.

— Greg Auman (@gregauman) November 9, 2020

I do not want to hear from Bruce Arians about not being able to defend "both sides" on the line of scrimmage, and all these gleeful statistics sportswriters like Auman can recite with dispassion. What do I know about manipulating all this data for a grid iron tale evocative of Sinclair Lewis'  Elmer Gantry? Brady's humiliation Sunday evening might inspire me to try, however, because the man is a vain, fucking fool that lets his ego get in the way of growing up. 43 is not the new 30, and I told you so. But I can gloat and chew gum at the same time. Drew Brees is a true American patriot and enjoys his privilege and loves the local character of his team, as opposed to Brady, now a menacing obelisk, stone faced. Brady tore himself away from where heart and soul belonged, with the bracing nor'easters of New England, to a sleight of hand with Barry Manilow's Copacabana, and as I grew up with Mister Tooty Fruity's tortious octave on the back of a yellow special education bus, I know these late age pair bondings are fairly combustible. Two nearly perfect interceptions, and at least two solid sacks, the worst game of his now nicked future Hall of Fame career, but go on, you all love the fellow too much for words.

A Jade Dagger

The 2008 film The Forbidden Kingdom is a lavish coming of age film, and although one doesn't forget that Jackie Chan takes up the composite drunken kung fu master where the B movies from Hong Kong left off, to my mind this is an attempted blockbuster homage to Jet Li, because his time as the warrior moralist heir to Bruce Lee was drawing to a close, and why am I thinking of this boys will be boys flick? Because its violence is ornate, fantastical, even if it allows for the tributaries of outcry for daughters who are determined to seek retribution, and I am somewhat infuriated with a handful of progressive Libertarians on Twitter, namely a husband and father of a five year old who mastered the smart phone camera to take a plethora of doggie photos. Laughable moment. I am pissed off at Curt for flashing a gif of starving Africans, the motif of the public service pleas of television broadcast for as long as any of us can remember, given that humans of the radio age are dying out. Curt says sorry you have to see this, but both Biden and Trump are to blame,

No, neither Biden nor Trump, especially Trump, are to blame for the suffering in the underdeveloped world in the sense that Curt means it, and I am not sure where the conservative right exists in the American scene anymore. I lost my temper with Curt for pandering, barely restrained myself from launching into a micro Tweet tirade for which I might have been suspended. I have wanted to write something about the condition of libertarian minorities for a long time, and we'll pick it up as soon as I can. I am dearly trying to salvage the remnants of my strength, and it's very difficult, not the least of which because of the nigger skulking about my studio with his frustrations. Terminating the working relationship with him wouldn't be easy on me right now.

Perhaps Will Self Can Air Ship His Hemoglobin

 The 2019 Blood Thins does not have the extraordinary resonance of We Need to Talk About Kevin, but both directors, with the ghost of Lionel Shriver's too media current tempo behind them, ask the same question in a different thematic intent: How in the name of everything sacred did we get from 18th century irrational hysteria on the verge of industrial modernity, did we get from the Puritans to here? Please don't think I have any answers, any more than the FBI did about Vegas, as to why mass murder  and video game extremes seem to merge before the cinematographer's filtered lens. I am as exhausted as anyone else, with special circumstances, dealing with deplatforming, both involuntary and otherwise. I will leave you with one other question, particularly as it relates to Lynne Ramsay's remarkable discipline with suggestibility, does it work?

Voracious Verite

The whole side has collapsed? -- Peter Jennings, a mortal inquiry

Two of the last films I would see at the Boyd Theater at 1908 Chestnut Street, this being the grime settled retail zoned business district emanating outward from City Hall, with the rotund and pilloried sienna brick lay CVS two blocks below, also of historical interest as a grim, bleak, industrial age factory conveyor belt gray seediness before my time, reflective of how urban planners built for lives of toil, was the 1998 Matthew Broderick Godzilla, detailed slightly in my archives in another context, no particular lucidity attached, and the 1999 Blair Witch Project, the latter leaving me singularly unimpressed in the emotional turbulence of dismay, though I will concede to the always omnipresent gap within our generations, that Sanchez and Mynick anticipate an eradication, a dimensional abstract of openness and claustrophobic undercurrent, which now assails us in pixels, but also offers a shield to species outcasts. These two lackluster fin de siècle dramas offer the near perfect set up to be wary of a “free” movie like Cloverfield being offered to viewers with cultural resentments against Abrams, in the troubled Halloween of 2020, a cheesy, material rendition of transmutation, under threat as a collective, over the top victory and bemusement. Within the past sixty years, which is basically the span of one human life, an average span, even as the median agony of a crone’s visage increasingly makes a centennial and emaciated body more common, sans Joe Biden, sans Pelosi, (does she reign as the most powerful woman for yet another 24 months?), Halloween, at least in both Americas, is about having fun with inhibitions released to the mischievous.

The question isn’t whether Cloverfield is a great homage to Ishiro Honda and his forever inflicted terror lizard. I mean, even if we take one step back in our biologically engineered ability to endure long walks, most of us alive today rarely see the 1954 original with which Honda shocked the collective consciousness. I did make it a point to refresh myself on that matter and will only yield on certain points of innovation: there are elements of greatness in the original film which veer south due to the very nature of post war authoritarian stricture, and by the time we get to Jet Jaguar of Megalon, even coming of age audiences for which it was made might blasphemy into heterodoxy. The industry essentially demolished Godzilla with overkill, and Abrams, as well, is guilty of over reach and series which crumple over on themselves in the post Lost aftershock. The Fringe failed as a transhumanist playboard. Revolution failed in its attempt to take Lost in another direction, as most of these dystopian loss of power movies do. Power plants may be vulnerable to military destruction, but when it comes to credibility, the universal loss of the electronic age for sustained periods due to diabolical menace is highly improbable. Even the Clover creature doesn’t quite achieve this end. The film does open and swivel into horror very well. Abrams likes brackets, and much like Joseph Conrad, uses them as close-ended narrative frameworks, proving the paranoia seeded in the digital age was placed there as high concept before the Trump phenomenon. I was not too perturbed at the thinness of the characters, particularly as these characters are literally dealing with annihilation without the benefit of blame being assigned to nuclear detonation. The question, which I certainly can’t answer, even with two viewings of the film fresh and better sequenced the second time, is whether Abrams is using September 11^th at our expense, or if Clover is successful as a coping mechanism. The movie divides critics on this point, with the enemy who wins. The win, however, is inexplicable, and nihilistic, if not also parasitic, as what happened to yours truly, the content generator, who only has hate as the price of survival, malice against an ethnicity into which she flung herself. In the medias res, Marlena manages to fend off the alien host just long enough for the viewers to grasp the aim taken at Romero with lightning speed, who like Honda, created the animated cadaver, forever and a day. When presented with a life of combat deformity who simply breaks down and cries, a momentary immovable object on tires, in her sagging sex, ambulatory pedestrians might ward her off, or those same pedestrians might have called for paramedics, but in those moments of night, of impoverished frustration, the outburst of tears went unheeded. She drove back to the ten story building with its difficult location on the dead end of Penn’s uncomplicated grid of interconnected squares.

The Complicity of Noor Salman

 Omar Mateen was gay

How long have the lockdowns been bouncing on the heads of our supposedly free societies now? Six months? For more than three years, I have not been able to brew my Krups Automated Drip of my own volition, quite an older model, without significant duress. I cannot cook or prepare my own food spontaneously, this now being the provenance of jamboree man, as I now call him, my little niggardly music man, father driving me back to the city directing my gaze from the passenger side, “Look at that,” he says with subdued emphasis, my eyes following toward a broken gimp of a black man pushing a battered wheelchair with an equally feral white woman in it. With the grace of God, this is the suffering and persecution imposed on me now, stomach distended with acid reflux, but never mind that. How often can I post about the forced imposition of helplessness making me convulse excrement in pain due to medical model indifference? If I want a particular book out of my personal library, I cannot readily access a significant portion of my titles, or my own hard copy manuscripts, my revisions to my nearly ready to publish collections locked away, one failed hard drive after another, doubtful there is any meaningful way to right myself with any positive assertion of who Joanne Marinelli was, at her best, as I hurdle maybe, past sixty years into a leaden despair as numb as that ostracized street couple. True despair is no empathy, no feeling, no remorse, a lack of guilt, except for being still young enough to be struck by ironic moments only relevant to me: a dissection on the series Deadly Motives of Omar Mateen, the worst mass murderer in American history, second only to Stephen Paddock. For those of you who do not view True Crime Network as a learning tool, (and actually I do, getting past the macabre, the crime scene photos, I learn a good deal, about local color, and the Orwellian sometimes ineffectual nature of policing and investigation) Deadly Motives tries very hard to ration out redemption as if it was part and parcel of an Oxycontin epidemic. The daughter of The Happy Face Killer hosts the series, driving to and fro, to the families of victims, to the relatives of the killers, and Sitora Yusufiy is no exception, except there is something off in her expiations relative to this Afghan man she wed so briefly, caught between worlds. I am not sure she has enough social sophistication to truly understand homosexual masking in Western society.

In my anger at Liberty Resources, I concede that I took the Pulse slaughter out of context, but what I told this city’s center, nonetheless, was an accurate warning. Exiles of independent living culture often invest in this culture as the only family we have, and if its manifest corruption continues on as part of the status quo, eventually Hamlet will keep repeating itself, whether or not civilians in the modern hook up culture were felled by triggers we’re reluctant to look at too closely, and I have a rather blunt suggestion, one which belies my former intellectual aspirations, now besieged and harassed by Waiver compliance demands, stop attempting to assimilate such deeply entrenched Islamic nationals to secular methodologies. Institutionalism fared quite poorly in the aftermath of this shooting. The Department of Justice overplayed its need to convict Noor as an accessory, the media didn’t unravel the triggers or the character, and the gay community in Orlando was left stricken, paralyzed, despite progressive tsunami waves against populism.

Northward from Barbary Coast

Perhaps they had already been corrupted.-- a contributor to New York Magazine on the Taliban, 18 years ago, give or take.

What I haven't dwelt on very successfully, in relation to how I utilized Omar Mateen's autonomic act of terror , unlike Linda Sarsour in Aurora, interestingly enough, is my own level of complicity, and I am not sure I can resolve that, no matter how direct and on point I am. For my internalized dynamics, there is relatively little harm in that; for the country at large, this may be another matter, and with or without Donald Trump, the American left will one day have an uneasy reckoning, its ideology a series of contradictions, such that conservatives may weaken, but will always have grounds on which to reemerge.

Literature and movies, featured video of poverty stricken concrete sublets, never really assisted me in the comprehension of modern Afghan and Pakistani tribalism, and I have always been of two mindsets: civilization is better off without the Pashtun, and the Pashtun have survival skills which are useful in the event of a mass extinction, and if I want boundaries, these tribes have them in spades. They also bred into Sicilian and Roman bloodlines, as Rome evolved into the Byzantine, hence many Italians have Arabic trace elements in their provincialism, which is obviously digressing. It is easier to turn on the World Series, resign oneself to the dominance of the Dodgers, than dwell on these moral dilemmas and latent hostility toward those that challenge gender, defy the reality of biology itself, and at the same time tremble at savages who more rightly belong in Ashoka's era . There is no question that Mateen's shooting gallery was and is beyond comprehension. To make a primitive analogy, if I rolled into a room of 1500 case managers and took out 75 of them as targets, it wouldn't send any kind of message about radical obstetrics and quality of life. It is an indiscriminate behavior which actually makes it more difficult to close ranks against hedonism. Andrew Sullivan's solution to that was an appropriation, gay marriage. It won't settle the question anymore than the incautious utterances of Pope Francis, a weak leader who one day 18 months ago made me squeal in private exuberance when he liked my response, and then me weep in rare excess, a grave sin committed in my disrespect, as the atheist in me scuttles under the bed. Any Catholic reading this would scold me not to disavow my faith simply to be a smartass. He would be a better leader if he harvested such teachings gleaned from centuries, as opposed to diluting doctrine to appease the left, and if we're tone deaf, perhaps we have to be, and not out of selfishness.

Some of you may believe I am walking myself back from sometimes explosive vitriol because my father, and particularly Mainline Medical, run by my uncle, destroyed my independence at the request of the Negro Public Housing Alliance, and if I read this anonymous portion of my audience correctly, you're right, but I haven't altered in a certain sense of hardened conviction, only that Mateen was nonsensical, counterproductive, and he may have killed people who might have rejected the excesses of the sexual revolution. I have known many in the gay community, and just because my contempt with two of them led me to a temper, it doesn't mean I regale bloodbaths. But this doesn't mean national conscience is settled with the affair.

Slopes for the Doctrine of Chances

 What if after all these years you discover that behind your determined, disciplined mind, impervious to discouragement, behind the fortress admired and envied by others, you have a tender, timid, wounded, sentimental heart?  --Mario Vargas Llosa, The Feast of the Goat, p4

Slopes for the Doctrine of Chances

Normally, suspended as I am between the pit and the pendulum, I would not pay attention to flimsy content generation from entertainment media, but the algorithm knows just how often I will yield to clickbait for a Star Trek headline, and on October 14^th, I thought Rick Gonzales’ hastily reassembled deadline profile for giant freaking robot, contending that Lien fell to Garrett Wang over a sex appeal vote, was worth a read. I did not know that some odd fifteen years later, bearing in mind behavioral deterioration doesn’t have neatly bracketed timelines attached, that this ensemble cast member of a “children’s show,” one that would turn Patrick Stewart into an internationally renowned superstar, would fall victim to alcoholism, domestic violence, and indecent exposure. My link here represents CNN’s initial reporting, itself probably compiled from a local Tennessee paper, or a stringer assigned to the township precinct, from which Gonzales aggregated his concluding paragraph, representative of how little automation has done for five & dime outlets. As I have previously indicated on Blogger, I myself went from earning 3k, starting in 99, deflating through 04, to virtual slave labor, two failed aggregate ventures, and then barreling into disaster with generic generation z mindsets in Medium's dubious cacophony of a collective palette. In other words, I understand the architecture of the padding in which Gonzales was engaged. I allowed it to resonate, allowed myself to feel something about Jennifer Ann Lien’s piteous fragility and the way Gonzales framed the arbitrariness of here today, gone tomorrow, because of the way in which producers and casting directors play shuffleboard. I worked in mental health; I am mindful of Foucault’s castigation of its practices, not that Lien’s neighbor wasn’t within her rights to protect her children, but the behavior of this celebrity with her latter day life of incremental shambles wasn’t really the full blown onslaught of mental illness as it is defined in the medical welfare paradigm, like shadows on the wall. She simply engaged in loss of inhibition, perhaps bored, unable to match Gwyneth Paltrow in an anti-gluten campaign, if this was the model she hoped to copy, within an industry afterlife. She made better connections than I did to pursue her telegenic appeal, fell further. All that seems to be left is a canonical asterisk.

Follow The Yellow Brick Road

 

I would like very much to discuss, as opposed to writing a real article about, Justin Marks, Counterpart, and JK Simmons, and if my carbon monoxide scarred lungs aren’t going to collapse, I shall do that. I do not care what side of the political spectrum Marks and I are on, and I even, almost, remain unconcerned about his sexual orientation. What I do care about, after all these years, is not realizing what Simmons could do, after all these years as Olivet’s laconic other bookend, and The Closer. Even Oz could not quite prepare me for Howard Silk. When my usage of Prime was fresher three years ago, I streamed enough of Oz to be inundated, and so I smirk, having beat HBO reboxing everything. Given how poor I am, I am sorer than you want to know over licensing rights, because I was just getting to know Tony Soprano, and then the deck gets reshuffled, but, if I ever need to take you with me to the prison drama, I made myself exceedingly familiar with in. By contemporary standards, the series is blaise, and I can’t say what ground HBO actually broke with it because as a prison series Oz is a very long and spooling Dick Wolf harvester, quite unintentionally. When it was original, I was naïve, and now I am just very sick and have to cease texting the cousin by marriage who is also very sick. All my socialist building manager achieved, after twelve years of warfare and threatening me, repeatedly, was to make my care more dangerous for everyone involved in it, and I would like to inform you, and Alphabet’s administrators, that my expressed malevolence toward this woman is poor form, but I am the one sitting here with fecal pus in my crotch every night, so how is it, that she triggered the dominoes to force me into this situation, that I am living healthier? Silicon Valley companies have downgraded me into a nice cubbyhole for bad mannered circus animals. It doesn’t change the fact that blacks systematically tortured me, and my family wouldn’t unite against it, help me, and nor does anyone else. It is a really lousy way to be drawing on last curtain calls.

CBC Scorecard

"I hope you can recognize I'm just trying to be better informed." -- Stephanie G Fritz, batgirl

 I think, at times, I don't realize the toll Twitter takes on me, and the last thing I needed headed into Thursday afternoon was another bitch slap by more anal retentive and frigid libertarian females who don't like my lack of fealty to presidential candidates as pastry decorations, not that Donald Trump as circus barker and Joe Biden as a hollowed out trojan horse are unique in this respect. Ronald Reagan paved the way for the celebrity politician, whether at the gubernatorial level, like Arnold Schwarzenegger , or Jesse Ventura on Minnesota's less flamboyant pay grade, not to be outdone by Sony Bono curing himself of Cher  by ventilating scars of the heart by becoming a California congressman. It increasing feels like we've ceded Trump's 2020 opposition to the Covid and climate destroyed Pacific coast, and perhaps, if I had not continued to engage Miss Fritz while my minority janitor was on luncheon after my phlegm rode me through another virulent attack, she wouldn't have blocked me. I have little else to contribute to Jo Jorgensen's run for the Oval Office, her CATO Institute policy points. I like Hamza Haq as Dr. Bashir in Toronto, as opposed to Deep Space Nine. The Canadians are getting better at imitating American fractal points, and Haq is reasonably cute, reasonably functional beyond his traumatic experiences on the Syrian home front. One reviewer with paid byline didn't care for the pilot backstory, which I haven't yet streamed, against progressive lack of mercy for the mortally ill. I have other things to do than review and refine this failed Blogger account, but I fail to understand the demands Fritz was placing on me. I am not a card carrying LP member. 

Quantum Errors

 

For all my complaints about genre, I have only published sparingly in it. With the exception of poetry, and articles and columns which, in brevity, I earned enough in commissions to merely supplement disability insurance, not compete with nearly any of my previous salaries in relation to  it, I managed to nibble the etch-a-sketch around subsistence, after my minimal white collar dalliances. Some of those dalliances failed due to my significant disappointment at not joining the ranks of collegiate instructors, an indolence of ego. I spent all that time in college learning how to think to join a press clipping service, which involved manually clipping clients company logos out of newsprint. I wasn’t there very long, still don’t really understand the utility of the organization as a contractor, and then lasted in accounting firm proofreading a little longer. I did not live at Riverside at the time, and ironically, if I had, commute stresses would have been easier. By my early forties there was a glut of PhDs on the market. This in no way indicated that it was incumbent upon me to close the door on teaching. If I couldn’t handle special needs students who could, after all?  But I was never entirely comfortable around the myriad guises of human deformity, my skeletal ligament contortions included, and there we have it. A new generation of the disabled community is coming forward, and I do not even know what my mission entails anymore, rather like Philip K Dick’s Isidore crafting a very vivid image of kibble for the mentally slow androids on a post nuclear Earth. Dick’s work, beneath the surface, is less about science in speculative fantasy, and more about biological depreciation. It doesn’t translate particularly well on screen, though the Amazon Prime hires from Hollywood diversifying the long dead, or decades dead, studio monopolies, make an effort to validate Dick’s humanoid organisms ultimately overwhelmed by defeat. Indeed, The Man in The High Castle is grand theater as an Original, but it is not Dick’s original story. Couldn’t be and still be a series, although Amazon does better with Electric Dreams.

When we compare these to contemporary parables like Domain or the overly ambitious series Counterpart as conceived by Justin Marks, what we see is an alternate reality, transposed from individual, tortured psyches, into the macro reality of the digital age. As a throw away forget our troubles DVD knockoff, Domain was better than it had to be, manipulating its audience, deflating the gravity of the surely soon to be dystopian end of ourselves into a finger wagging cautionary tale about outsourcing the most malevolent American criminals we’ve delineated into types, within our ever evolving psychoanalytic maturity. The two women in their pods, the usual space milkshake providing nutritional supplements, were the family annihilators, and the men? Spree killers, slashers, doxed into yet another sociological experiment, conceptually worse than the brutality which inspires it, ever advancing on A Clockwork Orange , which was actually written as an absurdist morality tale, engaging readers with its vibrant anger at Western mores and not knowing what to do with the tribalism to which we’re beholden still in our evolution. I loved Counterpart, and praised Marks accordingly from the other side, despite Baldwin’s décor lesbianism, and the softball black botanist included as one of the origin managers for an unforeseen quantum error. Are we all in an alternate time space continuum, happy or less happy elsewhere? Do I try sucking tits and thereby, with Google’s approval, earn a secure living? I barely have the requisite training to comprehend the elegant computations and sign language of physics, but Greene’s affability notwithstanding, it all seems a little too convenient, a more rational juxtaposition of heaven and hell, so that we have a more palliative olive branch to restrain ourselves from vengeance, like turning on the cruelty of the oppressed. For nearly 12 years, Trudy Richardson tormented me, carte blanche, for how I dealt with my bodily needs, and the only thing she achieved by dragging my now widowed father into my tactics and methods, was virtually ensuring I will have to be disposed of like toxic waste. I consider the death of this woman to be a matter of political self defense, and I am hardly a seventeen year old who may be the penultimate libertarian of our age.

Miserere, A Traduce of Jimmi Shrode

 Like anyone else, radicals will fail.-- Alfred Kazin

A little research indicates Justin Marks adapted Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book for Disney’s reboot against its animated film version, which may be considered a classical rendition of sentiment, and provides a bit of a brace to explain “Counterpart” and the essential weight JK Simmons carries in it. What Marks role was over that of Amy Berg, who was the series writer for season one, mystifies those of us not paying into guild dues to understand how to meld original narratives into contemporary molds, but as the man with the key responsibility for the concept, Marks clearly knows how to bring fabulism to life on television, a fabulism with an inherent allegorical bent; as crisp as critics found Counterpart to be, its dramaturgic roots reside in Medieval morality plays, where the characters are direct symbols. The Iago of the curled mustache being the Vice, or Falstaff as the fool of Appetite, most of Counterpart’s characters are archetypes of this sort. Some are more complex than others, like Howard and Emily Silk, and how their choices define them, or James Cromwell as Yanek, yet another master manipulator whose misguided focus impacts the entire species. Others are easier, like Stephen Rea as Alexander Pope, the mission oriented creator of black mirror assassins, very clever compact irony there, to name a rogue agency manager after the most renown British poet of mock epics. In and of itself, the twenty episode allegory isn’t complicated. The writers sprinkle a bunch of clues, Karl Marx and the pernicious attraction of his political philosophy, the mention of a Prime world Holocaust survivor, obvious allusions to the Berlin Wall, a weaponized biological agent injected into what we might consider to be the “Eastern bloc,” which the “original” Western world denies occurred, but what Marks ultimately wanted transfixed viewers to take away from all this is more elusive. I ate the convoluted story line up like candy, right up to the implied black widow sex and death associations, particularly as it related to the marginally drawn homosexual composites, but the intensity of this melodrama isn’t for everyone, and it rarely takes its foot off the gas pedal. A rare exception, toward the denouement, is when the FBI agent Temple’s husband says raising a disabled child is akin to a detour in Holland, and Clare’s more tortured spouse rejoins with, “Italy has too many tourists.” Touche, in the same vein, the disabled community has too many fractal patterns to succeed. Setting aside my excoriation of the integration models of my generation, Jimmi’s obituary to his partner lacks the balanced restraint most trained journalists know to offer readers. When Jimmi writes Erik came to University of Pennsylvania to seek treatment for numbness in his hands, this is a tell. A better way to phrase it: Dr. von Schmetterling was unable to complete his internship due to illness. Such reticence offers the decedent just that much more respect, something poor Mr. Shrode cannot affix to his own person. Despite his claims of advocacy for the meek and enslaved of the passive with spittle in the crevices of their lips, Jimmi buckles when the going gets rough. He caves, fearful of righteous anger, transformative, much like Clare as “Shadow,” as her admirers point out, she eliminates a more effervescent Other to run a crew with as much ruthlessness as Emily Silk, on the other Housekeeping end. That Mr. Marks seems more linear minded in his progressive sensibilities disappoints me. I expected a less binary perspective, especially as the left has scored all its major victories. Eradication of divergent views isn’t going to change how adversity inflicts itself on the acknowledged dread of the expendable.  

The Second Law of Thermodynamics

"The law always wins," -- retired FBI agent  Steve Moore,  not square enough not to know better.

If we grantt sufficient levels of cognitive awareness behind the assertion, all humans have coping mechanisms for those compartments lacking in emotional fulfillment, and my relationship to the family who ran the Golden Lake Chinese take-out on the cross grid at 20^th and Market Streets was one of those, though points of reference are clandestine and otherwise relatively infinitesimal, as thin  as gruel; clandestine because it often involved the envelope of darkness in the depth of night, sometimes barreling my mobility device in a rush of motor parsing our fortuitous lower atmosphere, with its prevalence of nitrogen and the lesser one twentieth amount of oxygen most complex organisms need to keep hemoglobin enriched and flowing; Infinitesimal because I was simply a responsible customer not truly overtaken by culinary aesthetics one might find in a late eighties avant garde parable like Tampopo, a niche film, forever endeared to me, but let us condemn the impatience which never gave Juzo Itami enough credit for the absolute joy of life she embodies, whether it be through gangsters in their last moments discussing pigs guts or saving an old man choking to death at a noodle counter. Golden Lake was more hit or miss with indulgent carbs than a true gateway into the glass encased globe of cultural diversity. The restaurant was nothing more than a ground floor conversion of Philadelphia’s industrial era row homes, as you can see from the photo, and as is usual for powerchair dependence, braving the one step up with a left turn to enter into the well trafficked linoleum was a hazard, so the children met me at the partitioned glass door, or their mother, less often the men, men whom would not tolerate my queries to them in American English, always for the sake of an article, in this case something along the lines of an assimilation antithesis given the sinews and reticent, warded off nature of Chinese and Korean social groupings within American urban environments. Egg foo young, indifferent or enthusiastic, we have transposed it into generic expectation, kilograms of steamed rice which hold their shape, a nearly rubbery omelet entrapping pork, shrimp, onion rims, perhaps caramelized, the type of takeout which threatens the poor into a stoic acceptance of nutritious cardboard. We’ve all been in one place too long if these are the threadbare locomotions we’ve left to mourn.

In Violation

What do you hear?
Nothing but the rain.-- Edward James Olmos and Katee Sackhoff in stucco dialogue, Battlestar Galactica
Adding insult to injury, and significantly decreased ability to produce content, now without any commission activity,at least until I have the strength to engage a new platform, the left back quarter of my jaw has been stricken by an abscess. I have been fielding this for three weeks, stricken by allergic reactions to the antibiotics, amoxicillin, and the clindamycin I can only just handle, not being entirely certain I will survive the extractions at this point when the major clinics in Philadelphia actually reopen. I have never been able to transfer to the dental chair, and now my respiratory function is labored, my colon inflamed, my fecal incontinence all the more painful, no inglorious suicide by Lieutenant Dualia here as the series winds down into what is nearly a blockbuster climax. My theory about the entitled bullet in her brain, after nuclear Earth is rejected by the weary human insurgency, is that she cannot cope with having lost Billy, who is replaced by Tory in an episode I still have to back view. The Galactica reboot of 15 years ago is in many ways preposterous, takes survival genocide to a whole new level wherein I have never been able to take you with me, and I cannot get enough of it. Olmos has so sold me on Commander Admiral Adama that I simply dispense with his furiously repressed and vengeance stricken Latino identity, but he makes it work here as an embattled man of duty without saying a word, as does the entire ensemble, since we're all united here against an amalgam of Islamic terrorism transmuted into cybernetic wrath. How clever, and yet, throughout, the Cylons are basically children. Trumpian politics may have caught up to me at one point, but I have long since been superseded, erased, exterminated, and I regret the Ev Williams pay to play system on Medium more than I can tell you. We cannot actually use writing to say anything anymore, since Google has superseded Orwell, at least not collectively, and regardless of how diverse Medium members are, they fucking say nothing, collectively, over and over again, like much of Google's sweet candy streaming, keep it light, moving, and everything is forgettable technocratic automated bookmarks.
I deliberately said something into this ambulatory pitter patter, and the now mortally stricken battle axe of a spastic warrior has broken the rules, for daring to contend that a nigger predator is a thing under a column which so radically asserted that it's okay to be pessimistic because, in Jessica's cosmetic words, "people aren't going to make it". Jessica knows nothing, absolutely nothing, about medical barbarism which sits like a sewer tank on what used to be American material opulence, and whatever you've been through with the quarantine, you'll bury the subhuman lives of quadriplegics on the back stove of human affairs soon enough, as you always have; if you want me, come get me. You've tried before, and the Google rules are only the greatest sanction to exterminate the marginalized who are better off dead in the first place, not that Medium's staff will agree with that, but they are sure as hell on radio silence. I will not delete my raw outcry on the platform, because the sheer force of what I need to do to draw attention to corrupted subsistence illustrates it must be a necessary function of my right to live.

Victuals

I have been relatively quiet of late. Relatively quiet here on Blogger because it has always been a losing proposition, relatively quiet on Twitter because in truth, I have ceased to care, and it isn't anyone's fault that I lack mastery of the medium. Real despair, true despair, doesn't have the animus of racial hatred, which I have been known to embody, and will always embody, to some degree, it is too late to change the punishment inflicted on the organism, and I will not survive another round with Blogger either, the axe on the pain of experience. As a writer, in this moment in time, I have nowhere left to go, in the raw ganglia of gaping wounds that can only strike back like Ballard did in Crash, but Ballard's genius and ingenuity was an internalized agenda of turning agony into beauty through automotive technology. I certainly cannot master his parody of sexual and pornographic beauty of the infliction of suffering as its own kind of pristine agenda, and if Vaughan was an insurrectionist, Ballard's expose is undoubtedly convoluted, subtle, and more esoteric than I can ever hope to be. Elizabeth Taylor became as old and enfeebled as anyone without her megatron celebrity, but the image of her as a violet beauty who could obsessed has something of a temporal immortality our past ancestors handed over to demigods. What is Ballard offering up as a lesson here, in other words? The novel glorifies violent death, without regard for our digital era scolding over the sociological outcry about the rise of suicide as a form of despair. These days we simply get suspended over guidelines, and it is true, I have recently done myself no favors on Medium, the collective blogging site as generic as oatmeal. I told a lesbian black contributor she was disgusting and subsequently threw a couple of milder tantrums given that my section 202 housing community is now like a war zone in the Congo. Silencing the agony people don't like is simply more evidence of the same. I am expendable, and Medium took me out and shook me like a dog, not even giving me a chance to say victims, too, have breaking points. I cannot cope with the life I am being forced to live, and briefly dallied with the idea of antifreeze, but that is a great deal of agony on top of agony already inflicted. There are other platforms, but I'll run the same trouble there as anywhere. This lack of coping has little to do with what Corona has just done to the world. One of my followers told me privately that he thought I was a remarkable woman. Hardly, if I was that remarkable, I would have been able to get out of Philadelphia, would have been able to kick at progressives and remained standing. I know the little dyke girl who supported Bernie Sanders did not harm me, and was simply expressing political discontent, but I've been through a great deal on the underside of homosexual advocacy and race and I screamed. I screamed, and Jessica Valenti thinks I am a monster, probably, since I am in the class of those who "aren't going to make it," why am I not on their side? Because the poor also exploit and harm each other. They often lack the capacity of rational agents, and I have absolutely no way out, and I speak my truth of it, but not for much longer, and that is the true nature of despair. Nothing I do, nothing I say, will restore my quality of life. No sympathizer, no Parler, no Trump, no Democrat, nothing, certainly not the defeat of COVID-19, and I have no further decent pathway to forestall what old age is going to continue to do to me.  

Returning Dead

"If we took anymore help from your government, we'd all starve!"-- a serial actor costumed as an Indian chieftain.

I can barely write for my own pleasure anymore, my own sublimation of fulfillment unbound, let alone put my life under siege, on hold for value content to supplement an entitlement as UBI, but I loved Wild Wild West as a kid, and even then, Conrad's figure held my rapt attention. Mothers with children nod their heads and think, Stop there, and normally I would push back with something about vulgar nigger simulations of propriety and convention, but I simply don't have the time, for now, but for a few thoughts. Even for Wild West's action paced plots, Sammy Davis Jr is doing something else in "Returning Dead," and the ghost puppet he uses to break his confederate burrowers is eerily similar to Corbin Bernsen's Ghost Brigade. I lost the thread of the story, and shall return.  

Italians Cannot Hold A Candle to An Irish Wake

We should be skeptical about anyone who tells us 'I know the way and you don't.' -- a personality of iconic self-deprecation

This Hewlett Packard Pavilion is not particularly valuable. It is simply long lived and almost integral to my defeat in the inner city. My lungs, laboring in pain in the last hours before the opening of my fifty-eighth year, miraculously circumvented this morning in anxious combat with the crushing weight of Pennsylvania's nigger tow lines conjoined to my also sick family's relegation, are somehow extended by my outdated technologies. I am finished, why don't I just fold, go away and let respiratory hoses finish me off? Zone it out? I am not the only woman with cerebral palsy to die before the age of sixty over equipment error.  Trudy Richardson, the now absentee manager as it pertains to my environment, is my killer, and if the middle brow crowd wants to raise the alarm, if I cannot obtain justice for the duress under which she placed me, I will, emphatically, take matters into my own hands. My rental agent has crushed me to death because I raised my voice about its negligence, letting tenant relatives and others assault me with utter and blatant disregard, and now it gets to kill me because of ableism's panic? Not without me coming back at it in one last furious strike. Oh, I know hatred, you all know that, letting a former supervisor play me like tripe, but not like this, this desperate ferocity of no return. As for the computer, for the time being, I have shut updates off, and should have done it before, so I can work. I have too many virus systems uploaded to my drives, all that, and my ego still sits in my way: I cannot suffocate, not yet, but don't know how long that will last, if I have even another year, maybe that is luck. I don't know. I am stout, genetically obese by between forty to 60 pounds, and yes, smoked cigarettes aggressively, but never in my life have I been forcibly made so immobile for such a long time, and this bitch who has relentlessly persecuted me for over a decade is going to get hers. In the interim, I have to find out if I can skate by for a time on a cheap Chromebook.

I know one of the major flaws of this account is its embedded outcry, and yes, at one time I hoped maybe I could connect to others who could help me navigate out, but barring a good steroid to buy me time, there is no longer much out anything my reading public can do, unless you have a wheelchair accessible space and don't harbor the ambitions of an Ariel Castro. I suppose we're all stronger then we know, but one of the very simple rules of thumb to be counted: Everything breaks. There is always a point of no return.

Round Pegs in the Square

This Hewlett Packard is very old. I am having enough difficulties with it and Windows Ten cannot be installed. As of today, Microsoft stops supporting Windows 7, and it will be a little longer until I can afford a new device. I already know how ludicrous it is to believe engaging in homicidal impulses toward a section 202 building manager with a rote series of trained gestures is. Philadelphia has hundreds of these matriarchal browbeaters, and if I engage in any form of illegal aggression toward her, I only prove her point. The best weapon in her arsenal was my family's provincialism, and I have pretty well suffered enough, but even the police, who don't like 202 tenants, said Trudy Richardson's harassment toward me bordered concentration camp excursiveness. The company could have simply evicted me, and the black paraplegic above me, David, has far stronger foul odors on the 6th floor. I doubt he was assaulted by Protective Services and more, as was I.
So I fight, and maybe I get rid of a house nigger with owlish glasses from New Jersey with her alleged lupus. Maybe Corey Booker gets involved and says I cannot behave like a monster because Presbyterian Homes really hates the disabled. The beat goes on. The boss Trudy is afraid of, as in The Grifters Angela Houston terror, is a Director named Dulles. Bald, fat, black, corrupt as a horse's ass, I politely told him he was full of shit, and it was indicated to me that this cowed Trudy to the same degree that her tactics have me fighting for my life. If I do engage in illegal behavior toward this woman, and go to court, I doubt the judge will allow me to move for jury nullification