Competing Transformations

 "I am not the person I was. Everybody fades Martha."-- Tcheky Karyo

Just before the nearly non-advent of the winter holidays, as I violently convulse myself into the new year of 22, one of my followers liked a younger woman’s request, raven-haired if my scant view of her thumbnail was accurate, for depressing movies, and the usual pop culture cohesion thread began on video Twitter verse. Lars von Trier's Melancholia made the rounds, and although I am not going to scroll back through weeks worth of tweets to indicate a correction on my part in the stagnate world of my social media interactions, I do indeed stand corrected. Von Trier conceived the idea for the end of the world as metaphor in a therapy session. I streamed it on Prime once, and X-ray cued me in on important allusions made to painters active when German Romanticism was at its height, and I know a majestic homage to Stanislaw Lem is involved in Trier’s dense compression of emotional fatalism, but haven’t we digressed enough already? Melancholia has at best a tangential relationship to cloning as a way of life in the Western Hemisphere, and another one of my followers whom I’ve mentioned before on this account, (gee, don’t you want to know who he is?)  brought up his distaste for the very British Never Let Me Go,  a film faithfully based on the very British Japanese author Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel. The film’s stark reality about knowing how the end of your life is going to go, just as I know how the end of mine is coming along, is very comforting, and rather neo-imperialist, which is comprehensible. Britain was one of the last modern empires civilization could recognize  in the 20^th century, and so was Japan. Hence Ishiguro’s rather dynamic, brilliant, at times, immersion into Western sympathies. It is also interesting to note The Island came out as a box office disappointment around 2005, on or about the year Ishiguro went to press, and this latter film takes the Rip Van Winkle approach: knowledge is power, and by dint of sheer luck, the American clones destroy the institutional harvesting built around them, deceiving them with notions of paradise, when in reality, they were no more than livestock for their wealthy hosts. Ishiguro’s plot takes a more egalitarian approach, with only hints about why the students brought up in these schools didn’t rebel, like the V-chips inserted in their wrists. It amazes me that Romanek creates the culture shock of an alternate universe far superior to that of Michael Bay, simply by placing the doomed in a recognizable landscape long imprinted on our visual cortex as familiar, like Masterpiece theater,

Neurologist's Spike Protein

 

Do you have a cigarette?

This intrepid, if also embittered, disability journalist confesses she used to be a regular viewer of LA Law, as lightweight, cornball, old fashioned serial television. Although it slipped my mind until I searched the recall, it was here on this series that Jimmy Smits entered into his fleeting generational reign as the American Adonis, and here too that Corbin Bernsen and Blair Underwood made their initial impressions; my nostalgia, however, is particularly kind to Alan Rachins as Douglas Brackman, who formed part of the comic relief contingent. Towards the end of the series run, it was also Rachins, digesting the wrongful termination of a transgendered woman, through the show runners, who made an ingenious argument about women and body enhancement, one that seemingly collapsed gender reassignment as little more than enhanced cosmetic surgery. It is a difficult argument to refute weighed against the generational juxtaposition Brackman’s character represents, in the era just before Suits and The Good Wife.

But what recalled Noah’s Bark to me was the synchronized nature of the fictional client’s Tourette’s Syndrome as almost necessarily lending itself before the audience to the correction of social justice Brackman attempts, and then fails to wage. Concealing a condition like Tourette’s is difficult, and Brackman is called on it. The client reveals the truth, Brackman is threatened with discipline, and Steven Bochco’s conscience can sleep well at night for matriculated classes. The disabled of Riverside Senior apartments aren’t the matriculated class, and Morton’s Tourette’s is more the threatening disruption of the automaton, like the liminal figure of Jerry in Master’s of Science Fiction. This Saturday I had the distinct privilege of seeing Morton, his bouncing gait like that of a bumblebee, pacing the sidewalk adjacent to the building, with excrement on his naked toes. It was a rare moment of intervention for me, noting in bitterness that Trudy Richardson, she herself the equally afflicted lupus administrator, tortured me, with Caucasian acquiescence, for significantly less, in terms of infractions.  In letterhead after letterhead, Riverside trumpets how concerned Trudy is for the Negro Urban League women who masquerade their propriety as virtue. Nothing could be further from the truth when public health experts do not have even basic solutions for forcibly herding people with chronic conditions together in to evolving super toxins in our vapor heated indoor air.

I follow a former Planned Parenthood director named Abby Johnson on social media. She and I perhaps share a similar process of having turned rightward after having engaged our careers in the progressive limelight of Steven Bochco’s desire for universal alleviation, but she is as wrong about the fringe and its feral aspects as Bochco is in his: Morton is an aggressive imbecile, no more, no less, incapable of survival through utility. Difficult as it might be to envision how he would have fared in a pre-industrial era, the 21^st century can no longer afford his inability to intersect, just as it can’t afford the sum total of my horrific failure in abridgement with the ambulatory world.

Angel Hearts

 Almost at odds with morning,-- Lady Macbeth, Act 3, scene 4

With the exception of the human papillomavirus, which memory doesn’t recollect as an issue during pediatric examinations into puberty, I had the standard round of vaccinations as a child, and in principle I do not oppose the efficacy of inoculations. I had learned, from being a riveted follower of Hugh Laurie as the embittered gimp, in his rebranded American series, that diphtheria is a nasty business with its false membranes and significant threat of fatality. Most of us have never experienced diseases like this, which were common in the time of radical abolitionists like John Brown, and more common before his time. Penicillin made such monstrosities an afterthought, barring anomalies, like Natalie Wood playing the part of a polio victim in the late seventies against Robert Wagner. This character may have been esoteric for a television treatment, but citizens of Roosevelt’s generation were quite familiar with the specter of polio and what it represented. In conjunction with such great crippling, there was tuberculosis and syphilis, always a favorite for the interesting progression of infected brain tissue.

Most of us are educated enough to cede certain things to biology which have proven consistent in accordance with natural law, and that includes skeptics like the late Phil Valentine and the latest digital muckraker from New York, Alex Berenson. I had never heard of Berenson prior to a public texting company declaring itself the sole proprietor of scientific accuracy. More power to him if he’s able to succeed as an outlier. We’ve all been there, only my efforts led to black women putting my life in jeopardy. Valentine was duly mocked by progressives, and had it been I, my backstep might have proceeded in a different fashion, or not offered at all. Valentine seems familiar, and I did some research, being sympathetic to his initial position. For the time being, as an obituary driven impetus, it got away from me, fiscally drowning in a Medicaid driven crisis, but I still hope something reasoned, and anti-mandate, might come together. Suffice to say, I don’t think adjuvants and RNA sequences mute the hillbillies in their stand against dominion. I should add that I got the vaccine because I would have never heard the end of it. And it’s Philly’s section 202 housing system, after all, but if the Delta variant catches my scarred lungs, and wins, well, the forces of evil have my fucking hit list.

The Ugandan Presidency

https://twitter.com/RealJamesWoods/status/1427681061148848135?s=20

What has been happening in Afghanistan over the course of the past week in no way offers up a vindication of libertarian political philosophy, despite the fact that an angry and indignant president stood at that podium late Monday afternoon trying to master Rand Paul’s designer rhetoric for sympathizers of The Confederacy as it existed in 1862. Joe Biden, the nominee of the hour, the blabbermouth who touted his forty years of policy experience, playing Secretary Rumsfeld’s gadfly by flying a trial balloon for a “federated” Iraq,  as the "shock and awe" of the needless occupation of  Baghdad wound down, came off last night a shade or two more ruthless than Idi Amin. This doesn’t bode well for political professionals like Amash, who also has considerable mastery over rhetoric for individual liberty, or for those with the ego of an over-inflated self-importance, like Austin Petersen, my long time viral acquaintance. I like Austin, and many libertarians I have met, locally and online, but this withdrawal of our military forces was a humanitarian disaster of epic proportion. If the prestige and power of the US was hemorrhaging since 2005, by Friday evening it officially became a disabled veteran with an amputated limb!

Fourth In Line

 

I grew up with this image of St. Sebastian, and his arrows have pierced my body from the day I realized I'd never be normal, enjoy my own lovers instead of your husbands, or take what was once a healthy admiration for a managerial peer like Linda Dezenski, about whom I haven't written in quite a while, and turn it into blind panic in misconstrued complicity. I only have one further footnote on her, which will be dealt out later, given that CIL culture has been shown to be so irrelevant, the question remains as to why I broke down about it at all, in prudish, threatened anxiety. I never truly recovered from it. I fought Trudy Richardson into a travesty of stillbirth to make a clean break, and now the only march to the drummer's beat is you need services. I will make them kill me first, before I give into this, that I must comply and die at the hands of nigger attendance to age and waste, bodily fluids, just another statistic. Say goodbye to Kimmy. She was a brave little girl, bravest female I ever raised and swear I thought she was healthy, and had another five years. She never complained until the needle was injected, the pentothal following. Would that it had been me.

The Taste of Chicken is only Reputed

 And some men need to be killed--Gaosi Raditholo, Warrior

Although I want to spend more time on Pedro Aldomovar and the very rare quality of his rigorous discipline -- offering an almost seamless challenge to my responsive dread, reminding me almost of Otto Preminger, who was more obviously structuralist in his panoramic scope, I want to take a moment to discuss The Book of Eli in terms of an Inverse critic's contention that as a Hughes brothers film it’s underrated, despite its heavy Christian Everyman modality, being at its heart agnostic. The exposition of the script has its moments: the felines almost look like aliens from Mars, whereas the rat Eli feeds upon display of his hunting skills looks untouched, and these scenes may harken back to the old coinage “fat cat,” as representative of Gary Oldman’s character, and I’d argue that Jennifer Beale weaponizes her pre-flash blindness in an original fashion, and the motif of utilizing black liberation theology to carry the burden of white excesses for the sake of equally nascent white innocence, purity, this is something Denzel knows how to do, when he’s not otherwise embracing the pseudo militancy of Malcolm X. He plays a similar sacrificial agent in Man on Fire, but it doesn’t work in this genre, under the guidance of the Hughes, superimposed on a shocking and merciless post-radiation environment. The established religion and its most popular biblical text took centuries to evolve into the sectarian divisions with which we currently abide. If the rather vague backstory of how Christianity was blamed and purged for a nuclear deluge holds, and the young adults coming up out of hiding know nothing of it, then salvation through Christ couldn’t flourish once again, according to tradition. The Hughes brothers enjoy turning out a wry trick or two as auteurs, but Eli has a lot of bloodshed with little sensical return. It is a cop out.

Pedro Almodovar and Regimented Valiance

"Life will bring you to your knees, drag you down farther than you think you can go." --Laia Costa

 

 

When I think of Antonio Banderas, what comes to mind is a particular displeasure when he was paired against Sylvester Stallone in Assassins.  Stallone would have many years yet before his top billing status would begin its draw down to selling his self help book to the audience snake line around Walnut Street, and the machismo Banderas exhibits in taking so much physical punishment was better served elsewhere. Like many box office draws, once he was removed from Franco’s pressure, Banderas had a number of duds: ghetto dance teacher, patriarch in an Inception rip off which, with a weary sigh, I admittedly should have ceased watching immediately.  I liked him a great deal as the gentleman cuckoo in Life Itself (2019), but this is the role of a mature grandee, and, of course, a digital injection into my repertoire, as I never intended to make filmography and celebrity into an arc of midlife hostility. It is only then I might allow myself to reflect on the intensity of his eyes, or pose a trivial pursuit question as to why Tarantino didn’t seek said one time street actor for his From Dusk to Dawn franchise. As I have learned from experience, Spanish cinema reveals in the sordid terrain of sleep. In some cases, as well, Latin American and Spanish culture are indecipherable, and until recently I really did believe that Banderas was Mexican, and fault myself only for treating it like an afterthought, because only a true movie star could bring the subtle horror and awe of Dr. Robert Ledgard to life. Whatever Almodovar’s posture is relative to authoritarianism, as a film director he is an artisan, a true connoisseur of control, rigorous control. The Skin I Live In (2011) is many things rolled into one. Any practicing writer could almost believe Thierry Jonquet wasn’t imbibed with Frankenstein at birth in his creation of Tarantula, since placed on my wish list, but the film stands by itself, manipulative, coy, cuing in the alert with an Alice Munro title going into the dumbwaiter, the neo-classical portraits wry and stark in the atrium, juxtaposed against Ledgard’s cutting edge research, and his willingness to expose to appreciative viewers why we’re all fearful of the medical scientist and his inner Mengele. Much of the driving force behind the back story and its contours can be credited to Marilia’s bitterness at having been subsumed as a birth mother for the sake of social cohesion, but what I latched onto, with celebration, is the lack of fear Almodovar has in weaponizing his vision against homosexuality’s libertine aspects, and where, pray tell, does this come from? I’ll tell you without a moment’s hesitation: at the end of day, liberals are still fascinated by the fascists who shook the world after the eclipse of the Edwardian reign. Franco still governed Spain when I was a young woman, these aren’t simply sleeping ghosts in the attic, or the anemic restlessness of one of my followers, a silly bastard who dubs himself EconC, uneasily raising his voice about new age faggot militancy. Art takes chances to embed itself in expertise, hopes to movie perspective; and although populism, which makes media powerful in all its aspects, has its own argument, at times its insufferably blasé.

Bong Joon-ho's Rush to Bring It On

He doesn't have the stomach for it. -- a crusty Tailee as class warfare comes to a head

Perhaps I am just popping in to convince myself I am not dead, and not just you, having taken a chaotic dump in a bucket with my Walmart parasitic aide, relieving all that impacted intestinal plumbing. You want optimism? Can't give you that. Daveed Diggs agonizingly long realization that we all have to make choices about the greater good will have to do, a Canadian musician who plays a mocha Detroit cop with aggressive dreadlocks, a collective rationing religion, and gaunt guilt ridden white lovers for candy pussy. Snowpiercer is so tantalizingly idiotic it's a fun joke. I binged Season 1 with amazement at what men can and will do for money, while I as a poet was always so demanding. The series acquired by TNT is better than the movie, to Jennifer Connelly's credit . Melanie Cavill is convincing as a power broker who's too tightly wound.

Perhaps the novelists answer the question of how the tracks were built for this superlocomotive in an extinction ending calamity, but one doesn't have to be a surveyor or an engineer to realize that Snowpiercer isn't a reality based starship like the Enterprise. Asians may be fascinated by locomotive technology because it will, and always necessarily be, a collective endeavor, which is something all the passengers seem to lose sight of as the true bloodletting begins, after all that creative torture. Republicans undoubtedly loathe Amtrak for the same reason. Even the best funded passenger rail services, such as that in Tokyo, lose money. I didn't believe that my life after 55 would become so utterly agonizing as it is now. I spare you because there is nothing you can do. These state systems are also a business, and people like the out-going Pat Toomey probably capitalize on them. I may try one last time, to flee, as I'd rather die in transit. Debating whether or not I have the nerve to pierce my jugular. Such an act would be final.

Que se vayan todos!

"they do not heap conditions upon others or promote themselves as the only 'keepers of the truth'. -- Pope Francis, role playing with Peter Parker.

When spastic was a burgeoning teenager, cable television may have not been in its infancy, but it was still a new and complex technology, one based on subscription, and subscription, as a type of revenue generation, still seems an easier way to generate capital, in contrast to collective models. I looked at the HBO network differently then, persuaded by the logo’s muscle. It was premiere, vintage, and later, when The Sopranos soaked up that exclusivity, I felt left out for not having the means to join in to the sinews of the public conversation. Things have changed. When AT&T awarded me access to the venerable survivor of the streaming wars, I came bearing metaphysical crucifix in hand; from this perspective, treating Iglesia’s 30 monedas with sagacity is difficult. Concessions? Certainly there are concessions. The CW’s lengthy commitment with “The Supernatural” was writing for superficial Americans with one track minds. Every so often, the show runners tipped their hats as a sign of respect. Paramount’s “Evil,” discomfited me slightly more, but interest waned when the series married the Satanic to Minority Report special effects. Iglesia, on the other hand, takes Apostolic witness very seriously, as well as the corruption within the clergy. After three episodes, I asked myself, as a matter of ethical concern, whether or not I should stop watching it. I am rebellious, violent, after all, so who am I to be appalled by lack of Spaniards tender mercies, with not a little assistance from Cosimo Fusco, the Italian who nearly disrupted Jennifer Aniston from her perky little perch? What nags conscience isn’t solely a matter of aesthetics, but how the industry has graduated in portrayals of established faith, and 30 monedas is rather a nasty and convoluted condemnation of the Curia. The first convergence of unease: Iglesia doesn’t mesh modernism with Old World caste and station very well. This may have been deliberate, to offer up foreboding along with the grotesque, but it gives each episode a chunky quality, earthy and hard bitten as we follow Vergara, then ornate and Baroque as Santoro schemes with his ill begotten henchmen. The juxtaposition is queasy. Aldomovar has a much better balance in his excellent horror film. Perhaps Francis might be reminded that indignation can be equally beneficial.

When OPEC had Watergate as Histrionic Distraction

 "You mocked it."-- Bruce Davison, failed mutation

Upon the announcement of George Segal's death last week at the ripe, well lived age of 87, the requisite undertow of melancholy can lead to one’s mind , shrinking as it may be for those without benefit of subdural injury, into attempting to strong arm the algorithm to retrieve more underappreciated vehicles like Born to Win, something of a hybrid for 1971, a cross between Didion’s rigor in … Needle Park  and the tension embedded in The Desperate Hours.  A viewer of my beleaguered age may have seen Born to Win in network syndication up through the early eighties, but its appearance had a delectable rarity, where Segal’s depreciating lines end up having a menacing edge; in this contemporary streaming environment of today, it is sometimes difficult to find movies not so grandiose, with a lighter center  of gravity, without being too corny, which are of my time, and of familiar grainy quality, with subdued olive and brick red tones in its wake, that which made the Me decade authentic behind the lens, even if in actual fact the physical environment of childhood and old age had negligible differences, whether in style or palette: one can laugh at Segal’s 71 hairstyle as being too hip because it was an artifice. The same can be noted for Natalie Wood and once divorced husband Robert Wagner two years later, in their made for television romantic drama The Affair. In the sense that matinee idols can impede an actor’s artistry, Wagner was always dismissed, a well groomed action figure whose two dimensional aspects were suitable for the desperate heroism of towering infernos. Wood received more sympathy for a lavish dramatic sadness, but was more a career glamor girl than more recent signatures. Julianne Moore, in her current aging grace, is able to inhabit more complexity, and this is what makes The Affair interesting. This little bit of televised slice of life inhabits complexity in a flawed mediocre fashion, which means that Bruce Davison, like most younger brothers of crippled lameness, is an asshole, and the script has inconsistencies. Viewers can ascertain, however, that Wagner and Wood make an effort to move beyond their casting portfolios, and attempt to open the door, with some success.

I too can be kind to stock figures, perhaps under the burden of having taken too many blows, being deflated in retreat, scaling back. I am not afraid to go long form in my blog posts, but I will apportion this into shorter segments, especially now that we have so many research tools at our disposal. I have been a long way away from myself as a writer, and while I cannot hope to have the resilience of Strether in The Ambassadors, like a Victorian sensing a new epoch, there is a stride to be reclaimed, even if disposable underwear will be banned from landfills to save the sewers.

Sommelier's Emergency

 'Liberation!' Astonishing how criminal instincts do survive in the human species." -- Yevgeny Zamyatin, stewarded by beleaguered American translators.

The old adage about mixing apples and oranges isn’t quite so representative of incongruity. Both apples and oranges are rich, nutrient liquid masses produced for seed germination. Both apples and oranges are tree borne fruits with peelable and edible skins, in some degree, packed with citric acid, with one favored by worms, the other more porous to the naked eye and associated with the benefits of sunshine, currently a rare commodity in this neck of the northeast, where the Delaware River swivels with an inverse question mark at its narrowest before it empties into the Atlantic; yet the semantics of the phrase remain due to correspondence which pleases the symmetry of primate eyes. The idiomatic mixing of horticulture’s most domesticated fruits is indicative of a disruptive pattern, and for those who try to toy with this, like this former palsied poet still out to pasture, sometimes it works, like in my happily recovered “Electromagnetic Custer” piece, which the 1991 graduate team at Oxford Magazine accepted last minute, but when it doesn’t, it can splinter under its own weight. A good example of this is Gareth Tunley’s 2017 indie, “The Ghoul,” which is rather baffling, and splinters off in too many unexplained directions, despite Tunley’s efforts to create an infinity trap for its troubled protagonist. It may be a short feature, but the supporting character Moulson is never adequately connected to the hero’s menacing and wayward turn, and as can be best puzzled out, Christopher’s university couple friends have a parallel to the older therapists who feature prominently in whatever narrative arc there is to grasp. A hellish sensibility cannot serve as the sole sinews for such disjointed lack of a plot. The Prime Original 7500 fares better, but aging battle axes in the fractal of a drain swirl pummel touchpads bit more slowly than of yore, and my ambition to tie this into disillusionment with libertarians of the left? I have a bad habit of losing patience with account holders who irritate me, and I tried really hard with Curt, but his sentiment that “Tubman’s bust (sic) appearing on the twenty dollar bill is really cool,”  broke this imperiled camel’s hump, and I blocked him in a miserable affront to my endorsement of 1^st Amendment principles. Since I am still stupidly paying Alphabet for this domain, I don’t have to post this very minute, but my buttock has been forced into jeopardy. Overheated gauze. The obstinate nigger care simply isn’t enough for the hatred and hastily assembled ignorance which destroys spastics such as I, despite qualifying remarks by any sympathizers.

The Sagittal Plane

 Vaughan devised the massive rear end collisions of sworn enemies, hate deaths celebrated in the engine fuel. -- Crash, location 160

In recent weeks I have, in desultory fashion, worked a few words a day on a staid assessment of Mitt Romney, staid in comparison to the furor of The Rolling Stone’s assassinations of the former governor as OCD plastic, very nearly anachronistic in terms of its hostility, now that we’re all sober to the fact that hard rock as a form of protest is just another business model; 2012 is a displacement milestone, perhaps an expiation over the fact that this was the last national election cycle in which I did not participate, assisting in neither Obama’s second term mandate nor Romney’s contraction as a national figure. In the passage of time which comprise the dates 1979 to 1986, the phrase “frontrunner for Black Sabbath,” would have been unfamiliar to me. I was cognizant as to what KISS or Ozzy represented; I may have listened to the noise, observed my sister handling a pungent roach with tweezers, but this is as far as it went. I haven’t been able to fend off the ranks of becoming a member of the living dead, poisoned mice in my drop ceiling crackling like a burnt fuse, and so I look at them myself: I have always known them, been proximity to them, and still live with them, and imagine if I really desired to invite a backlash of disciplinary action from the carefully cached online presence of Human Good, then all I have to do is procure illicit camera shots of the American morons epitomized in section 202 housing and provide you with names to the faces, like the bald guy Morton with his Tourette’s syndrome. I almost substituted Tay Sachs disease for the more eccentric neurological disorder, the processes of an overburdened mind whose suffering is almost unfurled beyond any ideological points of reference. What I allude to is this 88 minute special interest documentary on the French solution to criminal insanity, Unit for Difficult Patients. Chantera does a fairly decent job with her grant dollars explaining the UDP as a psychiatric control fortress, sketching out a brief history of the city of Cadilac as a magnet for trauma, and offering these patients what dignity she can in reconstructing their stories. She concentrates on Eric, a bong head who stabbed his sister in the throat, and even in this very circumscribed world, the French tendency toward the disingenuous takes hold, with Eric’s mother relieved that his schizo-affective disorders are so rigidly controlled, while his case manager shrugs with the admission that the UDP wasn’t the place for this man, meaning he should have done his jail time. At the end of his story, he smiles like a whipped dog, the mark of his suffering indelible, and modern liberalism lurches forward. No, I am not going to suggest that the blades of the guillotine offer more precise relief. They do of course, but what I saw, what it always reverts back to, is the seeds of institutional methodology contain the flourishing growth of human damnation. These men, their history of violence, drugged into malleable children who behave for occupational therapy projects.

I had singled out the Osbournes prior to the new lock jaw disease of the current age; I warned this woman didn't know herself very well, didn't I?

Bell Jar Vibrations

 "When Jimmy Kimmel isn't unfunny, he's utterly intolerable, he makes uniformed talking points for television."-- one of Twitter's remaining true believers.

Death knells can be larger than any one small cluster of human frailty, and even though certain pugnacious leftist personalities like Maher claim that 9/11 didn’t change anything, in terms of wake up calls for the salvage of western liberalism, his assertion is a kind of confabulation about the nature of human disaster. 9/11 didn’t change anything on the surface of the American empire, but there have been a series of tabulations in relation to the state of the national psyche, which is why, for the life of me, I don’t understand whatever political muscle Keith Ellison has in Minnesota; it’s obscure, shrouded in fog, the diagram that divides his definition of patriotism from Nation of Islam’s own jingoism, this is discomfiting, regardless of whatever Maga bullshit was orchestrated behind the scenes on January 6^th from Charlie Kirk and his brand of Christian nationalism. I tried to warn Charlie about this before he tarnished whatever coup de grace Maga’s revolt once had in 2016, but hot dogs don’t abide by the chastisements of a world weary fury, such as both his and my Twitter accounts amounted to prior to Dorsey’s understated and eloquent diatribe about healthy conversations; his thread reads like a Kafkaesque dissertation waving a “guilty as charged” flag, but Twitter was never about the health of any lingua franca. My diffident wading into social media’s alure in the mist of its contradictory crackdown is over, despite the inordinate amount of time I recently spent on deactivation out of sympathy for our latest Bull Moose Idiot, only to reinstall it temporarily upon realization that Gab is about building capital through outrage; I have been mortally wounded by enough dalliances with pre-pandemic losses to the Exchequer, and knock off models which claim to offer agitators against progressives a firewall for a hefty fee isn’t much of an inducement, not when socialized medicine continually illustrates the folly of rationed care through so many arbitrary layers of nonsense. A woman who is a static failure gets to experience on a daily basis the tenuous relationship between entitlement and constitutional right. There is no such fucking thing for a wheelchair user who has to operate under and be haunted by “nursing home eligibility” her entire life and then have society break her down for its final act. So she avoided more triggers about 9/11 in documentary hyper-realism, such as films like United 93.

In this context, the Amazon Original 7500, although much later than United 93, coming out for distribution in 2019, is gently derivative in it’s spin off from the perspective of Paul Greengrass. As far removed as Vollrath's narrative is from the events of that day, I still had a panic attack watching this from beginning to end. It is only under the duress of populist cynicism that I begin to question this. Ilhan Omar bleats in the House like one of Orwell’s pigs, while I, always aspirational in my patriotism, until the ghetto scorched my eyelids, sit dying in her socialist belief system, not simply due to lack of retail insurance.

White Noise in Infectious Diseases

 "Sleep tight sucker!"-- Chuck Norris in a propaganda campaign which Trump apparently appreciated

Late Thursday evening, just sitting, burrowing inward, while a film like  Delta Force plays on low volume, because this is how the black technician needs to leave the patient, agitated and wound like a Yo-yo, with one appreciable difference: the shock of recognizing Robert Forster as Abdul, a fanatic for the Reagan era teletype of what would become Osama Bin Laden and al-Qaeda. As a serial viewer of weak broadcast signals the FCC parcels out to local UHF stations, which in the digital century, mimic cable subscription, Delta Force has been played on television enough to be too familiar, Chuck Norris somewhat antithetical to one’s taste, which means what? The spastic dowager has often written with conviction that enemies need to be defined and caricatured for the sake of a Western civilization now intent on unravelling, and Delta Force does exactly that. The Lebanese depicted in this political action thriller are little more than two dimensional paramilitary rogues who have made Beirut synonymous with urban horror, or an extreme form of what we mean when we use “urban jungle” to heighten the terror of survival in our environmentally adaptive cities. I didn’t even come to appreciate Forster’s abilities until Tarantino gave the late, and financially strapped, character actor room to breathe. The same could be said, in a different context, for Pam Grier, not that I didn’t know she was chocolate glory mama before, in the vibrant vigor of the seventies as oversexed with visual cues, for white or black action figures, but Tarantino gave her a bit more to work with in a thickened middle age playing it against the swirling vortex of all that male ego.  (I have also seen Grier as truly aged in BEA style pictures not meant to be cross-over vehicles; she is too old now to play spin the bottle with grifter and sheriff transference figurines, economics of being an ostensible trail blazer aside.) It brings up the issue of why Tarantino is able to do so much with dramatic irony as opposed to those who direct Norris. Norris is linear figure, a quasi martial arts can do it all flesh wound guy, and Forster doesn’t look happy being the zealot who kills Greek Orthodox priests. He is sweaty and oily and desperate enough, and I have seen his key scenes often enough that it’s beneficial that his effort doesn’t register too closely, but it seems Forster would have preferred something else before he shrivels into the old man of even more androids are people too entries. Why do I feel a sense of loss about Forster and those like him only after conscious appreciation occurs late in the game?

The British Left of The One-Armed Man

 "When they live like that, they die like that."-- Liev Schreiber, season one apologia

Theodore Johnson is elevated into the documentary examination of how parapsychology informs on his low-burn serial murders not for the murders themselves, but because of his successful manipulation of Britain’s criminal justice system in relation to them. It is difficult to gage at this juncture whether the eleven years he received for the murder of his first wife Yvonne wasn’t an equitable balance against the loss of life, as there is no reason why a husband cannot be abused in the face of domestic discord with suicidal ideation. In this criminal defendant’s case it’s borderline as to whether mitigating circumstances applied, but to all accounts, Theodore served his full term for manslaughter before he once again married a second Yvonne, produced a daughter, and then strangled her mother. He got out on early release again because of the daughter, with a less than scrutinized stipulation that he was not to engage in relations with the opposite sex from the wagging paternalism of Europe and the United Kingdom’s belief in rehabilitation. Canada and Britain both seem to have excessively brutal murders from their emigrant populations, whether they’re Indian, Asian, Iranian (at least two of these were particularly savage), or as in this case, Jamaican. Retired DCI Colin Sutton, with traditional Anglo-Saxon shrewdness, may delineate the investigation and mechanisms for British and American audiences alike, but he and other documentary analysts, including psychologist Linda Papadopoulos, fail to ever mention geographical displacement or immigration policy. Why not? Is this somehow a liberal taboo, particularly as it relates to the European forge in the creation of Jamaica today? Although film critics assert that Marlon Brando’s neo-imperialist movie Burn is hot to trot about the domino effect regarding incursions into Vietnam, it reads far more closely about British guilt over hanging Paul Bogle for killing civilized Caucasians, and of course, no judge today is that self-conscious as it relates to clemency for indigenous individuals in this age of technocratic supremacy, but the case that being too lenient with the descendants of human trafficking is as harsh as being too authoritarian can be made, and it cost Angela Best her life, because apparently, the only humans who still know how to draw lines in the sand are Nigerian extremists, but let’s not forget Johnson himself; it’s theorized that his last suicide attempt, throwing himself in front of a train, was germane, setting himself up as the nebulous figure which drove David Janssen and his pursuer through every episode of The Fugitive, but this is one amputee not slated for the release of the disabled on compassionate grounds.