Segnatto Esatto

Who are you and what makes you so important?-- Twitter user frog contessa, whom I answered tersely

I have to confess, despite the fact that social media is increasingly passe, even for me, the nativity of plebeians like the above contessa still has the capacity to throw one's ego off the mount. I am important simply because I tweet back to Speaker Ryan?
 

Three years ago, we began a great journey to set our nation on a better path. Now, my season of service is coming to a close. Tune in live soon for my Farewell Address as Speaker of the House: https://t.co/RrNzrxPmYU

— Paul Ryan (@SpeakerRyan) December 19, 2018

As a disabled, disenfranchised American, I am entitled to my ambivalent sympathies for the 54th Speaker of the House. He wasn't always mercilessly excoriated in the press by those of Canadian Jewish ancestry, like David Frum, but when the deputy prime minister of Italy ferrets out and follows your account, it is best to run your research fast and furiously and pay appropriate homage to the man in his native tongue. I knew Matteo was right wing, like Beppe, who isn't as right wing as English media would have the five star movement in the homeland appear, but when it comes to the political power Salvini holds, the spastic dowager dropped the ball, and aspirates:

 

"Se uccide i cristiani è nostro fratello". Queste le parole di odio del 20enne somalo arrestato per terrorismo internazionale. E voleva mettere "bombe in tutte le Chiese d'Italia". GALERA ed ESPULSIONE, via dal nostro Paese questa gente. VIA! https://t.co/8hCp35z8WV

— Matteo Salvini (@matteosalvinimi) December 18, 2018

Augh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A stiletto through the heart! 

Matteo, questa donna rotta vuole morire e baciare i ciottoli a Roma per favore! I cannot very well excoriate the man for follow and drop behavior which I'd otherwise normally deplore. When I calm down and renew my grammar studies with vigor I will *speak* to him, but yes, the Deputy Prime Minister of my homeland, the blood of Roma in my veins, followed me, for three days! Who isn't the Empress of Italy under these transcendent hues of a cathedral's stained glass?

Rosewood Massacre, circa 1923

serious question. do you have any African American friends, because you really seem like a racist. I always thought you were a great actor, but wow! you come off on here as a very bitter person.

— Ddot R (@Derrick82397251) December 10, 2018

For what it's worth, the dowager reads this tweet from Ddot as an authentic attempt at a dialogue with Woods, and James made the choice not to meet the sally. Is James Woods a racist? Depends on the prism through one wishes to view it. In terms of inner city paternalism, the actor's views certainly skewer toward a highly charged prejudicial attitude, and yet this is a man who admires Kanye, and Kanye West is at the very least diffident about black identity politics. Ddot may have missed, as well, the actor's offer to pay for a sweet nappy-headed child to go to Disneyland. And while spastic could care diddly about West or his music, she does, with sincerity, admire his gracious act of charity and generosity to the family of Jemel Robertson. What happened to this man in Rahm Emanuel's city (the former saving grace operative of Obama's soaring expectations) is the worst of American sins, more horrific than the 1923 events in the Florida panhandle that gave Michael Rooker his asinine role as a law and order man willfully allowing minority property owners to be lynched in the name of a loose woman who was treated like swamp sewage and might have given Harper Lee her chilling revelation of shameful sexually held secrets which lead to the defendant's death in Lee's self-same novel and in Gregory Peck's canonical approach to deconstructing falsehoods on our silver screens. I cannot and do not dispute that the actions of Florida's citizens in this early modern century was a Reconstruction era hangover worthy of a purge by Mussolini's authority. This is where my great grandfather was at the time, in Roma, a caste level artisan oblivious to Europe's refuse somehow unfathomably creating the world's last superpower on fear and loathing burrowed under by Protestant magnanimity. What I dispute is the industry's reconstruction of what happened, and it amounts to as much paint by numbers chicanery as any hard line intolerance of America's ruling class. Ving Rhames was only cast because he is a linebacker and Apollo Creed rolled into one. No doubt the death toll is open to dispute, but trenches filled with corpses of 140 colored? This is one quadriplegic who sees the agrarian tendency to exaggerate the numbers as being a colorful fixation of liberation theology. 

I've honestly forgotten what type of article it was I hoped to do with Woods' sympathetic and charitable cooperation. It has been 13 months since my near elimination from society, and I was not taking notes, only struggling toward a thesis-topic here on Entertainment Arts, but if Woods has reasons to be bitter, it may be due an indubitable realization that Hollywood executives huff ether in their creative parallel universe. I esteem and admire the European intellect and picked up another variation on this theme in a bio-engineering Icelander, who, if she bothers to absorb the implications of this link, will be appalled. The reason it truly no longer penetrates is because I in turn realize it doesn't matter. I have been murdered, as it is, by a broken-hearted graduate lunging into a progressive holy grail, all of 23 years old, never able to successfully rectify her mistake, a little late now, oozing in symptoms and disposable wear, as expendable as an innocent blacksmith.

What a tale my thoughts could tell

"It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction. [sic]" Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent, location 4-11

Even in incidental moments, slicing the dwindling supply of potatoes to get you through a traumatic riddled weekend, not really paying attention to The Blacklist, the Gordon Lightfoot soundtrack craters you in, as Spader methodically wastes another traitor ally with humane ruthlessness right on the edge, his acting, between the emotional wounds and internalized flippancy, though the opening first season episodes offered a wry subversive bemusement, interest waned with all these mysterious processes swirling around the rouge agent character of Elizabeth, her brutalized psycho husband who apparently survives major cavity wounds. No one is that important, and the brutality offered by the directors doing the captures and the cuts is somewhat complicit, served up as fantastic, with Reddington something of a vengeful deity, except that some clever staff member remembered Lightfoot. This was all it took, for those of us who grew up on the emotive breadsticks of Croce's legacy, one which never envisioned Nigerian swaggering with thickened buttocks on the streets of Rome.

Dowager learned of this social ill through Don Matteo, and has no empathy. Let the Italian government ship their charming red light migrants to Jamaica. If these women want to leave Lagos, then they should stop complaining as to the consequences of marginalized, alien status. I tutored Nigerian students, and liked it better when they were restrained Franophiles absorbing western education for improvement. The difference between Matteo and the progressive video journalists soliciting the pity of privilege, is the mystery drama blames Roman lewdness, its sexual excitement over difference. Reporters on the ground liken them to untouchables, confined to their own foreign ethnicity, who cannot pay them well-- which will take us down memory lane to the fickle years of Usenet.

If I've mentioned JoettaB before, it was perhaps with scant detail. In 2016, coming to its close, I cannot flush out my interaction with her to a very great degree. She tried to help me over the CIL rupture, seemed to have a special interest in unstable males prone to violence, and posted one of my essays about smoking on her website, which I wasn't ready to abandon, then she vanished, and I assume this was due to harassment, or being threatened. "It was not I," the dowager proclaims, hands raised in an exposure of innocence. I bring this up because the general rule of thumb is, if it is posted, then it's published, and first printing rights have vanished, even if it doesn't quite feel that way. Nonetheless, I am including a variation of the piece in my collection, because it is a piece of my early post Matrix history, and the woman's disappearance troubles me, and since I take a hideously long time to gestate, "The Zippo Lighter" may lead me to a commission on addiction. Joetta met Kiefer Sutherland online, and she prided herself on that connection. It seemed a credible boast: He sent her tickets. Whatever her troubles were, I regret the space she left. Given what I face in real life, online nastiness hasn't really penetrated in that way; though it is a stretch, I think she was impaired through MS.

Tight Buttock Bellbottoms

One major issue with black entertainment media is its failure to escape being cartoonish to the point of ridicule. One exception, on the basis of limited clips the dowager attended to, is The Wire, since HBO is under pressure to deliver, but nearly everything else, Spike Lee's angular paranoid defensiveness included, doesn't anticipate 21st century mature realism. Black exploitation is arguably a rather early form of comic book sequences adapted to film. The idiots who graphed Shaquille into the end of century Steel, with its loping shaggy production values, certainly understood this, and those same idiots did a mite better with Snipes as Blade, but not by much. The franchise, turning Dracula into a virtual demi-god, did not really know what to do with itself. Even Menace II Society, which had reviewers in major media outlets in the thrall of a major moral dilemma, rolled off my back when it was fresh from theater to cable syndication. It was stark, but equally an over exaggeration of urban self depreciation when the arguments come down to a drive by roil with semi-automatics. Eliot Ness would have been right at home. Nevertheless, Jim Brown and Fred Williamson were the cool cat upgrades of my tweenish post Sidney Poitier years. Suffice to say, they do not exist in the inner city, only in a casting director's transference from football to urban crime drama. 

Black Caesar's torque ratio earns its three star rating in its last 40 minutes, but I've certainly never seen a capo of any ethnicity have such a vigorous death scene, constraining a gut shot to defeat a car chase, throttle his assassin, doom his geek brother to death, and kill the mickey who crippled him, only then to get bitch slapped by a wolf pack not dissimilar from the kids who jumped my window bars with taunts, "She's afraid! She's afraid!" My unwitting epitaph bestowed on my graduate twenty two year old head. Torque is no salve for banality, however, and Caesar lacks credence in every aspect, its graft, Williamson's ability to project menace, or command power, even using a disability very much not in evidence, to foster the title character's menace. Jim Brown mastered taciturn minimalism, at least, a necessary prerequisite for black males simmering with rage.

Sudden Slavic Disappearance

The DeVito Douglas partnership is for the most part so orchestrated that it conventionalizes itself, but both DeVito and the ancient crones which comprise the make up of the Southern European Aunts Network know what they're talking about when the masquerade of gas feels like a nose dive in a healthy systolic rate. A moment's peace, deflation, and then all the sudden savage invective decibels against minority building managers gently recoils into its daily knot in the stomach.

What is it exactly that spastic wants in terms of her housing and isn't getting? Every large storied building has tenant issues, private or under housing authority contract. Spastic wants a ground level writing studio where she can be left alone as much as humanely possible, ten thousand leagues away from Presbyterian hypocrisy, which doesn't mean Catholic Social Services is off the hook. Blunt and charming nuns ask me if I have my nursing home facility lined up, which is why I am always screaming with Michael C. Hall's hysteria, even if I'm not the gay mortician, in the pit of my stomach.

Perhaps faux fighting President Clinton is a serenade toward an epitaph. His wife is twenty years plus my senior on blood thinning medication with a deer in the headlights astonished look at the country's anger. Would she really be a competent commander in chief? Mozzarella salad in wait, in the genius of Italian gastronomic comfort.

To my Muscovites: I miss being able to make fun of Russian cultural inadequacy. Do come back soon.

Pizzo

"Intuitive improvisation is the secret to genius"-- Christopher Walken, playfully Zorin

On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."

Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.

I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.

Juice

Asserting that JT Villalobos is courageous is not an endorsement of progressive exposure so much as approval for illustrating reality, and what children can and do tolerate for the parent of preference. Looking at the young actress who makes Navy's bond with her mother so convincing, we see the problem of claiming the US as a casteless society. Barack went through something of this underbelly and became an improbable candidate in 2008, yes, and liberals inveigh that merit has replaced privilege. Not quite. My father wanted to mirror Protestant affluence and crashed, and I at the bottom wanted to defy my condition and essentially win my father by becoming my dad, and allowed a disability center K-12 mentality to shovel a shitload on that, and here we are.

Can we withstand anything, in the libertarian parlance of Tony Stiles, and in the dialogue of Mulberry's progeny? Interesting film, needs a run or two again on inflamed eardrum, as Escape doesn't deploy captioning. When one dissects Texan coda, the sensibility is intriguing, and not as crazy as liberals paint it. Transplanting my 53 year old ground up carcass into its culture isn't realistic.

I've made up my mind to pity my way to Rome to die, despite the Italian government and the Syrians. I'll give the migrants my unit in exchange. Right back where we started.

Immersion to the Abdomen

"Where are the important families?" -- Michele Placido

The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.

And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.

Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.

Votive Voces for the Dead

I paid Google twelve dollars, almost everything I earned aggregating (huzzah, to echo a Harvard instructor), for a domain to protect all my writhing processes, and now I want to hit delete. Poof. Boom. Exhausted tinder, wipe it out and start over, rescind my swearing on a certain Shakespearean head, slay my malevolence and aim for love me I'm an invalid endearments, but it would not work. I'd find my way back to the wrong side of the culture wars, and even my relatives in Rome, of whom I have only faint hints, would be tempted to gag me and rummage for a hair shirt and a switch. We rarely see in film that the dying too can be tyrannical, the longer they linger, and Marie the Italian aunt is furious with me, over trifles, but she wins, I scurry, whose lungs the worse for wear? (Mine)

She needs hospice, while I, more ruthless, prepare my funeral train. I may have read former follower Clark wrong; twitter disconcerts us all, and the inferences I sewed together may be off base. It is difficult to engage each other through devices with so many loopholes and IP addresses, but after I wished her farewell, I began my rather fated outreach, and Marie's farewell to me, in so many words, is an old, precious photograph of Lillian walking me, in little white braces, with my cousin Thomas, who, much like my father's son, overdosed himself to death. I never knew what Lillian suffered through all this: diseased husband, divorced sons with menacing tempers, half bred daughters in law, one of them a loon. My mother.

What the fuck am I? The scathing, if manufactured, sociopath? I was a horrible child, my other aunt's assurances aside. Mother hate, and rebellion against the matriarchs, and yet Lillian, who ruled like the queen mother in her family, is the voice of my dead, the voice of a small Mediterranean country that created the world as we know it, and collapsed into a tourist location for mystery writers. My grandmother is here, with her taciturn disapproval reigning me in, with her stern peasant strength and pride that made her beautiful.  Voglio vedere la sua Roma, mentre lei lo sapeva, ed esprimere un desiderio. I'll check it against my dictionary later, in my bad habit of having nothing to say. But I'm a writer. I boil the water, out comes the angel hair, al dente, or softer still. I am not sore at Marie. She's dying, and scared, not that my mortality isn't looming with terror, but I may have slightly more time, whether Jerry forgives me or not. He was the most extraordinary instructor I ever knew, bar none, and coming from a teething bitch, fighting to the last breath, that is the best gift I can ever return, even if he was Irish. Italians look down their noses, you know.

Urinary Tract

After consultation, middle child sister suggested I may have a urinary tract issue instead of hypoglycemia. Possibly, but I am feeling alarmingly unsteady, and wish to apologize for failing. I could just delete the blog and aim for more polish--not that I ever wanted to be a bland pedestrian, but even I did not realize how much, as a survivor, I seethe. And many out there have had it worse with disability and violence; many out there have had a few turns of the screw with activist groups, lawyers and litigators. If my medical catastrophe is coming homeward bound, I suddenly find blanks being loaded into the chamber, my soul trying to gnaw through my stationary despair, a desire for departure without so much as a farthing of hope for renewal, my mind is still fighting, striving for justification without knowing, if tolerance has stepped beyond my boundary, which it has, what in the name of nihilism I hope to achieve. Nothing, perhaps, but yes, I have forgiven the stupid black junkie who tried to subdue me, without being able to forgive inner city black culture: I've observed, seen too much, and don't seem to have a water hole available to come up for air, amid the pocket of urban destitution I've lived, the failed compatibility with my homosexual friends, my dissonance with Jewish lesbian ferocity.

Contextualize it as I might, even running to Italy would leave me at odds with the socialists in my country of ethnic origin; Italy has its own problems with migrants, space, resigned to a collapse from within, even here, I have a certain level of contempt for Palermo, tourist destination as it may be. Sicilians, staggering snort with commedia dell'arte, always dislocated from the true sense of place I've always felt I needed. I never saw the Pope in an overcoat, only to see Francis buttonholed in white in his visit with the Turkish pasha. Disconcerting, his body bundled like an angelic gangster.

I've not yet keeled. Buongiorno, on me.

Days of Papal Infallibility

"Because I have pressure sores"--  Christopher Walken

Al Pacino is a transformation performer. Within the apex of his talent, he changed American cinema, worrying about the maturity of applied technique much later in his career. Andy Garcia has moments of only fleeting authenticity, aping the great man with whom he appeared in Coppola's trilogy summation, which should not have been made, just as much of Garcia's work should not have been made, except when he gets interesting with self-referential irony about the art of melodrama itself. as in the 09 City Island, which makes a middling attempt at creating a language around the business of cinematic creation within a movie itself, pushed even further, and sharper, on cable, as when De Niro played a producer and Bruce Willis plays himself, having a bit of a Homeric temper tantrum in a clip on yet another Charlie Rose promotional segment. Is this language of sophistication  synchronic over time?

The Roman Catholic Church is already a dead entity, despite militant fossils like myself who do not believe in pastoral tolerance for homosexual indulgence, throwing my moral weight with the synod over Francis, then caught myself. Church authority began to die from the dawn of mass literacy, let alone the dawn of Protestant reformation and the Vatican 2.0 under John, and the fact that the Argentine is playing politics as opposed to being a spiritual leader means doctrinal infallibility is a de facto anachronism. If a speck of spastic dirt on the wall under increasing intestinal stress feels disheartened by apostasy as a democratic forum, then all is finished.

Declare defeat, go home, and perhaps preserve my form as a calcified figure on which the grandchildren of millennials can gawk, a pseudo-historical trope. What is the big deal? Fisting in secret, fisting  in the open, I myself have posted about Frank and his fingers within my rectrum as a mock-up of vigor, virility. Believers might say I'm lying to myself, that I really do believe in Christ as equal parts human divine, laughing at the rigorous objections of Dawkins to words like transubstanation, and yes, well, I was raised in Catholicism, and in middle adolescence, threw my emotions into testament-- but even before university, I challenged priests and Jewish counselors alike, questing, on fire, offensive, even as a young woman, had anyone cared, I would have been excommunicated, which invites laughter, which in Eco, spells the death of metaphysical need for answers.

Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead strives to be larger than itself, and yes, Walken exposes, successfully, the narcissism with which we surround broken bodies, but as a comedy about brutality, boast, and repressive tolerances, lines not to be crossed, it bounces a bit much, like an IKEA catalog glorifying plastique fabrication even as its laminated pages curl and burn in the stink of a propane fire, the fatigue before the actual dying commences, not living long enough to polish every post, which justifies some literary critical assertion that post-modern subversion has fallen to the wayside of the NASDAQ index.

All I ever desired was a decent husband, like the fictional Maigret who actually seems to have more corporeal embodiment than Bruno Cremer, the actor who best fleshed out the detective among so many famous creations which have no real life counterpart; a decent husband, one who would have supported my ambition, a pleasant hamlet, my own space, decent literary friends. Instead, I am ugly, a trauma who draws out lesbianistic tendencies in even more marginal ugly inner city minorities who make pest control seem heroic. And yes, after the traumatic episodes that challenged my life itself, I asked, queried my internal self, did I want those games with another female, and such fleeting hormonal sensations which come with masturbatory aggression, that level of pornography itself whose exploitation is still policed, regardless of the progressive scorched earth policy for tolerance.

My answer: a resounding no, is like a flake of dandruff in a libertine world, healthy pink flesh too often pasty, soft, anemic, or brown and exaggerated. Thick buttocks, breasts so large they veer toward eccentricity. I think fecal face was a clever slang term, pointing toward epistemological values even in second rate ensembles.

Curtsey

Despite my usage bill and my need to file my legal griefs, as if this is going to protect me from finishing my life as a hate crime, I am honored to have the European views that I do, and will not ask the Europeans why, or expect affirmation or its opposite. My ISP has been kinder to me than any humans of late, despite its settlement with consumer advocates over things it never did to me, at least as far as I know. If I cannot die with my lips kissing sampietrini, becoming a collusionist in Rouen might be my second choice.

I bow, grasp your shoulders, fluent kiss on each cheek. I'd also raise Mussolini back from the dead faster than RAI could recycle Inspector Luca. Unlike Jennifer Rubin, and this is one area where she and I differ as conservative women, I cannot consider myself a patriot when I have been at the mercy of extermination, life long. 

Former Flotus

There ought certainly to be some bound beyond which the cult of favorite authors should not be suffered to go.-- William Dean Howells, American aesthete

Grumbling, spending money on juice. Basically a joke, but I have to do what I can. Between blu and the aero my physiology is barely manageable; in 2015 I will probably fracture and return to real cigarettes, barring a minor miracle of discretionary income. I wanted to be important in what I did with my life and to love as well and fully as I could with this Borgia temperament. Jesse got it; he knew me less than 40 minutes but understood. That I want to be on my own; that a lifelong battle in public housing has destroyed the best part of my vibrancy. I suppose it is just as well, these dashed hopes wrangling around once again. I am torn between hating gay lesbian transgenders and realizing how starved, utterly starved, I am for my own set. Jesse represented that.

I am going to give my notice to Presby soon. I'd rather-- but pause on the realization that as a practical matter the state would incarcerate me, rather than leave me incapacitated on the street. But I have reached the end of my tether, and something has to give. I've let the Pennsylvania *safety net* promulgate my quadriplegia into an American sanctioned life long hate crime. Two weeks, this is all I am giving myself before I terrorize sweet caramel Trudy with her meritorious pretense. She modulates her voice to take the accent out of it, but I am not fooled. So, this may be the beginning of a lengthy goodbye. My cousin is amusing, over the top with his assurances. "I'm there for you."

Fucking crock. Marie says jump and he grabs a tape measure. He is lying. Not that I mind. Marie didn't quite pulp her Billy into a sissy-- but he isn't ready to let me move in with him, his spouse. No one is there for me when it comes to leaving this urban nigger shanty.

Indelible Banana Peels

I really have you going, don't I? Well, bemusement may be a small consolation for beggars, but what I was straining to remember in Stardust is why I would not offer Jayne Anne any further appreciative missive, or need the mentorship somewhat glazed over by her meritorious caste. She and I appear together in Oxford Magazine, some years ago now. She is transcribed addressing the freshman class, in a rhetorical tropism with angels, why I don't know. Her address opens the issue. My byline closes the issue because the graduate department telephoned me, appreciated my acid pouring forth against the Iraq war, shredding American materialism, and to the extent that this creates a dialogue with a financially secure feminine has been from the south, and a feminine has been who was a has been arriving for departure since she started, it is enough. Perhaps she is a catty embrace your inner bitch type, or has a fragility I cannot hear in my ringing ears. I no longer have praise to offer, nor the power to be moved by her output, nor anyone with which to share. I told myself to stop engaging with my aunt Marie, but I am worried she is going to die, and so returned her call yesterday; the sheer inanity of provincialism never ceases to amaze me. This is why I want to go home to Rome, I ask myself, to listen to histrionic crows screeching in sound and fury?

I cannot live with her again. I can't stay here. Adoption along Rittenhouse Square seems unlikely, and all I wanted to do was watch a movie.

As to the letter I mailed to Ms. Phillips, all I remember is an exuberant gush of the sort I have received from bush babies-- the strange psychology of fandom which may not have reached her, as I sent it in care of a publisher. The only thing I remember about experiencing Black Tickets was the edginess of the authorial voice had its appeal.

Vancouver's Concession to Brooklyn's Gentrification

"Otho's head is quite tiny, and it's owner's legs loutishly unclean," Catullus, pig of pidgin Latin

Stephen J Cannell reigned supreme over the television airways longer than JJ Abrams due to the fact that the studio system, during Cannell's prime, was in its turn of the century generic mode, not yet imploded in the Reagan era by digital technology turning us all into libertarian rebels; thus Wiseguy was Francis Ford Coppolla and Martin Scorsese on the cheap. By the time Abrams made good on the mystery island island motif to make Lost a sensation, the end of Clintonion global hegemony was already at hand. Abrams may have hit a vein of gold with his spectacular drama, but the expectations created by his plane crash could not possibly be fulfilled, certainly not by ABC, and Abrams managed to dissolve himself, through the radical assertion that none of us are accountable to either circumstance or environment. Cannell's disillusionment with the American empire, however, cannot be dismissed, however made for television his underlying cynicism was, it manifested itself as the gateway to the post-9/11 world we currently inhabit. Neither is Ken Wahl as gut wrenching as Donnie Brasco,. Pretty boy in North Hollywood may leave lonely women slavering for a high quality, more masculine definition of John Travolta, but Terranova's collusion, ethical erosion, is a sequential novella, to Depp's comparative existential insight, and Jim Bynes' "Lifeguard" was already a cliche by the time the character aired and formed, the primitive cyborg, empowered by early metadata and telecommunication advances, even if the perfect starlet fantasy hearkens back to every Southern European girl's brass ring. Ken Wahl was the epitome of working class transcendence for many, especially in the world of Kevin Spacey's Mel Profitt. Cannell might have had the courage to let Spacey's genius go where Spacey's genius took us with the later Usual Suspects, instead of Tucci as Pizzolo, but this might have been too radical for viewers: the self-hating, magnetic, corrupting influence of real power, of which money is merely an instrument, so Profitt was given a fatal flaw, not entirely without insidious capacity, however, in after-effect. It is the men like Spacey's villains who actually run the world, and we know it, even without a Carter administration white paper on sibling jackasses who create international scandals. Chelsea is a more adept Machiavelli, but look at the kind of parents she had to fuck her up.

Kubik's Chameleon

The sheriff's Goddamn was a murmured curse
        Not for the dead but for the blinding dust
                                                           -- Allen Tate, The Swimmers


I sigh in disappointment, but no studied individual in filmography is assisting me, whether or not they care that Schneider and I sparred each other's bones, and I doubt they do, even in the likeness between Mr. ChickenFried and myself as ugly brunettes and the related caste resentment. Shame at the provocative trigger, and the feeling that I have an occlusion the size of a walnut thrombing in my armpit, waiting for the exact implosive stressor. A little worm made my mind flag slippery in my observation of Larry Gates as Sid Kubik. I should have placed him against Poitier as Endicott, or in the classic anti-communist polemic. Long term memory subtly alerting me, but not effectively until I linked him in this mild winter storm that technically prevented me from driving to the DVM. In actuality, a packed defecation made me fear a Presley simulation. Mildly faint, from leg to left temple, I am the daughter of my grandfather's terminal coronary, "Poppa Lilly," I called him, so you know my Roman grandmother ruled us with an iron fist. Her husband was soft as marshmallow, handing the eight year old in the armchair a copper penny, shiny with the magic of his broad smile, "What 'tis?" He bent over me like a jowl wagging hound, but it is Lillian whose absence pulls; she lived very long, but I miss her the most of all my family. She kept me fluent, beautiful woman, every inch the grand belle, silent strength, auburn hair coiffed perfectly, my body tells me I will be back in her warmth and homemade escarole soon. Mi dispiace nonna Lilly, ti prego perdonami.

Bow our heads. Whatever his ethnicity, for the purposes of the studio system, Gates was a blank check, and did not have any point of origin; he wasn't supposed to have those traits, unlike Ernest Borgnine. This does not mean he could not have been a mafia Don. Northern Italy has its Sweden spillover, fair skin, the type who could have kept a Rico like Eddie rolled in pork grease. Karlson condenses this with theatric artifice, as I mention. Real life does not suck you in to a methodical quarry hunt not minutes after you put a punk in the dungeon, warding off the potential fury of your wife  who will probably rip out your eyes if she doesn't get that baby, properly adorable, and a necessary retrograde: Dianne's Alice will not be deprived of the blessings of new life, a happiness given to a man as uncomplicated as a truck driver employed by her husband. Conte flies to New York, in an affluent cosmopolitan mobility, that might have been a stage set for a cabinet meeting with Ike. There is no question, that to all intents and purposes, Sid Kubik is the assimilated appearance of senior management at the country club, and Conte can be many things in the example of Sinatra, the rat pack play boy, the swarthy breeder whose seed is desirable, but make no mistake. Only Gates can aspire to WASP pretensions, whether or not he is merely a brilliant imitation.

They parry, the nervous avoidance of eye contact by Conte effective; he may not know that Gino has been caught, marked for death not ten feet away, but are we supposed to believe that Eddie buys Kubik's fancy footwork. Is pretty boy really that gullible?

Deadlines & Coffee

Perhaps assassinating my article would help, and crying on the shoulders of other freelancers, but when I return, I have a glimmer towards a better integration of the Italian Diaspora, just a glimmer, with the aims of this project, after refreshing myself on Amiel's Queen of Hearts, which does its own precursor to our contemporary use of hyperlinks, tracing through back to Big Night. Indulging web logs are also dubious in terms of brain cell health.