"No, with a prince."-- Catherine Devenuve, full bloom
I have been awake since about seven thirty Thursday evening, simply waiting for physiology to realign, and I am going to have to drive the Jazzy under the shower head fairly soon. It is risky, given that I have been lumbering in poor generic power chair technology with a short in its electric system for nearly three years, trying to upgrade, but it is less risky than a park near hot steam while I risk the old bathing chair, even though I should do things properly. My latest bad judgment was leaving Hahnemann for the ambulatory practice, in 14. I still have no new chair, and if I had the money, I'd skip the red tape and buy my own, but I'd be difficult about the fit, to get it right. But what are municipal progressives worried about? Not its marginalized underclass, but linking the commemoration of the Rizzo family to Charlottesville, because the city of brotherly love is a proverbial backwater, always has been, and I am wasting my data to burst out into tears. Frank and Joseph Rizzo have nothing to do with Bannon and Breitbart, and Trump's roiling rise, and Jim Kenney is old enough to know better. The Rizzos have a direct link to my family, and I don't have enough bullets through the heart. Now this. All evening, not to work, just to fight extraordinary dislocation pain, fight mild vertigo, indigestion, and take another bullet to the heart:
The outcry here to our prominent local anchor is very real. I know Joe Rizzo's daughter. I stood on Broad Street for Frank's funeral procession, and my father received a commendation for rescuing the late mayor in an emergency fire, and I am going to find and buy that article. I am not going to let this legacy be cheaply besmirched without a fight, so help me God. And Jim Gardner knows this too. He knows what utter folly this is, the preening local celebrity insider who occasionally flaunts his access to the local political scene. He is a show horse, whether or not also a phony, but his living memory parallels mine, and a well placed word from him about this utter nonsense would carry weight, not that he would do it for the sake of my distress. The extreme right may not want the burden I represent, but if the left isn't careful, I may become the most unique aberration yet. I disliked Michael Nutter, but at least he was a defined scold. Kenney is the most ineffectual executive this city has had since Wilson Goode.
A declaration of war.
"Tollefson has lunch with President Liacouras every week!"-- a liberal literature instructor empathizing with student body sense of collusion.
One cannot be too harsh with the image of perfection that television projects. It is human vanity in play, but it is due to this, and moral clause contracts, that media personalities seem invulnerable. When they topple, it can be gut wrenching or gratifying, and in Tollefson's case, I fall into the former category. On video, after the guilty verdict, the man looked ghastly. It comes as a bit of a shock, and yet, for those of us who has never cheated, merely buffeted by corruption, events such as these only stoke reactionary anger. I made an unexpected windfall from group insurance, little more than two years of my former salary, last 8 years, despite spend down and medical model brutality, so I am at a bit of a loss in comprehending how Tollefson landed himself in this predicament with what seems like a generous pension, and I can hear Jim Gardner's condolences without searching his tweets, with the usual sentiments of high social standing.
The Great Recession is still reverberating, except for special cases in their own bubble of indigence. Everyone wants to be Bernie Madoff, floating on flimsy straws of derivative opulence, except for schmucks and half-crazed peasants, like oxen, tilling hard under the yoke, not succeeding on the basis of virtue, examining true crimes to look for loop holes, discovering that most murders involve petty vendettas and salacious neighbors who want to get their tattles in to modern muckrakers with microphones, lovers killing each other, husbands dis-articulating wives, vamps using sex to kill deluded paramours, everyone trying to look their best: the right sports bra, the best hair extension, the most efficient face lift, the least lethal erection enhancer.
I remember many of the most personable WPVI anchors: this deceased and colorful Texan, Larry King, Dave Roberts, father of the third rate actor David Boreanaz, Lisa Thomas-Laury, whose illness apparently got an astonishing level of accommodation from the ABC affiliate. One assumes this is not due to threat of a wrongful termination lawsuit, since Poems Syndrome seems rather singular and distinct, and Rob Jennings. WPVi's sense of continuity worked in terms of brand loyalty, but that too has pitfalls within our unfortunate mortal coils, even arrogance.
I used my teetering teetering Clarity Media credentials to approach WPVI ABC to profile the man around a holiday event. Why not? Karen Friedman put me on the news for Liberty Resources years ago. Now, I have to take a few hours and decide how to write up a pitch for AXS that I can possibly deliver on deadline, as in, WTF am I kidding?
Why am I doing this for the starvation commission I receive? Why? Maybe he and I can do this on twitter? Ha.
Aggregation involves the formation of assemblies of particles brought together by collisions, held in contact by surface forces. From a mechanistic point of view, deposition onto a macroscopic surface can be considered to be a limiting case of particle-particle aggregation in which one of the particles has an infinite dimension. Elimelech and co-authors
To state it another way, Jim Gardner was once quoted in Time Magazine asserting "We're not phonies," maybe not, but there is a huge difference between anchoring a broadcast and covering a story, or even pitching an idea. Media oriented journalists like Erik Wemple leave me discomfited at times, despite the fact that I have used my support of old grand Wapo to dissect its crop of contributors, but with the Brian Williams story, I concede Erik has cleared up my contextual bafflement. Perhaps there is a sense here that broadcasters want to be more than show horses, and Williams convinced himself that he was in the thick of it, just as Hillary did years ago. One might call it mannequin legitimacy, in much the same way that the welfare caste loses visibility and credibility, its poverty criminalized.
Three times, once in responding to a support ticket in a foul manner of emotional disappointment, I told Examiner.com I quit and decoupled myself from its Pinterest spam market, ashamed that I aggregated so much content for nine months. Yet this is not relevant. It's sister site, AXS, still regularly appears in my inbox, asking me for work, and I don't get it, replying as nicely as I did to Nikki Lloyd last evening, that I was no longer writing for Examiner, having closed my accounts in November 2014.
I am no longer sure I can be a practicing journalist. Not due to mistakes. I've made them in good conscience, rushing paragraphs. This is what copy editing is for. Not due to failure either. Sometimes ideas jell and an article emerges, sometimes not, and I have never lied about sources, but I am simply not sure how to stay in the saddle. I do not wish to work for New Mobility anymore, although I am going to write them an editorial about ADAPT Josie Byzek LBGT backlash, dare them to publish it, which they won't, and aggregating past content for different levels of emphasis can trip up the most conscientious, however driven we are toward veracity. My sense is we're all becoming overwhelmed with information, forgetting how to think it through, and this may not behoove us well at the end of the day.
History informs us that Woodward, Bernstein, numerous others, did not know what they had with the Watergate break in, and I still don't know what they had. Illegal activity and covert movement against the left in the aftershock of the Cold War, but Nixon's motives? Those seem impervious, however more attuned I was to Gerald Ford's pardon. I remember that vividly.
