Learning By Obituary

'and love is not a victory march"--Leonard Cohen

Let me give erstwhile Britonian Andrew Sullivan his due: When he was still blogging The Dish, he defended Brendan Eich and his donation on Proposition 8, and that was courageous, and the right thing to do, as people need the right to be wrong, and at the time, I concurred with Sullivan's reasoning. Eich did not publicize his views, did not create hostile environments for homosexuals, and leftist hysteria, as it has been embodied in the criticism of #MeToo, apparently wants us all to blossom into pretty pastels and cat pics rivaling India's population, and Voila, Mary had a little lamb, we all live happily ever after in a glass globe pastoral; being a more sincere apostate in his Catholic faith than I, he also introduced me to Gerard Manley Hopkins, when he was having a bad week with his lungs, led me further afield on David Foster Wallace's painful suicide, and on the preponderance of that alone, aside from his playful screen shot of Amtrak which wasn't meant to marginalize, my antagonism is deplorable. I lost a voice I ceased to respect, no real reason other than anathema for speculative anal penetration, and his destruction of marriage as a sacrament. This is the crux of queer genius. What Proust did for literature, what James did for the novel, what Foucault brought to the table about state control of physical bodies, are invaluable contributions. I know all this, but progressives, by the same token, are actually destroying personal liberty, not expanding it. What's happening on campuses today makes the destruction of Huckleberry Finn look like a table ornament, never mind that Twain worked seven years to perfect his Mississippi dialect, that an African slave is the moral center of the book. We've turned a mere word, nigger, into a form of capital punishment. And I refuse to feel guilty. The black women who run this building deserved what I did to denigrate them, as I have never been allowed, that's right, to be a fully fledged woman who could fulfill her potential. I tried devotion, and all I did in full throttle melancholy youth prior to meeting Jerry was negotiate with Christ, this manifestation of the Father, negotiate and accuse. Why did you allow this to happen to me? Give me a man. Like I want to return to that, playing fiddlesticks, touching among an interior ferocity to be a warrior for God. Priests excommunicate what I represent, even the Argentine, with his gaffes befuddling the flock. I treat His Holiness with respect on twitter, but personally feel he does Catholicism no favors. Of course hell exists, even for atheists who rebel in an unreasoned emotional intensity. Faith carries too high a price, for me, too much sacrifice, and yet, my indifference to homosexual advocacy for itself has been vanquished against the realization that humanity is inexorably unraveling what humanity means. Milo says, if we want to upgrade his rhetoric a notch, that we need new shields, after a fashion. We'll probably get them, as the sanctity of what marriage means, spiritually, is analogous to turning Leonard Cohen's classical lyric into a televised spectacle, sugar coated by a little girl so carefully imitating adult maturity.

I did my research, after the fact. Cohen, as an incongruous Canadian, employing American tropes in modulated Canadian fashion, only came to light for me after his death in 2016. I had no idea Hallelujah was a celebrated classic, a challenge grasped by many vocalists. I wouldn't have thought he could put the challenge of faith in such bold, clever terms, even as I near the end of my life. I am no longer a good human being, not beneath, whatever I fail to read in the crystal of my imagination, I thoroughly believe in limits, and in that for which the Inquisition stood. Sullivan, I doubt, will never realize the backlash of his legacy, and damned himself without anyone's help, but he has sinned in a quite febrile sense, against transcendent majesty of grace. My sin is knowing what I'd do to him for that, if you care to pray for any scalded soul.

Phosphorus Spots

This is the problem with battling a life on whatever entitlement system you can to name. The crisis such as I am having now, these are exceedingly difficult to manage. I have taken a huge hit, over two hundred dollars in additional expenses, with my static life, in an environment which was never one of my own choosing, I can barely nibble any food, remembering my mother coming to Ridley Senior High, where I was parked, as always, in the administrative offices, guidance counselor, perhaps, with the SSI paperwork. I was 16, and had I the benefit of hindsight, to be forthright, I might have stopped my education then and there, with the federal welfare stranglehold. Yesterday, I viewed, come to think of it, one of the last late Law & Order episodes with Waterston and Roache, and the cattish actress who was ADA Connie. The abortion doctor assassination, which, for Wolf's writing team, was powerfully done, in terms of authenticity, and like some of those genetically doomed babies, I should have been allowed to die, instead of incubated, although, even in the incubator, I was supposed to die. Even premature, perhaps it was my destiny, to terrorize ableism. I do not know.

I am still here, of course, but it is too much for me. I may not kill a minority building manager or any of her residents, or a lesbian, or my former supervisor, but I am clinging to the escarpment hidden by rushing waterfalls, and can see my psyche, a spastic psyche, riddled with bullet holes, on some derivative of Thorazine, little more than a maniac, like so many Inglis residents. Yet this L&O episode challenged my extermination of the species as effectively, if not more so, than all the Catholic accounts I follow, and, if I did not know better, Pope Francis might have been tweeting directly to me earlier this morning. For once, this socialist Argentine, of whom I am diffident, reached me as Santo Padre; yet I refuse, like Anne Rice, to flip flop, fall on my knees, and give in to my occasional awareness of a devout fervor. Why? When I did believe, I was too self-conscious to accept all this damned nonsense, the holy spirit, the tongues. I dared to laugh at God, as Umberto Eco raised so dramatically in The Name of the Rose, three years before I ever graced a campus, I laughed at God, and I feel the import of that sacrilegious defiance, and thus force mystery and materialism to co-habituate in my Catholic Atheism. Better to reject divine character than to accept and damn yourself for knowing you can never love it, indeed, hate it, which probably matters little.

This Office 365 download is agonizingly slow, but I threw in the towel  on installing my older 2007 version, and have yet to see if it will take on this expensive, but still ten year old laptop, my feet swollen, tinnitus swirling in my eardrum, powerless, squalid woman, desperate to restore her work, sweating fish oil through her pores. The high school secretary, she had a predication for Sidney Sheldon. I too, find Rage of Angels moves along at a pleasingly taut, climatic pace. Even just sitting here, oblivious to section 202 housing hostilities and jeopardy, I'm suffering, yowling at my poor baby brother for surcease, gratified to engage Gretchen again, even playing along with Facebook humor, I might as well be a writhing succubus: the download is complete, but I have to go to bed, with so little to spare, like a box of food for little kimmy.

The Provenance of Meringues

Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or match folders after you use the last match. [sic]-- Philip K Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, p65

I can cheat, of course, pillage a substantial portion of my content here and move it here. I've adapted somethings already, bending my neck like Vincentio, casting his net over Vienna, hanging rogues, but this morning, we have a slight inverse. I will clarify some of my incendiary sentiments from "The Welfare State". The "balking," referred to about my article is marginally related to failure, more grudgingly belabored toward heavy lifting for a mere contributing byline, something I moved past under contract, but these days, have little choice but to make my way back in, beyond vanity posts, for nothing but a dose of ether in the fog; if I succeed with the publisher, all well and good, but it is still nothing for nothing, wondering why in the fuck I continue to support Writer's Market. My concluding sentences on this unfortunate Niume outcry were also harsh. Indifference toward walking it back notwithstanding, what I actually desire is to strike back, to purchase justice by brute force if necessary, but, and I've written it before, Trudy Richardson is a difficult enemy to characterize, and if I expend all this energy to broil her ass like tofu, there are thousands of minority women exactly like her, not worth more than one of my initial starting salaries. I go up against a sea tide of women such as she, process pushers, otherwise stupid people, running a Chinese drywall building on handbooks. She is no British pasteurized Colin Salmon, who plays a Jesuit librarian in The Statement (03), a film directed by Jewison with laden gravitas, marred by a flimsy narrative, egging its way toward dry heaves of Roman Catholic collusion, but for moi, worth watching, even if the aging Michael Caine is not alluding back to his maverick energies in the equally flawed Marseille Contract.

There is much to read into The Statement, despite the fact that it's an overdrawn game of cat and mouse. It is a European vehicle according to Hollywood vacuum packing, Swinton's feral energies wasted, although here she applies them as an obstinate avenger out maneuvered by ever brimming French scandals.

I overtaxed myself, however, rushing to vote at 7:19 last evening, disappointing my conviction never to touchpad choices again. Duty triumphed because I know I'll be gone soon, and nearly blind as a bat, having left my glasses on the lamp, the voting warder assisted me going straight GOP ticket, having no idea what choices I tossed in Toomey's war chest. That is an extended metaphor. It is also true I want to digest my impressions of the movie a bit further.

Erosion of Authority

In relation to the Holy Father doing his job, I was very nearly rude Friday morning, when the modest bishop of Rome tweeted

The Lord becomes man to journey with us in our everyday lives.

— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) December 23, 2016

and then bit my tongue. I may prefer that Jorge Mario Bergoglio had more stature, but to behave like a sophist  in the manner of Hebdo Charlie, being so close to the end of my self reliance, has more remorse than reward. It recalled a study I glanced at briefly, about Cervantes needing exile to still be Catholic. During my brother's funeral, I glared at the priest. His homily was dry, circumspect, hasty summary of a turbulent monster boy's life, and I glared at this shepherd, his run of the mill tone. It wasn't personal. Any priest I've ever confessed to is dead, but that day, all things being equal, an exorcist might have had suspicions that a cripple might have needed a cleansing.

When it comes to Donald Trump, we're in another territory, namely, the diminished dignity of his office. I despise the man, and the issue isn't getting myself under surveillance for a vitriolic potty mouth, so much as it might be the price of these libertarian seismic waves: it would cost me nothing to tell Trump to go fuck himself, and no one else has that distinction. Bill Clinton might come close, not that gradations are of any use. It isn't a simple matter of decline, of turning into butt head bitch. Trump is a celebrity jackass whose carnivalesque antipodes have already worn threadbare. The world is undoubtedly at an end, with the bile of repugnance in my throat.

Don your civility, bless the Pontiff, who made due with the modern theatrical circus of godspel in the larnyx of Aretha Franklin. Kick it up, dare to be inappropriate. Go to Christmas mass, be gracious to Philadelphia's lanky shuffling  in their pews. Wear the sneakers the dead pig from the Bronx gave you for a present. Go.  

Shavuot

"What if they learn to laugh at God?"-- Umberto Eco

It pierced the blood, the actions of Mevlut Mert, pierced the blood in remembrance of fervor, of devout aspiration which even Roman Catholics are taught to hold at arms' length, the passionate conviction of belief, the struggle of belief, which yet provoked laughter, yes, laughter, at the private gatherings of women in ad hoc prayer groups, speaking in tongues, no descent of the Holy Spirit here, just ridicule, before doing a 180 towards atheism, one which would become a life long dissatisfaction with the explanations of mere biological impetus. Frightening, perhaps, that I do not joke, remain inexorably moved, never having imagined I'd live to see an instantaneous warrior, martyring, out maneuvering, circumventing internal security forces, his fire making the rest, left or right, seem paltry. Most true acts of terror have a yellow streak embedded in them, including Osama's spectacular operatives, despite that it was indeed a historical blow,9/11, one that has an indelible infamy whose repercussions reverberate. The points can be plotted: Al Qaeda strikes, Afghanistan becomes occupied territory; Iraq turns into a casualty of an extended ideological argument, a fruit seller in Tunisia ignites sectarian factionalism which no one outside of policy institutes understands, and in a game of superpower volleyball, Libyan and Syrian territorial integrity ceases to exist, and ISIS too, for all its ruthlessness, has an underbelly of loathsome cowardice. Not this young man, whether or not he followed this Gulen who resides in my state, this unknown figure who is Erdogan's favorite bogey figure, a disruptive element within Turkey's own internal tensions. 
Something inside the breast broke, a floodgate, I believe, ready to take up arms for -- for-- what? Rolling to parish, throwing myself on my knees to light a candle for the soul of a twenty two year old man who was trained to be what he was, fully expecting that the military's attempt to depose the yet again discredited civilian power structure to be successful? I grew up with the military taking over the government in Turkey, never saw anything like Mevlut. Informed as to the after effects of calamity? Certainly, there were the bloody pictures of Sadat, the death of Lord Mountbatten, but never this, a direct strike on the residual Soviet hierarchy. The sheer awe of what zeal can do in striking truth to power restored something to me about the divine, left me shaken with its force, with Orhan's narrative voice superimposed, not that I may ever peruse his work again beyond what Snow offered, since there are limits, within my morbid frame, to my multi-cultural pathways, and I'm not the least interested in writing the typical correspondent analysis of Turkey as the nation of crossroads, a bridge. Why would I care beyond the knowledge of Germany's sizable community of Turkish expatriates?
There are certain levels of empiricism beyond intuitive understanding, despite the ready access to the genealogy of events, to the explanations of the divisions between Muslims over successors. Sides not understood are sides not to be taken, but nonetheless, some actions have the potential for paradigm shifts, to permanently alter perspectives, break the order of things, despite a hastily papering over. Times have changed, and repression of such striking dissent is not as easily accomplished as it once might have been. If I can grieve for such a sacrifice, an alien so many leagues away in a Quakertown backwater overrun by waves of ethnicities subsumed by urban blight, how much more will those closer to these roils in Ankara burn the torch of his memory? Send a prayer for his soul, this Mevlut in black. have mercy on it, as Bashar has had none to spare in his bloody desert.

Kingdoms Come

Self-interest is a rather condemning insulator. The children of celebrities either survive through imitation, like Ivanka Trump, or die in a drug overdose while in a grotesque imitation, like Bobbi Brown. I just remembered my pitch about Bobbi, and would probably have to hold my nose and open a Facebook account to get at my sources. I have no desire to get penalized and banned on the social networking giant, none, whatsoever, but like Ann Coulter, I may have to succumb, at least as a practical matter, but for the life of me can only barely fathom why Peck's son checked himself out. I am starving to death, doomed, spent a life long battle believing what liberals spoon fed me about success and disability, and the obituaries hang little pork chops on a string. Jonathan committed suicide, because of, or despite Father Chisholm's insufferable stridency? In Old Gringo, nearly one of Peck's last supporting roles, the actor mitigates his infallible conviction, since he is portraying Bierce, middlebrow hack, whose legacy mine might one day be reasonably compared to, but it was distasteful, badly done. We're used to the striated laces with which the old lion roars

Though I am not fully ready to take aim at Hollywood and Catholic pageantry, Peck's priggishness is another matter, and as old as Gentleman's Agreement is, I rooted for the realists, thank you very much, though I have never used "kike" as an epithet. I have no idea what it means. For its time, the 47 film was more honest than it had to be, but this was due to the war. Too many Europeans died in that conflict, in addition to the 6 million in the camps. Chisholm was aged, at the end of The Keys to the Kingdom, with its adamant lessons about tolerance and hypocrites, (I had forgotten Vincent Price and he was a breath of fresh air) to look like a Scottish saint. Compare this to his devil may care countenance in 89, against Fonda and Smitts. The elderly, eventually, are drawn to caviler libertarian defiance, even Peck, who probably would have been sworn into office by acclamation, if he had given his handlers the go. It is so much more convenient, merging celebrity and monarchy. The early 20th century Edwardians knew it, or Gambon had some fun with it, if the story of Elizabeth's father has any genealogical accuracy.

Romans and Celts

"The North, I mean the living North, was suddenly all transcendental. It went behind the human law, it went behind the apparent failure, and recognized eternal justice and glory." -- Henry David Thoreau, cited in Weird John Brown: Divine Violence and The Limits of Ethics

The second generation kindle which my broken urinal splashed has fully recovered, though the controller was not amused with me. How many of these things has Amazon manufactured? Thousands? I understand that the micro-bead ink is made in Israel. I am rather attached to the one the retailer shipped me originally. I have a relationship with this kindle, curse it ferociously but derive more comfort from it than my marginally younger Paperwhite, though I know the 2Gk has to be exchanged, deregistered, soon. I am sad, because the device has it's own character, and do not wish to deactivate it, Russian trolls notwithstanding.

The above paragraph serves as a rationale as to why I'm solidly behind Toomey, despite the sense, intuitively derived, that his staff may believe I need a nose ring and some manners; who bothers when the mare is barren? In point of fact, if Toomey's circle saw how I live, bipartisanship would turn a leaf or two, and that circle would coax me to die as I had lived, in medical model institution, siding with the intellectually limited minorities who manage the building (but not themselves, blacks seem to repeatedly confirm they behave like Chinese villagers with petty vendettas, and I am getting out, one way or another, fall on my sword, if I must). If I know what I know, that obscene fortresses like Inglis House are reliable portfolios, and I applaud Toomey's business acumen as a necessary aggression, then why don't I fold in my hand?

Because I know what it's like to have money, and a beautiful 3 acre home, une poppa who taught me the value of work and self reliance, and I did all of this before progressives ass-kissed federal mandates like the ADA, which, as statues, are simply useless repetitions. I may baffle the left, may confuse the Christian right wing, and other libertarians may not trust my authoritarian streak, granted, but every liberal biased negative ad against Toomey makes him a proper capitalist in my eyes, willing to bury the hatchet over such unspoken skeletons. The Celt and the Roman married the same faith, but despise each other. Keep it under your hat. 

It is to my misfortune I did not push to be a flunky to get what I wanted, but if he keeps his seat, the mare ninnies another day.

Albert Finney's Papacy

"Death carries no passport," Louis Gossett Jr pretending to address the UN before being assassinated

When TheGaryo initially discovered my thus far lone twitter account, the dowager assumed he was a comic book fan, not a British footballer. And as of this writing, I am not certain who the fuck he is, nor what he deigns to offer. I only recently noticed his numbers, a whale of his own making, perhaps. He also stopped following me, twice; twice returned, and I would have gone on blithely ignoring the man, to the extent we assume gender, but for the fact I suspected him in relation to hoax accounts sent my way.

If he is a British athlete of standing, I can only speculate his motives for being charitable to a spastic racist in the process of losing control of her game: he is being charitable, or wonders about the possibility of chronic injury. If it is the latter, O'Neill would be better off reading Hockenberry, who I only recently stopped following, exasperated because I was weakly clinging to the shared experience identification. It only takes us so far, like the embarrassment of shitting yourself in front of an Israeli source while eating olives. The Israeli graciously clucks his tongue, and out comes a mop and pail. I may not know Hockenberry, but I know too much, inclusive of the fact he has never turned his Dateline/PBS beam on the cruelty of CIL culture. Clint Eastwood, as a former elected official, he makes great target practice, never mind NCIL corruption. This points to my decoupling, with my own incontinence an integumental hindrance growing in proportion to lack of resources, and Riverside's central thermostat. My landlord took away my ability to control the radiator. It sickens me, and I get blamed, as usual. Complaining does little, though I've attempted, in the past, to talk to Mike Pera, who should face a firing squad for being the dumbest Caucasian on the planet. I might have beat the situation this morning, but waited and had a potato, eating so much less than I used to what is coming out of me must have mitigated any arterial plaque-- or I am not absorbing what little nutrients getting dissolved in my stomach. 70 degrees outside, my bedside window cracked, fan running, my end of life career a battle with fecal puss, like Slothrop's post-modern swim through toilet plumbing.

For the record, I am ambivalent about Karol Wojtyla's usurpation of the Roman Empire's last titular vestige of its grip on the world. Ceding to the Polish, then the German balks and the cardinals go to Argentina. Scowling. Was the Cardinal Wojtyla a great force of moral resistance? If memory serves, that may be affirmed, but he turned the papacy into a celebrity contest which will continue to have troubling indications. Hopefully I'll be gone before Nigeria gains control of The Curia.  

Heather Donahue Does an Isothermal

Jean-Luc Bideau dissuades me from enjoying The Churchmen too much. I am sure there are priests like Fromenger, but this particular actor leaves me unconvinced, among other issues, but this admission in no way detracts from the fact that the series has more to it than Samuel Jouy's intensive, persuasive, sexually attractive fervor so ironically crippled in the second season. The series, taking into account the actual production, is not quite ten years old, and one might suppose it alludes to The Blair Witch Project to maintain a complimentary parallel to the metric system.

Along with the Matthew Broderick Godzilla, AI, The Sixth Sense, Blair Witch was one of the last films I saw at the shuttered Chestnut Street Cinema, and it flew over my head as the beginning of the generation gap between myself and those who came of age at the close of the Clinton era. I do not mean this in an aesthetic sense, though I believe the film fails, and Donahue's hyper holding it together and peeling apart like fried string cheese wasn't enough to carry a movie that was deliberately an imitation of rough captured home video. I recall the rapid monologue in dappled sunlight, the weirding out in the closed in motel, and a climax which might have been a bad case of menstrual cramps, and it made such slight impression because there was little that I could grasp in terms of cultural cues. 

Doing films on Chestnut was one of the few things I could do alone without a tortured sense of alienation, and I miss it for this reason. Unlike Liberty On The Rocks, which rankles me as much as I care about it as a sort of wry conceit on political bullshit, in the movie theater I could bond with others, and threw a distraught scene on the sidewalk too, despair surging forth in the stark realization of my doom, interior knowledge attuned to the fact that Cinderella will not be rescued by the perfectly abandoned slipper, much like the sage patrician sensibility of The Modern Catholic isn't quite what I envisioned when contemplating a contribution, and shall have to adjust my parameters if I make an effort. Catechism is long buried in spot memories of Mary Anne; I think she was Mary Anne, who got involved as a stabilizing force in my prepubescent years. She walked me on crutches with the classic cripple's leather helmet, locked me in standing tables, prepared me for communion, let me sleep over. She might have taken me from my mother, and I contemplate in amazement the absence of scars in the care of a decent physical therapy aide. My viewers inadvertently remind me some of my rage-trigger posts about independent living need a polish. Time constraints merit patience.

Missa debet restituere ecclesiae

I have been out of sorts, I know, and make poverty tenant living worse than it is, most of the time. It isn't simply that I hate Riverside to the point of risking imprisonment, however. Poverty housing in Philadelphia is mostly the same, a cesspool, like its public school system, and Riverside is just that, a cesspool of petty vendettas and doilies, better than most of any other units I've experienced, but that is partly the point. Even if I let another municipal matron like Nakea dictate the terms of my existence, and look how gracious she appears in her portrait as the preening nigress, it becomes more of the same. It is not fair that my life ended in a major trauma at 37, only for the next 16 years to be browbeat because I've sustained systemic abuse and prefer eviction. Last year, I barely and mean barely, evaded eviction by Presby, and only haven't given notice because I don't know if I can find some sort of shelter I can handle, and I've had COPD attacks, now my molar nerves are throbbing. WTF would I go? The local libertarians can't help me, etcetera, and yet, I'm sick with rage; it will break me, eventually, and padre is now moving into his second childhood, subtly. He isn't Murdoch.

One thing is certain, however, those old B stock Roman empire films transmitted by local Delaware independent stations, are a riot. I do not really watch them, unless I suspect a modicum of historical truth, but what they lack in quality the certainly make up for in wardrobe. Perhaps I was crucified under Marcus Aurelius, or poisoned by the Medici, despite their flowering Renaissance. Even getting my shit together will never be enough. I've truly been broken, and I'm all to blame.

Patricia Highsmith

My darkness isn't as original as that of Hitchcock's appropriated lesbian. Revenge killing over betrayal of trust is as old as the hills. Highsmith utilized more complex repressions and triggers, those which basically sucked good people into suspense-filled, dangerous situations, and by today's standards, faggots are the new angels, except for those Christians who feel the power of apostasy, and thus, even Highsmith's bitterness, which Matt Damon brought to life as Ripley, is passe. What bothers many people about me is the belief that I am capable of the beheading in Oklahoma, at least morally, or that like Cumberbatch, I can go up against a nearly invincible opponent, and shoot a bullet through their skull, while the Catholic laity rejoins harp to homily to ask, "What is this doing to you?"

What it has done is destroyed a time in my life wherein I should have been able to relax with a decent man, visit Tuscany, greet my damn family who stayed at the other end of the pond. Although I may annihilate myself in the process, I am going to dissolve and destroy the Philadelphia disability center. I'll send Tony Stiles the pre-written saga which always leads to these poignant trajectories of destruction.

To steer these insinuations back to the literature and the screen plays themselves, for all of Benedict's attuned energies, and all the mobility of the modern camera, His Last Bow ends on a disappointing, anti-climatic note.

Doyle is... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a master mechanic, conceptually, but his high and corrupted Victorian voice, ushering in the ambiguity of the modern, Edwardian? era gets on my nerves. Sorry.

This be it said, me believes I have the etext in the cabbit patch. I'll check. Someday, if I don't keel from arteriosclerosis triggered by starvation, it is worthy to compare.

The Tyranny of Rayon Cossacks?

I've only ever read one Graham Greene story in the linear fashion, a first person sardonic account of White Liberal Writer in Haiti, and remain frustrated; his texts have not been readily digitized, and I am not keen on paying 10 to 30 dollars to get used texts as old as I was during my newborn combat with death in incubation. Deborah Kerr brought her gifts to bear in the 55 The End of the Affair, but Van Johnson is an unpleasant as a whiny and self-righteous author, and I'd rather at the novels themselves, without being able to analyze much about Greene's struggle with conscience and promiscuous satisfaction. Greene pits Catholicism in real world contexts without the special effects of the Madonna appearing as a strobe light effect to take persecuted saints to heaven, and climaxes his plots with credible sacrifices which do not in all circumstances bring grace.

Does it seem I am persuading myself back to my faith?

I am going to be gone soon, and merciless ignorantly cruel fecal bitches like Deborah Horne will win, and destroy my dignity,unless my acumen outwits such fiends, so no, I am simply a would be executioner looking at the moral struggles of a man whose realism about authority precluded the zealotry of Osama bin Laden. How's that for a brief checking in reflection? I'm about to engage in a mammoth struggle with the service sector in this city which I know so intimately, and I'll probably drop dead roaring at local bigwigs who aren't used to being cut down to size, but in between then, I can find Greene at my branch, after Francis returns to the Vatican. I am not sure whether I'm attending the service. 

The Value of Retaining Habits

Undaunted, Richard Lynn has with The Chosen People accomplished a yeoman's task in summing up work done thus far on Jewish intelligence.-- John Glad, undaunted in his own eugenics sphere.

The television network system, in its former monopoly on what viewers were fed, has a somewhat lengthy populism of its own in soft pedaling the Catholic tread on monotheism. The dowager wouldn't be able to remember the content of Sally Field's Flying Nun adventures even with a hypothetical inducement from Peter Thiel being willing to overlook my grimace, offering me a charitable donation to debate him like a fool on why my diffidence against homosexuality matters, but I do remember her self-effacing smile at the conclusion of her playful gymnastics had it about right, in the wholesome humility the public was willing to buy, the abuses pounding the doors of our district attorneys today then still an indulgence of Bad Catholics, according to latter day Commonweal contributors. There may be some hardy souls who point out that my willingness to destroy Presbyterian Homes as a fraternal brickbat stands in direct contradiction against my preference to preserve Roman Catholicism as an institution, but that is a huge thesis I inadvertently rolled into. It is easier this evening to disparage Michael Landon, rumble slightly about Della Reese and angel touches, and point out that Early Edition is beyond superficial, although, in its essential elements, it operates under the same premise as Joan of Arcadia, which respects itself.

However, Shanesia Davis has better facial expressions to pretend blindness than Audrey Hepburn does in Wait Until Dark. The dowager, in her most cursed moment of carelessness thus far, caught only the last 20 minutes of the thriller. Arkin almost looks like another actor. I am not attempting to be hard on the iconic princess. One wouldn't want to be shocked if she had really dug in, but blind people do have facial dysphoria. Here is the evidence of it in the unpleasant leftist Shaf Patel. (I knew it wouldn't work, but swallowed my loathing, followed him back, briefly, still suffering from brotherhood syndrome.) Saramago does imbue a grisly realism to his inexplicable parable of white death, but network never quite knows how to carry disability, pretend or otherwise, for itself. The able majority prefer not to notice, and the deprived, adapt and stiffen. Other than Chandler's sidekick, I am not sure what her role is in the series, other than to cross her fingers that she gets friended a cameo in the ever recurring confirmation bias.