Endoscopy Maintenance

...Prepping is nothing more than extending to the rest of your life the same foresight that compels you to keep a spare tire and a first aid kit in your car. (sic)--Reason staff

My last vestige of alliance with independent living modal structure, not that I’ve proactively reached for it within the last year, comes mainly from three Twitter accounts. One is Deborah Ruh, who pounds the pavement with traditional empowerment events and accomplishments. I have no grievance with it, and even if I did, community integration has been stuck in a wormhole since 1984. Disability centers engage in the same static with vocational rehabilitation, and the incorporation of Maximus as the elephant in the room is a rather obvious admission of failure on the part of public welfare systems when it comes to disability. This is not necessarily integral to the Commonwealth to which I am domicile. I have the public presser arm of Maximus on my Twitter feed, and Jack would undoubtedly ban me if I engaged them with my variation of a Tasmanian Devil body slam, but I am acute enough to know that Maximus news is the front cover for the arduous processes of rationed genocide. Baring my fangs at them, in essence, amounts to Mueller prosecuting Manafort in order to justify his probe into Russia’s revamped existential threat. The second is Quad Life, which is on radio silence, not an unknown let down in my neck of the woods, and the third is Jason Dorwart, who told me to check out a theater group, but has yet to inform me how I sample his publication on drama and inclusion. I will qualify here that my open suggestion that “maybe” he and I could meet for coffee if I headed to Virginia was purely for business arrangements within traditional progressive academia. I was of course curious, and scanned his CV, but I am not necessarily looking for a paraplegic within age appropriate range. Thus far, Jason and I lag, whatever our potential, because I am wallowing in my own fecal mucous, rather than ambulance chasing art therapy. I also accepted Maria Dewan’s friend request on Facebook, but she ended the connection after I tagged her in this post, 
believing that The Aide Who Loved Me would have been torn away by now.

I do not know Maria well, barely at all, but I am none the less rankled by her inability to handle my expression of frustration with a sticky situation. I was merely utilizing an assessment for purposes of comparison, not condemning her through the observation, but the skittish tortoise retreated to its shell with its normative darting retraction in the face of assertion, and speaks to my dismay with activism's glass ceiling. Krauthammer and Hockenberry, regardless of their markers on the ideological spectrum, were ambulatory men who survived broken backs, and succeeded within the established media paradigm, something those strcken with developmental defects rarely do. I started to go to bed early, stressed with such quaking colon stresses as I've been, but the harried hare power napped within this rather offensive tilt technology appealing to her inner Luddite, gasping to a finish, still pushing

Misery

I have been rather silent about Niume and Virily both since I've joined them and since gone awol, though I have a post in my head which may please Virily, when I can get to it. I am busy not being busy because this damn foster cat I adopted for my dead baby boy is going to kill me. Kimmy is a good girl, but she is my fourth pet child, my semi-second female, and one cannot help but love them but she refuses to let me drive my damn chair, refuses, without first combing the carpet for prey. This, and controlling my summer bowel, is my life, not to create an affinity with suicidal post modernists, but you have little idea how much I have refrained from constantly talking about the tyranny of stool movement and control, and how remarkably well I have done thus far despite almonds and four pints of ice cream. I have mainly ceased eating ice cream because whether or not I'm lactose intolerant milk makes me sick and speeds trots, but I have had so little I had the pints to create mucus, cursing fate. I am not a day person as is but my age, in these temperatures, in an environment where I am constantly angry and want to hurt minority women who are so ignorant it makes you question evolutionary process. How can such stupid people exist? I hate shallowness and have worn thin with baby pictures, but it takes no great degree of temerity to realize that perhaps collaborative blogging isn't a troll tamer. I do not generally like niume content, and I am still traditionalist enough to know that computer graphics don't translate well, whether the artist's creation or a photograph, like oscar's work. It is not the same experience as viewing in a gallery. Virily, I haven't really read, but I'm slightly too leery of Russian hackers. Nato isn't going to exactly do a hula hoop for the sake of Estonian sovereignty, and I am about as poor as the average Russian female trapped in Chernobyl. Both sites say they miss me. Very nice, but they too, will kill me before I ever see any real profit from either. Fuck em. I have other priorities right now, like enough coffee for a caffeine overdose, despite the weather.

Mueller's Absorption Rate

They still hate us! Adolph Caeasar's dying declaration


On the basis of Associated Press access, and the fact that I'm doing ancillary background research, duly assembled by NYT's  Mark Mazetti and Matthew Rosenberg, Michael Flynn allegedly mischaracterized his contractual arrangements with Russia Today, an airline cargo transport, and an American cybersecurity firm called Kaspersky Global, to the tune of $70,000. No longer a great deal of money, not even for Pentagon career officials This is i n addition to his transition team dialogue with the Russian ambassador, and his lobbying efforts on behalf of Turkey after he was forced out of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The best alternate narrative I have been able to find is that Andrew McCabe had an adversarial relationship with Flynn, and the FBI's investigation into the general's conduct is a retaliation on this basis. On some level, this has a plot similar to The Friends of Eddie Coyle, where an aging Mitchum tones it down to be a screwed, ineffectual humbug, played by his treasury agent, left hanging in the wind, his balls in a vise for unwittingly transporting Canadian liquor, desperate to avoid half nickel short time in prison for the sake of his family and the onset of his golden years. Perhaps we're all that expendable. Coyle is not a Bigelow thriller, with her stark realism of the price we all pay for deep state, whatever the hell that is, but the Nixon era set up, as true to seventies realism as anything I know, shows what is sacrificed for the system, and will continue to be. 
I have no affectation for Flynn other than, like the paralytic Krauthammer, trying to reason out the puzzle of why he wanted to return through the revolving door, and why he believes US Russian cooperation will necessarily pacify the intractable Middle East. Even if Israel dissolved itself, or should have never been forcibly formed, I give up trying to comprehend what seems to be deep seated cultural inadequacy and resentment. I know all the progressive arguments, and lived through a great deal of jingoism with you, viewed wretched documentaries which resets my financial stresses as extravagant, and though I may have trace elements of Semitic blood in my veins, it seems Yemen, Syria, Somalia, are appendages, like gall bladders, and the United Nations would be that much less a laughing stock if these sovereign fictions went away. It is a little too simple, too brusque, which is why the Pentagon would find me useful. I only voted for Trump as an act of punishment, so I cannot really complain about Beltway roiling, but I don't see any smoking guns here. Eastern Europe is what it is, and its mistrust of its own playbook reflects what is a seemingly universal need to beat the system. From that perspective, Manafort's kickbacks, Putin's undermining, seem deserving of some trivializing. I had a brief hope, returning to my conservative inclinations, that I'd get some recompense, but if I allowed the baser aspects of human cruelty to scar me too deeply, the right may tolerate my vitriol, but they aren't going to help me. They want my loyalty, my vote, getting me legal help, or extracting me, or finding clever ways to help the aged re-integrate the work force, that is sucked up by the oxygen of federal cannibalism. It is not helping Trump supporters, or anyone else. Can such skepticism ever be prevailed upon to change its view?

Hyper- vigilance with Lobster Bisque

"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated.

Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me.
"Get out more."
With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches.  Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about.  Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.

In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil. 

Shrewd Baby Blue Eyes, the Annoyance Recur

"Maybe, but if I win I can buy any doctor I want."-- Stephen Lang taunting the case for megalomania in Dead Man's Gun

Though Vancouver's take on America's mythology of its historical brutality leaves viewers frustrated with the case for domestic tranquility, Temptests makes the strongest argument North Hollywood can bring to bear. Does Hanson allude to Shakespeare's final and defiant play? I cannot snap my fingers with found correspondences for your edification, but the teleplay nicely turns on the dime with the argument that neither reality the lead actor doubts and believes is the correct reality, and we humans, sophisticated primates, believing we'll conquer space time, are conquered by alien arthropods the size of a forearm. Let that be a lesson to you. Nicely done bit of bemusement. Stephen Lang is not quite as strong as an archetype of compromised moral decency. The mad scientist who wrongly rouses a cadaver, then kills his murderer, his corpse, (surprise!) still fresh enough to regenerate, the lessons of conscience bringing him back to humility, scorched away from the violence of divine aspiration. He does the same thing for Showtime's rendering of the latter day American west, playing a gambler who needs to eliminate his principled pursuers, once again redeemed to find his way back to simpler pleasures with the right companion. The signature of not having a life is in the burgeoning recognition of the players. Shouldn't Blu Mankama make hard liners ashamed? Here he is the studio bar keep, no mention of free towns brought to bear, and there, six years later, he is Muth's reaper, the appropriator of pasteurized urbanity. It isn't so simple in the reverse, despite Kathleen Parker's hash over Comey's letter and what if it was Trump instead?

Well, in the Post's coverage of Trump as front-runner, Donald was the target, so incessant, so constant, that my vote for the fuck witted bastard was part spite. Russian hackers have nothing to do with my nausea toward the Clintons and their cosmetic pretenses. A Reason Magazine contributor, when journalists were granted access to the nefarious paragraph, analysed that the director was covering his ass. It is a rather plausible motive, as why someone like Comey would prefer a paranoid mogul to a paranoid Yale domicile matron who skews her loyalists is also a reasonable inquiry. At some point, perhaps Pence takes over the reigns, and we find ourselves waking up to the occupation of Taiwan.