Bill Paxton's Heart Valve

 you have to be considerate of other people-- an adage

The Tom Hanks of Forrest Gump and Castaway is barely recognizable in The Circle. This may be partly due to age, but in this incurious vehicle it seems a deliberate masking, a submergence of the Everyman to Silicon Valley monoculture, despite the fact that the actor’s Eamon Bailey, in a conglomerate stage-on conversation with Emma Watson’s Mae Holland, gives testament to the fact of having a son with cerebral palsy who “lives a full life,” and benefits from the circle’s collective muscle. The dowager cannot speak for all spastics, but she doesn’t live vicariously through video feed, any more than Bill Paxton does, in his composite as Mae’s ailing father, stricken with multiple scoliosis. Ponsoldt, through his attempt to achieve balance, and kayaking in rough waters as a metaphor, leaves the audience behind with a vacillating conclusion, uneven message, and seems more desirous to embrace Google’s abandoned corporate motto, “do no evil,” than not. There seems to be more affect on Holland through her capsize as opposed to Mercer’s vehicular death. Her friend was a limpid foil at best, ditto Paxton’s resistance, yet another lack of recognition in relation to his small screen role.

A johnny come lately to nearly everything, I did not have access to cable when Big Love made its splash, but since I have some scruples about Mormon mainstream legitimacy, I never saw more than a clip of Paxton bringing real time bigamy to life. Smith’s anarchy isn’t particularly compatible with a true scale back of federalism over smaller state governance, though he was a true and mostly half-cocked enemy of state who seemed to think living in a harem would slate his hypersexuality. Though Mormon resistance to mixed marriage is courageous, there is still dubious moral value in cultist heretics calling the kettle black. Hollywood has always had an ambivalence about populism. Ponsoldt is passing the torch to the millennial heirs of Facebook blandishments, but traditionalism reminds us this isn’t as new an anxiety as we like to believe: cf, Andy Griffith, A Face in the Crowd, or Network. We’ve been predicting our hurl over the cliff, mindless lemmings marching toward the death of history, for some time.

I peruse mediocre films in my captivity much like readers engage with franchise novels, nothing wrong with it, and The Circle nodded me off to sleep, not making much of a dent against conglomeration and the limits of its efficacy, but Ponsoldt, since he touched upon bio ethics, individualism in the cloud, might have done more than leave us in the middle of the lake with customer service agents who don’t know what kind of human connection they’re searching for.

Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.

Crohn's Management: One

It is interesting that The Washington Post Volokh Conspiracy series contributor Jane Bambauer explains claim liberty First Amendment rights just as I am seriously beginning to wonder about all the penalties invoked on half baked academics, and getting my ass realigned by either playful or stark libertarian Caucasians who would probably prefer I go away and play kiss and make up with reasonable accommodation bromides. What Bambauer has achieved in explicating her studies is an example of what I want to do, not as it pertains to constitutional law, but on something. I thought I was capable of work at her level, and so did others, but hypothetically, had I attained a Harvard degree, been peer to Ross and Niall Ferguson, would things have been any different? Zuckerberg, his backers, like rich homosexual nutcases, Google, its ruthless efficiency paradigm rather belling its feel the love effusiveness, Microsoft, Silicon Valley gargantuanism birthed a monster, after a fashion, and I do not know why, following in Bambauer's footsteps as an expert in something that I accomplished matters, particularly as I am angry enough to court violence. I would not, like the alt.right, of late, duck for police protection. I'd go down with a roar that would have deafened our 43rd president, on that carrier. Many on the left would see that as a pathology at war with its finer essence, but what is it, exactly, I think I can repair any better than Ann Coulter modal grammars, or Ross'es superciliousness?  We all have a prescription, and can turn thence immediately to lower brow media, like this, as a reminder of our ground game. I am stuck on Race Street, with my past shoveled in my face daily, with a now irrelevant, once prominent, corrupt transsexual who sourced my very first article, black males who threaten and verbally lacerate me, seventy year old and plus seniors who have tried to get me evicted since I moved in, and yet I persist with some sort of belief, if I can climb back, become, miraculously, a CATO fellow, then this justifies the level of my rage in poverty and failure. Dream on. 

Walking Back

My conclusion in Applicable is too broad. Neither my ISP nor Google have to tolerate that my anger veers toward being nothing more than threat rhetoric, of course, however much I pull it back for the sake of what else I'm doing aesthetically, but I suppose, if no incorporated entity is beholden to constitutionally protected speech, and social media companies fall into that category, then I'm questioning what the First Amendment actually protects, as it has no power to rectify, in and of itself, loss of economic freedom. We'll continue to chip at it, categorically.

Big Box Pits

"we have no housing options at this time" --Pat Toomey's office, my fantasy avenger

One of the most sophisticated of the late Law & Order series, before Jesse Martin left and the fat poster boy for nigger grievances took over, now making his drum roll rapid timing on black-ish, is "Bottomless". Purely as a story, it opens like an exquisite floral bouquet, with an implicit acknowledgement of the fact the we're all expendable on the basis of income, career skill set, and age. It doesn't quite come out and call Walmart a devil, or simplify old school identity politics through Lieu and her retired boss of yesteryear, but it is a rather deft spin on ableism, white privilege, and the truth that one person's pain may initiate an investigation, in this case, grieving Chinese dry cleaners with a dead daughter fresh off her bar exam, with a frivolous lawsuit opening into criminally complicit sex which winds its way back to how deft Beijing is at playing the lack of accountability game, to the point the initial manslaughter is virtually obliterated from view. We're all little drops in the bucket, blanketed over by multi-billion dollar corporations, and I ridicule what, in contemporary terms, is a mortal emotional wound, one which I can no longer quite control (it's hot), with nicotine or fish oil or my usual methods, by tap dancing a mafia godmother game. Psychologically, it no longer is one, but for the fact I soften dissolute menace by putting the people with power on a pack of cards, and trying to hold myself together by rationalizing that I do not want to be placed in a psychiatric facility over ignorant vermin. Fine, but the problem: I've never, ever, gotten a victory for the cruelty I have sustained. Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will no more than likely get a slap on the wrist for the devastating damage I've been forced to swallow for 32 years with "fraternal corporate" contractors with HUD's localized housing authorities. I've only ever had one of them, but they are all collusionary, and  complicit, with inept federal civil servants. In the end, it is all the same. Politburo or federal civil servant. I cannot sit and cull law firms on my cell when I have a fissure in my chest ready to burst my body and spray the walls with hemoglobin. The day I spoke to the gentleman at Silver & Silver I held the oar steady and just said okay, resigned. He is the one who said "wait," and gave me a referral, but it is too late. I hate Debra. I hate Trudy. And the disability activists. My humanity, at the moment, is too compromised for my grit. I am 56, battling elisions, repetitions, fear of my family, fear I'll never publish a brand article again (ie, people who publish in The Philadelphia Inquirer don't wind up like half-assed idiots on niume, or do they?). I had to reach for William Shatner's name, an actor I've known as Captain Kirk since I was a baby. 


Libertarian writers only hit liberals on the most general terms when it comes to Walmart. They need to take better aim, and have my courage, if not the cliff face on which I am so precariously ready to topple, to illustrate that it is also federalism which leads companies like V Halter to stick its thumb up its ass, as there are no private contractors for naval fleets. Today is my 27th, corrected, anniversary with AT&T, as the grand old utility reminds me. I almost left them in 1999 for unlimited Internet, never howled at them, or complained, and they've rolled over for me like a beached whale. This is my stand in for interpersonal intimacy.

The new procrastination

He misinterpreted the gesture.-- Stendhal

None of over-saturated with the thousands of articles since September 11th, 2001 can find either much solace or new insight from Simon Cottee's opinion piece in the LA Times, which I just tweeted. We've heard it all before, and if Niall Ferguson's insights on why empires decline still has any merit, those of European descent have lost their nerve to deploy military trained personnel for pacification, with the exception of Putin's appointee's, but even there, Vladimir is the Personality Cult of the Jackass Czar. He invaded Georgia nineteen years ago and was mercilessly lampooned by none other than one of my favorite columnists to defend, George F Will, and for any student of European history, this has an eerily familiar ring to the political mockery bestowed on Nicholas II, and his father, by the western press, which subsequently stopped laughing when the Bolesheviks took over, and since the former KGB clerk is their legacy, we can only wonder what methodology will supplant Marxism. Despite Xi, despite party control, executive enforcement of collective distribution has run its course, and now it seems a substantial minority simply want to return to Voltaire's small scale expectations, including me. I just want to go home and never talk or engage another nigger again for the rest of my hellish medical model brutish life, and for that, I had an email forwarded by Cripland to the FBI. Corruption, being what it is, has immediate access to legal representation, only, I can't go home. Can't do it to either of my surviving siblings, and my father is a lost cause, keeping my mother's nursing colleague afloat, my stepmother, who should have died two years ago, but what to do? No one takes the bull by the horns and has the courage to withhold the expensive medical treatments now bankrupting domestic GNP's. The Guardian itself knows Britain's NHS is in trouble, acknowledging American insurers are ready to swoop in, and the Semitic resentments of North Africa and the Fertile Crescent think that violence against legacy of Western hegemony will achieve what? Shift the axis back to Persia?
But in the mode of joining them if you cannot beat them, I would if I could. I'd annihilate NCIL, and in particular, the Philadelphia Housing Authority, if I had the means and the methods, and use my death penalty trial as grand political theater like none other, but no one takes me seriously, and that is the ambulatory safety valve.

Polar Night

"How was your Thanksgiving?"-- my former client Joe, who endorses Wheelchair Taxi

The implication by the radical left that the electors are proactive agents is not borne out by the historical evidence. The 20 electors disputed in the Hayes Tilden battle also resulted in protracted litigation, legislative action. I do no see, as Lessig, or Parker does, a College which actively thwarted a popular vote winner. Bush v Gore simply declared the Florida recount unconstitutional, and with a dwindling set of options, Gore finally conceded in 2000, unfortunately, as the 43 president was a disaster. Just because spastic grows reactive, this does not mean she is a lock step Republican. At heart, she is a terrorist, willing to sow destruction on corrupt human methodologies, but much as Doris Lessing explores in her strange, but real world novel, The Good Terrorist, spastic has an honor code, and a cruel minority manager may deserve what she gets, and section 202 tenants are the residual business of poverty, but the young computer engineering geniuses over 20 are useful to the generations beyond the boomers. I am not sure why my road runner failed reply to Lessig is important to me, but I agree with Fee it needs a fix, and maybe I should turn it into a longer back essay. The left is simply wrong, like the very fact of housing classifications. Section 202. Section 3. Section 811. Our societies learn nothing from the masters, those who have seen the nightmare of collective systems.

Despite missing the first two of the last four episodes of Dead Like Me, it is over, thank goodness. Spastic is free of Vancouver pedestrian gentility. My Comet affiliate is still running the series, and I may review and refresh, but I am off the leash. This may not sound like enthusiasm, but my favorite segments were Callum Blue and the old woman who collapsed with her sugar bowel, and Laura Harris in her Catholic inducements arc. A real Catholic priest, if entering the gateway to reunification with the divine, would not say, "I am as curious as you are Daisy." This is a generic writer's evasion. None of us know anything, but at least a popular horrorist like Anne Rice applied her beliefs about the afterlife in some of her works.

I confirmed to the local libertarians that I will attend their party at Gunner's Run, and I'd like very much to attend, but my budget is scraping the lard barrel, so as of this morning, I'm waffling, and entering a danger stress zone-- first winter storm approaching and I've little funds to stockpile even the basic grains available to the poor. I have a small window, but not much, to make up my mind. I also never meant to imply that local libertarians have to bond with me, it is simply that I have no people in my orbit who please me, who I enjoy, and Black Adder's regulars, and visiting graduates, are the best I can do, even if my obvious depression is an insulator. 

Listening to Beyonce is not my currency

"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale  of Jackal

Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:

• genocide is politically generated
• resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
• war is an invention of modernity (right)

I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game.

I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades. 

Dismal Chantments

"Do you think you're never going to die? Well. it's not all sweet music and if you want to see real trouble take a walk through this hospital and you'll sing a love song about warts."-- Mario Puzo, The Godfather, the near last page of Chapter 22 

The local facilitator for Philadelphia's LOTR chapter has a fixation with Adam Kokesh which I do not. I hastily introduced myself to him a year before Justin Jouvenal put his paragraphs together to explain an Alford plea to the readers of The Washington Post, and can add that the authorities in Virginia wasted their time. Kokesh is something of a secular missionary, and his idolizers left me with my normative apprehension in the face of a cult following. I am not that much purchased on libertarian righteousness, and deleted the auto mail announcing Adam's appearance at a community center. I would have been more interested in meeting Tony Stiles in person, but the Black Adder and I also have some friction. Part youth against age, part my diffidence with software developers and computing, part my bitterness with liberalism and general disaffection, so I am not sure I can negotiate a reconciliation between Adder and Mr. Stiles. Adder suspects my liberalism, while liberals want to institutionalize me again as the best thing for me. Can't win, and I threw the last of my savings at Rosenbach Museum knowing that, in no way shape or form returning for their open house later this afternoon, and if you wish to see disaffection as an indictment, it isn't quite that. Scholars treat the Rosenbach with back-handed wonderment, and I am familiar enough with the museum's procedures to grasp at this bewilderment fondly, but throwing my money at them did not get me neither the connections nor the rescue from my entombment, and before Adder and I familiarized ourselves with each other, my first meeting with Liberty On the Rocks was an outcry I've long since sheathed. On to the next bizarre solution, one merging the idiotic with despair..

Honda's Gojira is a historical artifact, and has a few better shots at making the stuntman in the beast appear menacing, but I'm not in the mood. If we put a radioactive Tyrannosaurus up for bidding as secretary general of the United Nations, I doubt the global economic engine would pause to blink. Medium, though I don't know the search politics involved, promoted Truculent Fish on its news feed, perhaps due to Adam's prominence, though I haven't a clue. Kokesh simply doesn't impress me. I get the sense Tony's smarter, though he may be wary of my grafting tendencies-- but I don't know that I consider my profile page an actual published format. I've never been solicited, through Blogger, Medium, or other portal, but I suppose my key Medium pieces can go in my online essays section.

Food Poisoning, Entrenched

"I'm sorry if you felt ill treated,"-- the undoubtedly committed volunteers of Bacopa

Editors. I did not feel ill treated. Publishing a writer is an arbitrary business, more so in the age of digital do it yourself files, looking at my non fiction collection in despair, just prior to logging on, sick to my stomach, if I growl in illegal and heinous fashion toward Putin's overly long tenure at the helm of the Russian Federation, perhaps I could outwit the FSB assassin (hypothetically, I know the Russians who view me are perhaps only trolling for propaganda) into dumping their plutonium capsules into literary advisors offices. I raised my voice about the poetry editor only because I am a one woman spastic who spent four hours formatting a small selection of my lighter unpublished pieces, and regardless of the fact that I read their guidelines and saw the guidelines I wanted to see, after years in the independent zine morass, it took the poetry editor seconds to ding me. That is the only reason I wauled, and the poetry editor's ranking over seer and I had a polite e-convo. The end, now all the sudden an anonymous voice pricks the scab. Editors. I am sick to my stomach. Unusual, perhaps the carrots. Handled the toilet twice in so many hours just as if I was a decade younger, also unusual, adopted new bathing tactics, however long  this lasts, still tricky. I'd like to blame Hermine, but think my heart is giving out, don't particularly want any saving grace from cardiology.

If I substantially revise my bylines for my wee small volume, whether I do it myself or fast a contest fee, throw in a few of my stronger blog posts, also revised, and in a quixotic move, add my two published short stories in the back, is that fair, to substantially alter the content to suit my aesthetic voice over past editors? Josie Byzek doesn't count here, and if the last picture I saw of her and her partner was Ginny, then perhaps there are a few Protestants left who by definition have to swallow humility when they transform facially into a jackass. Editors. Not to mention names, as I desire to remain on The Freeman's good side, my wauling about that was over my rush rush when I had, apparently, drifted into another topic. I wasn't mad at them, but me, for failing the bar, which is of another kind, as I have nothing to prove in literary terms. My CV is four pages of a lifetime, as I weaken and sicken and need to find a stable space. It will begin to cool in a few days, hopefully. For our purposes, I released myself from the original Gojira in my last hour of holding myself awake, asking what the fuck am I doing I'm not writing a dissertation on Godzilla as a coping mechanism for  Hiroshima; I will, however, study Honda's nightmarish early anime seriously another time. Rodan is sickening, and yet I studied every Japanese male, wondering which of them wouldn't lose face with my shins clamped around their buttocks. Perhaps it is a summer cold. I'm off to bed, after I look up the shit on ISBN numbers.

Females Nag Too Much

In the time honored vexation of crossing wires on social media, I attempted to speak softly to a mulatto whom I don't like, and he is now following my feed. I do not feel comfortable blocking a half wit who says he served as a Marine, but this is now the burden of conscience I get for making an attempt to tell him not to get too involved in online conversation, and conclude from this we've already drastically altered ourselves for the worse. I know what the man wants. To help me heal, help me soften my stance, but his oozing great guy flatulence holds absolutely no interest, just as my overwrought nerves about censorship go a bridge too far. Google is a company. Facebook is a company, and the litany of digital incorporation is not beholden to the First amendment, just as the right to incite is problematical, even if it is qualified by virtual lifelong punishment. Put it in a book instead of a blog, but even there, texts succeed or fail based on formula, market audience, the like.

I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.

Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.

Redford and Streisand

can it be that it was all so simple then

To pick up on Streisand's melodiousness, conventionalized regret, it was not so simple then, not for me. Whatever I may have intimated about my adhesion to Jerry McGuire, I fought a literal life and death struggle about emailing him in 2007 (am I a stalker?). I did not want to start crying, did not want to beat myself for failing the intellectual acumen he saw, and oh, we were fine in email, off to do my chores. A few hours later it was soup city. You haven't seen drama queen until you've seen an Italian American with cerebral palsy beat her chest with grief as if over a crack in the earth, about to fall. I did not want him to know my composure would be still that easily broken over this disciple teacher aggrandizement, but my composure is brittle. I knew he was aging, and for the sake of his legacy, I acted, but I also flipped out, and I mean flipped, and punished my ex, poor Frank. I railed, and the poor bastard took it, clueless, as I was trying to bust a hole through five inches of concrete, with no one to tell me "cool it."

He is just a very smart, brassy, peripatetic New Yorker, Jerry. I mean, that's about all. We're not gods walking the earth, disappointed in myself, him, both, a little envious that some students can fool around and it's cool, but subtextually knowing he would have rejected me as a woman anyway, regardless of personal loyalties and Widner's administration having a shit fest if their special student popped her cherry on a half cocked veteran. Merciless, aren't I? No longer feeling physical desire. My cunt is tweed and my lungs on auto alert, and in his last bit of sage advice, his bad heart taught him how to be positive.

But you never really talked to me old man, and one wonders why women like me do this to themselves, emotionally void fathers to the emotionally impenetrable, willing to perish in a pointless protest against society, never having gotten what I want.

Dense in interesting ways

"Hate can be exciting. Haven't you noticed?--George Macready

When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.

Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.

Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.

Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh? 

Pricks to the price of loyalty

"He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering and sorrow than by age." -- Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, digital location 2116

A short message thread with John Murphy posed an interrogative "Have you heard of Tony Stiles?" The apparently attractive young man is looking for acolytes to join in Tony's campaign against human trafficking, a rather noble, if daunting sentiment. Mr. Murphy benefits from the price of loyalty, and indicated Mr. Stiles had the humane decency most of us profess to have, as altruism is deemed beneficial. Murphy followed me a short time, then ceased, my failure to hold his interest a metric of some sort, perhaps that I alternately flirt with libertarian ideas, then turn and critique them, or maybe I'm just a downer, and he is a more upbeat promoter for his employer, one who hasn't eviscerated him. 

Such evisceration, a knife to the heart carried as an entrapment, taken to its logical conclusion, often leads to the emotional implosion of Kenneth Halliwell, the prototype of homosexual rage against itself. Prick Up Your Ears was about abandonment against the growth of a dead playwright's horizon. Fusing that with an agenda to send a message to reform a paradigm leads to the same interior crawlspace. If the inability to let go, and the blunt force trauma of destitution moves in the direction of vengeance, the trigger for it eliminated, there is an emotional recoil against the punishment inflicted, and escaping Halliwell's fate becomes an odds game: accepting a bad act that removes you from your innocence, however inflicted with injustice, and then beating the law, which is achievable, but rarely successful.

The emotional investment of a good lieutenant is not the same as a homoerotic set of coordinates exposed and deemed unacceptable, although emotional fraying can conflate the two, but I was John Murphy 23 years ago, motivated by a leadership I wanted to promote, to elevate, to see it as a public conduit, and misjudged that of which it was capable. Not that the scar remains fresh, nor even palpable, as the 23 years have beaten against the brute strength, now swimming with oblivion, waiting to see if there is enough left for the veracity of vindication, or if I fade past midnight like so many quadriplegics looking at a sixtieth decade like a death warrant, or a veritable concentration camp.

Come spring I need to give my notice, another daunting endeavor, but a necessary therapeutic tool; I'll need to trust someone's transitory generosity on the heels of this event. We'll see, but I couldn't give Mr. Styles the personal loyalty which she once had at her disposal. The price of grief, and blow after blow after blow. Impotent even to support my immediate family.

Damage Differential

The pubs and eateries along my radius on Walnut Street have a certain old city charm, and the Cafe at 2011 can boast a certain picturesque insularity, this wounded warrior gratified, that, last spring, the burly Irish got me over the innocuous step, onto the portable ramp, and I set eyes on the Black Adder for the first time, sort of indicting myself for a now pronounced anti-social aura that radiates from me, as I asked him if I could "stay". His response: All are welcome, and while I am not quite as committed an ideologue as he, I've become emotionally invested in the Liberty on the Rocks Meet Up.

But I'm self-conscious in terms of my physical dilapidation. This is  not to convey I was ever great at flaunting my femininity through dressing. Orthopedic surgery made my flexed contortions worse even in youth, but I have graduated, since I wiped out my savings in 2013,  toward a more thorough deterioration. I look like someone now living off the street, except when the will that has kept me alive resurges. Episodic breakthroughs.

I'm also tired of sitting outside, forcing my boys (whoa!) to sit with me on the sidewalk tables when they'd rather congregate in the bar. It is chilly now, and even if the thick set Irish firefighters were so inclined to haul the Jazzy Quantum up the plank, I cannot risk a circuitry breakdown as a result. My Quickie P-200 was already battered that spring, and was off balance, falling apart, so I cannot assume a gratifying struggle to enter the Cafe actually shorted it. I live in the power chair, and no model is that durable, but the Quantum is basically a battery and a plastic caster wheel casing, metal base, and I hate the fucking thing, know it cannot be subjected to punishment. If I attend, therefore, I will be consigned to waving at the guys through the window, feeling alienated as a result, irritated with my hearing loss--but the group matters to me. I've developed an emotional attachment to center city's marzipan radicalism. What to do?

I no longer support the Americans With Disabilities Act. It is a useless statue if properly scrutinized, and for every activist victory, there is regulatory pushback. The owner of the Cafe should not have to modify his establishment for a former middle class cripple on the skids, nearly deranged from the banquet of human suffering exposed and experienced in the Quaker geography of Southeastern Pennsylvania; Black Adder cannot be blamed for picking a location not modified for access, and it may be I am not perceived the way I imagine. It is equally true that I cannot fully engage if the clique has to be charitable by making a point of coming to me. They are there to mildly booze and share a meal while discussing politics. I am there to constrain my inner Mussolini from engaging in a shoot out with federal agents. Maybe one or two of them could hook me on downers, but it is not particularly a soluble issue. If Tom Reid were to pop up, and remember our off campus watering hole called Walios, he'd look at that continuum, probably shocked to compare me as the undergraduate he knew then, turning herself a corkscrew for Tassoni, hanging on Jerry McGuire's sleeve, to the ravaged grand dame that a non-violent software developer, with some additional assistance from Tony Stiles, has to reign in. A handful of local anarchists, conservatives, proselytizers, to these I've attached such internalized importance, in the waning days of functionality. A real diehard libertarian would probably say that the doctors kept you alive as a body to be exploited, and that is just the way it is. Liberals may have felt it was their duty to lift up your potential toward inclusion, and your failure is on your own head for giving the socialist paradigm the finger.

The real truth of the matter lies in self-hatred, what I am, the hell I've seen, like the surgeon detective in Anno 1790, and that too, is insoluble. Quadriplegia is a bitch. I've lived it over a half century, and want to stop living it now, and in disability culture, that is heresy, grumbling. If I want to attend, then attend already. Sigh.

Maggot Larvae

Where I first heard of David Frum? Perhaps Charlie Rose. Moderate conservatives like him always reign in Libertarian militancy toward the two party system with statements such as these. Once you get past a certain age, Brian's dictum evinces itself through politics. The laws of nature tend to repeat themselves. Frum is Douthat is Johan Norberg, is Niall Ferguson, and I happen to be an enthusiast of Ferguson's ideas.

Frum's chastisement presupposes that NSA and the Defense Department are powerful enough to keep rare specimens like myself in check. For a while, but I have serious doubts about what comes after the post-Obama era. I make the assumption that most of my viewers on the outside don't understand Medicaid Waiver services, what a lifetime of entitlement is like against ecumenical insistence on the inherent value of human life juxtaposed against medical warehouses like Inglis House, which belie such pluralistic niceties. Most of us don't dwell on beneath the surface insecurity all the time, not even I.

But I've lived it most of my life, and at 53, it threatens to suck me down the drain; this is the kind of rage which permeates revolutions, velvet, or otherwise. Remember Philip K. Dick's short story about android political candidates? Remember what it signified? But there was also what Dick didn't say about electing representatives, about the limits of political processes.

I'm living off my father's guilt at the moment, and don't like it, having come full circle, little spastic slum dog, repeating the same thing over again, like one of Patricia Highsmith's lesser known protagonists.

I'm never going to vaunt past the sterility of the welfare state, simply because I could not stay inside it to earn a living, and allowed you to read what a vicious maniac its scar tissue has maimed within me, to the tune of Google's reluctant unease. What do I have left to aspire to? Beneath the surface, the entitlement system is like a lava slide. Slow, molten, deceptively destructive. Heavy enough to make the West Wing's security apparatus as thin as a thimble.

Closer Look at the Fault Lines

In this great tradition of the eminence of detail, all the minutiae of Christian education, of scholastic or military pedagogy, all forms of  'training' found their place easily enough.-- Michel Foucault. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, p 140

It is difficult to remember how frightened we all were in the year after 9/11, and most analysts believed, at least before the timeline became cogent, that Muhammad and his protege signaled the dawn of a new era. As far as mass murders go, Muhammad was atypical, not an impulse spree killer like the Aura shooter. The discipline he displayed was true anarchy against the state, at least initially, and biography is a bit disingenuous with its quick facts. Muhammad was a solder first and foremost, and then a domestic terrorist in the last months of his life, and probably has more affinity with Lee Harvey Oswald than we would care to credit. Both men were molded for the sake of the national defense, and both the assassin and the serial sniper had a degree of temerity rare when it comes to treasonous behavior, if one accepts that Oswald was a lone actor.

This is the price we pay for being the sole animal able to manipulate biology and body to the aerodynamic extent that we do, as Foucault's analysis explores, a homosexual so fascinated with control and assembly, ironically to pay an exorbitant price, perhaps unwittingly, for his own sexual desire.

The digital age has made us aware, conversely, of how rapidly we're superseding our own bipedal engineering, toppled in hubris by complex financial instruments and proxy conflicts which could trigger global aggression of some sort, especially as Turkish destabilization is not a headache NATO needs on its plate. Not that anyone cares what an impoverished spastic thinks, but it might be time for NATO to close ranks against Putin's recidivist incursions. Russia is hardly in a position to re-establish its Soviet empire, and could be stopped with a firm display of unity and muscle. Let Isis have what it wants. The US made Iraq ungovernable in an ideological argument with extremism that it failed to win, hence, let the new Islamists create their modern caliphate. They'll evolve. Everything does.

Humidity, Organic Plummer

Last week, Ms. Rubin castigated the GOP, presumably due to Trump's rise into the second tier, and I believe this is the link to her commentary:

If the GOP does not want to be the Doesn’t Get It party, it better start acting like it respects all Americans. http://t.co/IjoZCYj5O4

— Jennifer Rubin (@JRubinBlogger) July 9, 2015

I have little to opine on Trump's comments, even if the murder in San Francisco fueled them. Perhaps Twinkie city might want to rethink how it cooperates with our federale keystone cops in the future. With this concession in mind, Donald Trump is a shyster and a con artist, and militarizing the border with Mexico by aping Israel's concrete bunker mentality is not a solution to Latino population pressure to retake the Americas that those of European descent took with the horse and bayonet. But where I part company with Jennifer is on her chastisement toward moderation in conservative alarm. If Trump is successfully tapping in to Caucasian unease, it is precisely Caucasian unease for which I've taken my lumps on this account, and, while I cannot say that jingoism will destroy the GOP of Senator Toomey and John Boehner, the American left is out of its mind, and we'll see far worse than Trump in the future if progressives truly believe that erasure is going to create a Frank Capra utopia. The only reason I haven't signed up to join a movement like ISIL is because of the moderate severity of my symptoms due to the extent of my cerebral palsy, but this is no indicator of my lack of willingness to engage in insurrection against the US if I had the physical skill and ability to do so. This is how deep my anger runs, but I lack the requisite skills, and for all of his methodical ability, the DC sniper, who had the requisite skills, allowed himself to get caught rather than build a following.

Jennifer referenced conservative hysteria over the gay marriage ruling. I have no hysteria. We all knew that once states began recognizing same sex unions, those states that resisted would fall due to interstate commerce clauses. I am not against gay marriage. I am against homosexual practices being given equality with heterosexual intercourse and its ability to propagate the species. Forcibly erasing the genealogy of the past, to reference Foucault, whose sexual practices made him one of the earliest French sacrifices to AIDS, is worse than any reactionary crimes perpetuated in its name. As my digestive system is stressing, and I need to solve my bathing mobility over the weekend, we'll leave it there, but rest assured, I've been turning over stones in my wearied mind frame. Pansies are no doubt celebratory that I'm weakened to such an extent.

Free Kiev

But tonight I would like to address my remarks particularly to this city and particularly to the Ukraine--a city and a republic that has meant so much to the Soviet Union and so much to the world, Richard Nixon.

Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which  is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle  her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.

Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."

I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.

Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity.