Second Edition: Vermont Broken Vessels

"Others imagine that he served in Flanders, where he was raised to the rank of ensign in the company commanded by Don Diego de Urbina; grounding the belief on the supposition, that the history of the Captive, related in the first part of Don Quixote, is a literal detail of his own adventures."-- Smollett excavating Cervantes

Though there is nothing to dispute with Welch's argument on its face, one thing he overlooks is that Sanders proselytizes in order to indoctrinate supporters and instill in them a fervent sense of righteousness, and it is just as deadly to do that today as it was in the 30's, when Bernard was making love to Wobblies.. The dowager reacted so rudely to Sanders, under her real name, because she has a lifetime of experience with that. To tone down her volatility, with more even-handed balance, spastic did do two things under her Yahoo address: she signed onto Obama For America and gave the president's Pac a contribution before the ACA left her in the lurch. She also explored Gabby Giffords'  Americans for Responsible Solutions, but did not like its pastoral quality, and never participated, later unsubscribed. Sanders people got the email from one of those two, and it should not have been done, thus the septuagenarian's twitter stream paid the price of her umbrage. Even under Jerry's tutelage, as a young woman, the inclination against radicalism was always there. Suspicious as one may be of Thiel's Orwellian tendencies towards sophisticated metadata and its instruments, which seems to contravene liberty as a key tenet of libertarian ideology, he is nonetheless behaving the way magnates behave by investing  in business concepts. Bernie Sanders, in contrast, is a lunatic worthy of defeat, if we pop him in Don Quixote.


Socialized medicine has long been in trouble in Britain. Quality of care under Chinese and Russian state models are probably more difficult to ascertain, but such attention as it receives on public television leaves informed audiences dubious, and in the States, the Medicare trust fund and the premiums beneficiaries pay may seem to work wonders in aggregate terms. Diabetic supplies, catheters, and diapers and office visits get covered. Whoopee, but the rationing of medical equipment is not quite so utopian when wheelchair users need to wait forever for equipment. There is an "independent living" client here we'll call by the name of Cherry. She set my mother off years ago. Why? My deceased mentally ill parent saw, in Cherry, how it would eventually be for yours truly, despite my greater functionality and Pennsylvania's concerted efforts on my behalf. Cherry does next to nothing, and is cared for by Susan, a nice enough piece of Scottish trash who gives birth at regular intervals to Jesse Jackson's rainbow coalition. She assisted me briefly out of my own pocket, but the minute the husband stepped into my unit he received a bio-hazard alert as a sexual opportunist. The end of Susan in my personal circumstance doesn't mean Cherry has grace. Cherry is compliant without really having much cognition about defying the system. She gets everything welfare services has to offer, everything, and she has her own private coral reef engulfing her shins. She is too heavy and too old to bathe on her own. You'd think a physician would at least treat her legs? Are Cherry and I equals? Oh, yes, she has a use. She keeps food in the stomach of Susan's children, and is otherwise discarded. How is she, in any way, one of Bernie's sisters? The dowager has yet to see any of them engage the human animals who inhabit the regimented paradigm of section 202 housing. Dowager's libertarian associates, at least, learn to accommodate her limitations through the sheer dent of her persistence, when she is able to engage them. This is not to blame Cherry for what she is, but not even her attendant cares enough to see that the woman gets a better standard of care. The spastic dowager was trained to do that, but she has broken with the homosexuals who sing the songs of hellish limitations for Inglis House residents, and more than a few of the other residents with cerebral palsy hate her guts. Why? They don't desire to be more proactive, to stay engaged, to get better matriculation. This is the fucking free lunch warbling around in the skull of the Bern, and if I have anything left to contribute in my time, I'll see his legacy incinerated before I'm through.

Brothers and Sisters

Hanno continuato inventandosi una mia contrapposizione con Beppe Grillo che è inesistente ed è quanto di più lontano dalla verità ci possa essere .-- David Casaleggio

Yes, it would be delightful to get out of my own head once in awhile, take a cessation from electronic gadgets, the grid, satellite signals, shed my contorted muscular skeletal distress for a lithe ability to jog in spandex with a breeze toning down my furious theorizing, driven by my own sense of disembodiment with all I've lost since my great personal rupture -- difficult for me to remember the exact date, but near to Thanksgiving 1999. I cannot really call my actions a legitimate suicide attempt, rolling in to the kitchen, grabbing a flimsy supermart steak knife, breaking down in inane laughter, florid tears. I should have been tougher, thus I tell myself, and I did fight for some semblance of recovery, but as I've detailed many times, so many hands were extended, mostly in impotence, much like Yabberz and Niume, more contemporaneously. AccessLife breaking apart was my most unfortunate circumstance. I liked them, wanted to take Linda's advice, work for them full time, in the burgeoning dynamic of digital birth pangs, and I am trapped in Presby, in addition, the epicenter of so many applied scars. People have suggested I write the fucking novel about life under Presby's management, but I'd doubt it sell. Who'd want to read a life of terror and then the duress of guardian threats always surrounding me because I defy minorities in learned hatred and paranoia? I follow Beppe patiently, in attesa di vedere, but can he govern? The government in Roma can be likened to City Council, or more analogous yet to American public housing "authorities"-- most of you perhaps think I'm lucky to have so many protections against eviction despite an invalid's squalor. "I can smell," Luca Zingaretti rebukes his sidekick, during the Montalbano paint by numbers nod towards the wasted space of spastic servitude of ableism. Our odors create new victims, as Dubus wrote in one of his tactful essays about life in wheelchairs and turbulent colons. I presume, if my life in Philadelphia became a game of The Man in The Iron Mask, with my naivete  coasting me through until I realized the enormity of my lack of expanse, my shackles, that life in Tuscany would have been more banded still, life on a balcony, watching the remnants of the mafia settle their scores. This post was supposed to be a critique of Sanders and his radical left pipe dreams. He is not responsible for Hodgkinson's actions, though I will also assert Trump brazenly opened this door during the general campaign. What if a supporter had put a bead on Hillary? I voted for him anyway, and maybe even because he incited and we winked at it-- but Sanders is responsible for a militant, dangerous conviction. He is not a classical Marxist, but just take a look at Venezuela across the isthmus. Is this the chaos we're bringing to civilized society for the next ten, fifteen years?
Sadly, I am not strong enough: I am never going to quite "get better" from opening up to my former Jewish supervisor Linda, apparently handling her newer frailties with a healthier and still self confident humor. Face to face, what we did to each other in virtual space would never have happened, but I cannot reinvent myself, and getting fucked over by disability activist collusion creates the same impetus for dissidents who used to be heralded in the anti-Soviet era. We've lost so many definitions, but cripple isn't one of them, no matter we we say.

An Air Bubble Injection Isn't a Bad Idea

"I didn't have your mother abort you because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- the last time I saw my father, who doesn't love me, 2005

My antagonism toward Senator Sanders isn't feigned; that would be the case even if I had remained in the Clinton to Obama tent. I still respect Barack Obama on certain, narrowly defined issues, which is why the alt right probably doesn't trust me; I'm a tad too mercurial to be a methodical genocidal assassin, like Glennon Engleman-- but the Harvard Constitutional scholar, in pragmatic terms, failed us, and here we are, arguing disability and impeachment articles with the abandon and revel of Agitprop staged at the Metropolitan. We elected a celebrity real estate developer to be the 45th president. The Beltway might as well be in a life or death battle with an Ebola strain which refuses to be tamed. Racists have new found legitimacy, and this will remain the case even if Donald falls. Truth to power, my secret anarchist clings to her miserable little stasis on Race Street's dead end with secret glee-- there is no 24th block for Race, it merges with the parking lot for Riverside Presbyterian to the left, and then is cut off by freight tracks, Edgewater to the right.

I plan to stage a protest, if necessary, to get the corporation to yield on the matter of my liabilities with it, and I can imagine how many of you would willingly incite on my behalf. Be honest with yourself about how cerebral palsy makes you feel, even if Arizona cannot see McCain needs to be retired. To take the threat of a gore by the horns, Dr. Engleman is not your typical American spree killer. Even the police recounting the back breaking effort it took to implicate him wear a look of taciturn dismay with themselves over what a game of charades a midwesterner from St. Louis was able to sustain for so long. They should have given the guy a job as a wet boy in the Pentagon, not a life prison sentence. Murder for hire isn't an intrinsic immorality, necessarily. He executed enemies or contracts swiftly, efficiently, and while he certainly had an underlying misogyny, he wasn't a sadist who got off on torture, as we see in more sordid cases, and died at the twilight of my career. Unlike the protagonist on whom Dear Mr. Gacy was based, who ultimately committed suicide with a brave face-- a link to someone like Engleman would have been beneficial, after 2000, in particular. Two coolly analytical minds are better than one. As a true crime story, whatever energy I'm spending on milk already curdled, Engleman's plus 20 year life as a front bears superficial comparison to Corbin Bernsen's The Dentist (99). This movie was simply a berserk romp playing on our worst fears about the accursed occlusion of our well behaved sedate teeth-- but Corbin kept us in on the joke underlying this charming rampage.

Bernsen, arguably, had the most sustaining power of the LA Law ensemble, after Florek. Dann did what he did very well as the restraint on boomer indignation in SVU, but it was a one note gambit. Hamlin got lost in the game of a leading man to be who couldn't. Underwood, well. Sex and the City wasn't a sneeze, but Blair keeps hitting a wall. He is too smooth for the street, but just this side of too mechanized to resonate with his audience; in comparison, Bernsen is rather self aware of his range, even in his grease monkey sun shades, and made his choices well after the series went off air. He is particularly adept in The Killing Box, nearly reaching Robin Willians's sustained tensions between the wounds of evil bitten into our basic altruism.

Like Stanwyck on Chamberlain

"Innocence must be proven, not proclaimed."-- Vincent Winterhalter

This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?

A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent. 

As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.