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.

As goes the District

"I am confident section 202 housing can fly again to serve the low income elderly and the handicapped."-- a pontificating Senator

Black journalists like Jonetta Rose Barras always do this. As long as its a member of the minority media doling moral sanction and speaking to the corruption of minority politicians, then progressives of all stripes can relax. Poverty and negative behavior like destruction of property is indicted, and CBS engages in grand larceny against intelligence marketing "Big Brother" as gen x reality television. If it is the likes of Eric Edwards I am trying to reach, I have been partially successful, but only that, as I tersely told the actual humorist of his little non-fiction pamphlet and local celebrity status in San Diego to go stuff it, after indicating a willingness to be kind to his work. I managed the first paragraph of his introduction, and felt myself akin to Nathanael West in his Mardi Gras guise counseling suicide to his victims of Prohibition era misogyny, in yet another iteration. I might have lied, and wrote something pithy, handed him our convenient two or three star rating, Clarity Media would have pitched me a few more pennies in my wallet, and on we go, not deigning to interfere. Nathanael West is actually an amazing predictor of the future, for Examiner.com does not have to fire me. I am not staff, keep my content parenthetically innocuous, and we're on our merry way. Offering me what I want towards the end of my viable productivity might be a nightmare after all, so I should consider myself lucky to have survived the modern black police state, fossil that I am beneath the harmony of the Pro Publica strivers, busy fighting for capital offenders in Muncy and other pristine terror wards, or a misjudgment might leave me at the mercy of a less gruesome Ariel Castro. Such a house arrest is a plausible scenario of my desperate desire for change, as what is unsaid in my actual quest for an attorney to litigate my freedom with the least possible negative consequence is my own indictment of African American bigotry, the indifference and unwillingness of my own class to support me toward my own esteem of what I believed my empirical value to be. Gwen Ifill, like me, is from an era where submersion was the price one paid to climb professionally, only tacitly acknowledging the brotherhood which paid in blood for her to become a top national anchor. Gwen no longer has Jonetta's space to spearhead the issue of real estate and our diseased socialist model so succinctly, but her platform doesn't offer anything innovative, as chastisement has been with us since Clan of the Cave Bear.

I am not guilty of any of the problems associated with the public housing tenant save one, and in this vein of reigning in, none of my early instructors did me any favors through the recognition of my own promise-- and in point of fact, Sheldon's later encouragement is equally null, equally void, not because I am unable to write a biography of Alice James and her pitiful succor on the breast of the woman in service to care for her, but because such a despicable exercise is no bulwark.