When Mickey Rourke Still Had A Face

Our mothers were right Charlucci, it's better to stick with your own kind.-- the post dexterously maimed Eric Roberts, as Paulie

I no longer get offers to family gatherings. What I was invited to attend this afternoon, and not attending after all, is a birthday party for my 96 year old grandmother here at Fair Acres. This is where her daughter Mary Worrilow, with her cyborg joint replacements, wishes for me to relocate, as if I need to keep an eye on the vacancy of identity in Pauline Cristinziani's emaciated frame. My father's sister Marie is diametrically opposed to the idea, preferring that I accept my lot here at Riverside, with its understated ideas of significantly abusive minority competency, while I play shuffleboard with the skepticism of a world weary soul. This is an image of Pauline in her ever so slowly stoic withdrawal from her sense of herself, part regal Catholic warrior, devout, unshaken, part peasant, the life she led during the war era makes us look like a group of distressed hatchlings saturated in fossil fuels. The spastic dowager should honor this grandparent in the celebration of a life extended beyond any reasonable meaning. She appears to be miserable in the Fair Acres visiting room, well groomed, hair white and nearly matted, her hand grasping her knee, she bears an appearance of anguish. Septa's route 21 is onerous, from Chestnut Street to 69th Street Terminal, it is damp, and although it would be good to get away, and I would be seeing family I never otherwise get to see, Saturday morning, a spastic colon pole vaulted into a lovely stress attack, ever so slowly enabling death through sepsis in my feces, domineering beyond what we would wish on enemies, presumably--

My administration is reviewing the strength of this ruling. In the event any court damages the #ACA, I will do everything in my power to direct state agencies to protect Pennsylvanians. https://t.co/pVOaLtBkKn

— Governor Tom Wolf (@GovernorTomWolf) December 15, 2018

--unless it's my governor, willfully maintaining the forest of the Commonwealth's poverty-stricken, as careless, otherwise, with the deciduous oaks, still wondering whatever happened to a citizen's self-esteem. And this, too, is an image of John, nearly 60, playing games with his vanity and conceit; it was partly his rebuff, as I've written, being the propeller behind the reason I boomeranged into the inner city in the first place.

Arguably, however, things might have not been appreciably different if I had played my cards closer to home. If John's post-graduate partner, whom I saw once, while they were totally into each other in a slow dance, parted ways with him, or he her,the link I give you provides ample reason why. If I had been able-bodied, with an appropriately toned body, would the demise of what I thought I wanted. birthing his children, among other things, have taken so much out of me that I never loved again? My novelist friend Gretchen, in the interim, faces the possibility of losing her son, Brennan, to an interior brain infection already surgically tackled once. She's such a polished writer that I am living this with her, but it's also why Facebook is anathema to me (and yes, my account chungs along). Even if she was still in West Virginia, I couldn't help her.

My beautiful boy is in deep trouble. He's got an infection. They seem to feel they have caught it in time but he was doing very poorly. Please help Adrian's Cancer Fund. Every person in our family is struggling at our limits, Adrian most of all. https://t.co/jK2LFuMqtX pic.twitter.com/V0MQZb2xB9

— Troy Blackford (@TBlackford3) December 16, 2018

The same applies to my steady follower. If Troy Blackford's plight with Adrian is genuine, I feel for the child. Even if I had the money, even some expertise, I couldn't change the outcome, but this is different in kind, again, from mobility medical indifference beating hordes into a pulp. Those of you who truly believe health care is a right, have no damn idea how you're referencing it. It is certain not inalienable as a pathway to freedom.

Floral Arrangements via Higgs Boson

It was not the androgyny on stage that offered up David Bowie as a cultural icon. By the time his few tracks tame enough for commercial radio music it past the tuning fork in the left ear of adolescent rebellion, his eyes transfixed anything he did on film, like an anti-messiah ready to cast you off, a young woman sensed his explosiveness beneath the surface, and thus it is another blade to penetrate the starchy creviced tits only of interest to those who get a kick off the fetish of hustler, remorse for the ignorance of his cancer diagnosis. A Hawaiian red pineapple seems an appropriate transport for Ziggy's star on the walk of fame. It is okay to cry a little, okay to be positive and celebrate how unique his entertainment value was, how courageous his sentiment to turn away honors like a knighthood. He knew better.

This passing caught me off guard.

Bear With Me

Very rapidly, in recent decades, that once-familiar language of organism has become strange to us.-- Robert D Crouse

Perhaps because I am more fluid under stress, and nostalgic for youthful influences, haunted by that to which contorted bodies could never compare, let's stay with the dearly departed Elizabeth Montgomery and Lee Remick. Both actresses are roughly representative of the Protestant standard, and what happens to women when they get there and hit that indomitable glass ceiling. Dowager confesses to bias: I wanted Montgomery to achieve superstardom, because it was evident, in her revisionist take on Lizzy Borden, that our beloved pedestrian lynch pin wanted it, critical acclaim. Elizabeth's limitation: you could perceive the effort she was putting into it, and in the length of time between Johnny Cool and Borden, this limitation isn't altered by her maturity. Lee Remick, clever enough to play against the A list to her strength and wise enough to know she could not carry a movie by herself (cf, The Women's Room-- Marilyn French was a terrific voice when it came to repression and sexual escape-- television actually weakens the novelist's reputation), makes you forget you're viewing any effort at all.

Both actresses also have the "Pretty Women" appeal not too far off from Rizzoli & Isles of today. To defeat what hopes to be your future Jewish mother in law, you appropriate the enemy. Lee's performance in "Lady" is as wry and witty for a woman's burgeoning freedom as anything in the banter between Harmon and Alexander in the contemporary procedural, and had more vulnerability in her sexuality: for some reason, women understood the consequences of containing and taming Remick. It emanates from her with intangible censure: Here we have a trollop who gets what is coming to her.

Elizabeth, despite the fact that both actresses died of cancer, within not many years of each other, understood her sexual barriers better, to the point that the audience wanted her Borden to beat the judicial system, and she did! This again rehashes the intractable problem of veracity, and acknowledges that both litigation and regulatory statues have significant limitations. Spastic has some difficulty believing the Texas officers had it "in" for Bland, and tend to agree with conservative faith in the process. By the same token, traffic laws are a direct consequence of automotive technology, which will only recede when traveling the globe through orbital trajectory becomes standard. Minorities of African American descent will undoubtedly have the violins handy then too. The technically advanced alien's we're searching for will have such an intrinsic empathy that chips on the shoulder, brain lesions, will vanish. Epidural hematoma's will heal themselves by sheer force of will.

I believe in the import of Medusa's Touch. I grew up with this movie, practicing Burton's misanthropy as Mortar everyday. As Stephen King wrote, sometimes being a high flying bitch is all you have.

Immersion to the Abdomen

"Where are the important families?" -- Michele Placido

The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.

And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.

Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.

Special Emissary

When Ronald Reagan announced in November 1994 he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, even some of his most ardent political opponents paused to wish him well.-- Cal Thomas

I am considering petitioning the Obama Administration to place me on a citizen's guest list for the ceremonial lying in state when Jimmy Carter passes away. His impending absence is relevant to individuals like columnist George Will and I, in the startling things we discover about the impending loss of time worn adversaries. When the moment arrives I'd like to pay my respects, a genuine sentiment which astonishes me. In an upper track history course, with yet another teacher who aroused my father as first love sexual promiscuity, the essay election choice question for Ronald Reagan over then President Carter served as a bell weather prediction for the 1980 election. Twenty odd essays going pro-Reagan predicted that November evening landslide, just as a grey Cardigan sweater on television with the grooved face of a peanut farmer sparked the dawn of political consciousness, and created the ex-President's trajectory, of which Carter's was tedious, overly long. Habitat for Humanity, which I've contacted, is absolutely no help, and sends pre-formatted emails suggesting the disabled contact Liberty Resources, for which you may picture my wearied and martyred tableau of emotions, but this flags the notion of persistence and maybe I need to persuade Carter's organization that the intake center needs to be closed.

The rise and fall of a peanut farmer in the evolution of liberalism is dynamic; his programs are, in contrast, monolithic, and at least in the fabric of the social safety net, sterile. I little minded leaving Reagan's passing as a video footnote. His was the celebrity artifice, the uneasy realization that ideology merely moves the needle one way or other, unless revolutions implode, and tyranny has its run until succession softens things up. Jimmy's failure as a leader tailgated a certain youthful idealism that spastics could also be whitewashed into a meteoric rise, actually more like that of a portable ramp incline. I find myself wishing to say goodbye, which would involve convincing the Secret Service that I'm not Miriam Carey, and of course, the man hasn't yet been admitted to hospice, but the inevitable has begun. He's 91 this October.

The Brain That Wouldn't Die?

I am a bit cynical.

Journalists need to make money, and Doug Saunders of G and M is no exception, but blaming Mallory for the crisis in Tibet which opened the door for the Chinese to take control of the country seems like a bit of a stretch. I am fairly certain indigenous peoples too need climbing skills for more reasons than the desire to "do it," and there is nothing wrong with humans climbing mountains. Climbers who fall and break their backs join my club, which is a lifelong adventure in its own right, if the demonstrations over Terri Schiavo were any indication. The average cost of nursing home care is roughly 6,500 a month, and both my father's wife and my father's sister are pretty much bankrupt due to recurring cancer (the aunt, who is one of my characters herein that made Blogger hiccup), and rheumatoid arthritis with a possible blood myeloma for the wife, and those of you reading this who pay taxes are subsidizing my many battles and failures with matriculation, and this shitty sterile and boring studio where I am now back to total subsistence. I supported Michael Schiavo, in opposition to Josie Byzek and her troubadours over removal of Terri's feeding tube, even if the brain death proponents were wrong, due to the quality of life issues involved with persistent vegetative states. I picked up 36 page views once discussing my stepmother's death with seeming anticipatory avarice, but the woman is suffering, and whatever his sins, my despair and Louise's caustic bitterness combined with her physical suffering, which make my bad power chair posture seem quaint, is taking its toll on mio padre. Add this up with your family members on ventilators-- and Globe and Mail worries itself over an advanced primate that gets a hard on for mountain summits.

If the Communists in Beijing want me to take a page from Collectivism for the greater good, people with life threatening illness need to look at the greater good, and bring the super drugs and surgeries to a stop, and this includes the fabulous, like Bobbi Brown. Those dollars sucking in to battle our horrific diseases could be going to advancing infrastructure, making our mobility technologies safer and easier, and yet Italians now want to play with decapitation for some poor bastard whose limbs look like a broiled canary delicacy. I could not hear the whole video without my ear plugs, but 15 million dollars to bring deliciously bad camp to life? What in the fucking hell does the medical establishment think its doing? How would the distinct spinal cords merge? What kind of bodily control would the man acquire? The state of Pennsylvania wants me to hire criminal labor instead of giving me adaptive technologies. I let a cut rate medical vendor fit me to a cut rate Jazzy chair with plastic castors that drives like a cart about to get crushed in an earthquake when I was 45 years old because I was in a hurry to try to get my life back on track, and some patient in Italy is purportedly risking his life with someone else's brain death. I reapplied for Medicaid, and I'm pissed off and quite ready to go to jail.

The Occupation of Paris

They hoped Petain was playing the Germans at a double game and was secretly planning the liberation of France. --Terry Crowdy

You have to reach for it in odd places, in schematics like The Song of Bernadette, a film not so friendly to institutional Catholicism as it might initially appear, though it is otherwise reverent to Mary, who was elevated by the Church as a strategism against pagan goddesses like Diana, but Vincent Price, in the right role, wasn't all high camp, and rather presages how he'd die in this youthful vehicle. The film, dated as it is, has its own medical model ruthlessness towards cancers we're still fighting, to little avail, and beneath the surface, buttered up with palatable salvation, it is a bit stark about disease.

Of all celebrity absences, I feel Price as a loss, a cutout with his outline that comes through in translation. I haven't quite digested Lauren Bacall's death either, though I have little reason to mourn her, as I study a film like Birth with care, as a precursor to The Others, which also acts as a sealant to Kidman's split with Cruise, maniac man with a grin. I do mourn Peter Falk, but his homeliness is a dated palliative to a liberalism stripping us of every possible anchorage.

In my relief at finding the late Bruno Cremer's new time slot, he too felled by the crab, I wondered if I'd have been happy married to a cool cucumber like Georges Simenon, and rapidly surmised a negation due to a sense of an urgent ruthlessness about his work. If I ever get back on my feet, however unlikely, I need to read more Simenon. My hatred of what I've done to myself is killing me as fast as any future date with advancing COPD, congestive heart failure, or colon polyps. I keep missing medical appointments for script even as I master the shimmy to deal with the Jazzy Quantum, and leave you now to try try again, setting the scaffold, my wheels, at least, still turning; my version of immortality, living on as one of Maigret's enigmatic females. I do not know how to save Europe, but I am related to the Marinelli's in Italy who work the Don Matteo production crew.

A Good Rule of Thumb is not an Endorsement

Stop posting during burn out seems to be fairly wise, especially if lack of polish is a dilution, but Park Towne will not be able to meet my urgency to vacate current premises, and I have a Tuesday early evening appointment to visit, but inertia is a huge underclass problem. Presby either will not or cannot move for eviction, and I am unable to remove myself without making my body a significant shift in burden to Philadelphia as a municipality. Even a woman's shelter is all but virtually moot if my transfer method is weakening, which it is, and so I am going the route of every other disabled individual over 50. Total dependence on minimal minority labor, or else. I am considering asking the ACLU to sue to allow me humane euthanasia, which will fall on deaf ears.

I admire Final Exit, they understood I am my father's daughter and wanted a quid pro quo arrangement, and no can do, but they made me smile, and when I sat up, I thought twitter's notification about Oliver was a news outlet, at first, not a candidate, but I'll let things stand, wondering what a next generation minority power player wants with a biased and bitter little girl in her overly battered body. I know nothing about Oliver.

This is all there is-- yes, I know, but as useful as it is to learn from how documentary film maker Ken Burns uses narrative structure in his video, again, liberals expose their own problems: success against carcinogenesis creates intractable dilemmas not so easily overcome despite the self interest of survival, and my insight into this epistomelogical plank has been one of my driving themes, despite the acknowledged hierarchy of ocogenes over and above developmental and chronic damage. What happened to me as a child would not necessarily happen today, in the same vein that radical mastectomy has fallen by the wayside, but because one, just one centralized disability center engaged in EEOC violations, and because one, just one rental agent using its powerful religious sect as a shield, evaded negligent liability, and is free to make their property a toxic environment for me, well, here I am, a piece of hide for all ideological parties concerned.

Zeynep Tufekci and opinion writing as trivial pursuit

Okay, out of sheer boredom, an unwillingness to shift my pressure sore, coupled with an unwillingness to lie down and continue to be driven out of my zealous mind, I reread the prompts for Medium, made small edits to my two pieces (I can now embed links, as if this isn't a universal application!) and did not curse Ev Williams once, which I'm sure the mainstream finds gratifying, but I need to compound a reaction to Zeynep's spirited defense of Lisa Adams for continuing to treat a terminal metastasis as the result of breast cancer.

All Miss Tukekci is saying, in a nutshell, is that Lisa Adams was a spirited woman of good middle class temperament, an optimist who faced adversity with courage and realism, and her detractors should not have begrudged the woman decent palliative care in her last months with her family. I wrote this in three sentences, and it in no way adjudicates the crisis in medical model rationing, nor does it offer any real insight on the rising cost of aggressive therapies for aggressive diseases

.Zeynep lost a friend in whom she was obviously invested, just as I've addressed those in whom I invested, with darker residual effects, obscuring more salient issues. Aggressive cancers are one subset of medical rationing, and surgeons like Gawande and his colleagues treat them as best they can, but cancers aren't chronic conditions, and don't address how much of our health care dollars go into keeping people like my ex Frank alive, and my uncle Joseph, neither of whom are functional. Joseph has mild dementia, some kind of anti-social disorder, and it is on his body, clogged with the effects of European susceptibility to heart disease, and thousands like him, like the late Terri Schiavo, on whom we waste precious resources, resources which could have gone toward keeping me employed, giving me a fucking decent set of technologies to substantially reduce dependence on more functionally able individuals.

I have no problem with cancer patients who want to fight, or receive humane easing of pain from tumors. I do have a problem with seeing wasted shells afflicted with a progressive condition like Huntington's being forcibly integrated when their condition is obviously killing them. We cannot seem to ration rationally, and yes, despite horrific abuse due to my mother's bipolar disorder, and the medical model system, I stayed stable, physically, despite the disability center, despite an ecumenical corporation like Presby, but the price I've paid is essentially a knock out punch, decoupling me from the only thing I really had that mattered: the career. Miss Tufekci is being a good cheerleader, but she isn't looking below the tip of the iceberg.

Amazon Queen

Casting James Garner was tacky perhaps, but since everyone loved The Rockford Files that was capital to bank on in the past, and Maureen Stapleton bypasses her near mutilating death experience without a hitch, and if Biehn is an empty cypher, the fault may not lie solely with Bianchi. I caught the similarities and antecedents with All About Eve on my own. Garner is a likable personality, but outside of a stock western cowboy with trigger wounds, the man never inhabits a character. Like Bea Arthur, Garner always plays himself, and by the time this feckled infusion finds its way to Chicago Hope, it becomes stultifying. Yet The Fan is more than a hybrid tongue in cheek slasher film; it is also a bridge between old industry glamour and our modern hyper classification, the end result being it has shaky footing in both worlds. Bacall's fragility is stunning, and even more beautiful in the median between youth and withered old age, such as is apparent in both her role and off screen tiff with Kidman in Birth.

Catherine Zeta Jones and Stephen Fry want to help all Caucasians who go whacked by the age of 45. *Her* trigger was Michael's throat cancer, aren't we so lucky to be educated thus? And Fry perhaps created tri-sexuality, fucking men, women, and the Monty Python legacy altogether, why not end his life if he cannot become god like Charlie Chaplin? I went hunting, and indulged my usage looking for an early bit of Bogart sentimentality I was going to utilize, but I cannot find the film title. Fans would know it; he tumbles to his death after being emoted by the girl with the game leg, before he made the big time, smoking himself to the end just like Christopher Hitchens with his palpable extrusions. I cannot remember why The Rockford Files were enlivening. Perhaps it reassembled the last frontier self-reliance, with James taking his lumps because the noir code says this is what the good guy has to do until he gets old enough to get a Supreme Court series cancellation.

I have little sympathy for Fry. Only his affluence leaves him once removed from the clients I dealt with daily, and suffering is tyrannical, selfish. Those of us with victimization and life long indigence may have commiserate excuses, but not Fry, even if he only remains second tier. It is much the same as a Syrian refugee casting an eye on my lifelong threats of eviction by landlord because of my lack of willingness to passively comply. I can still take a shit, watch a flat screen television, do not live in terror of Islamic schisms, so who am I to live in pain at the bottom of the American barrel? I am old enough to see this sarin usage as a repeat of Saddam Hussein slaughtering his own in the war with Iran.