Murphy Analgesic

>No, two African American candidates brought race squarely into the campaign on live television during a debate Monday night, squabbling over what it means to be black.

The memory of Chakra Fattah doing the acoustic equivalent of drawing blood on Michael Nutter in a desperate bid for the mayoralty of this city is a vivid historical paean in the burial of dirty laundry which subsequently failed to make much difference. Both men share the same political base, about as old school as it gets, and I have thus far avoided contact with the Congressman about my problems, which are mainly state and municipal related, and, similar to Senator Toomey, Fattah is one of a very select number of 535-- but there are additional reasons. I do not take onus with Senator Toomey and in my contacts I hope I was deferential. Fattah might be another story, partly because I have a little extra education on the underside of identity politics, and Fattah and his wife are wealthy and economically secure beyond what my family could sustain, so there might be some class resentment at play, and so, when my representative included my twitter handle in a short sweet thread on Huntington's, I felt self-conscious, not about the thread, but about my lack of fluidity in progressive sentiment.

I could engage in a lack of civility which is not fair to my federal representative. His affluence has nothing to do with my lights "going out one by one" to quote Isabel Archer on her husband. Damn it to hell that Henry James has a fantastic immortality, and then again, if I "got real" with one of Fattah's staff, a frank exchange might clear the air, but his affluence does speak volumes about the fact that we do not have political equity in the US, and have not had it since Jackson's presidency, and Jackson was an unbowed proponent of defeating native Americans, in the naughty sentiment of manifest destiny. I am still fairly close to bolting-- and if I do is it because I want Pennsylvania authorities to apply force to my person? Is this what I seek simply to make political points about my traumatized and always precarious social welfare? Do I want the police to stun me or apply restraint to risk a seizure, or, do I really believe I can run, evade the worst, force a change? Psychiatry is not simply about the mind, as if emotional disturbance is a disembodied state. I experienced significant indignity over the course of a lifetime, and like a dolt, case managed equal parts suffering and indignity in others, and Candice has the arc of her late husband's illness, the arc of her looks, her father, her famous series, and she seems blase about it and covering an aura of malcontent. "People stepped up to the plate," she said. I no longer have anyone able to do that for me, and yet even though I listened to the diffident comedienne explore her past forthrightly, as a viewer, I might as well have been standing on a rock pile in a Yemenis village. Murphy Brown, in the retrospective sense, had as much to do with timing as with who Candice Bergen is. 

Walking It Back, Mako Miasma

"I couldn't make the slightest movement. I stood, or rather hung, suspended, in a bed of air, all of one piece with my metal shell."-- Solaris, Bill Johnston translation, location 21

What about McQueen? What about it? Minimalist, strong silent type, Maggie Q isn't a jack off rave either in her attempt to leave us hand wringing. Good little bad girl. Bad bigger good Jake with the finger of divine discipline on him, with the future Murphy Brown reeking the vestigial horror of rape as a war crime. Everyone knows the faces of Mako and James Hong as the standard character actors of ethnic diabolical impurity and compliant good intentions, illustrated by Attenborough's Frenchie; it is not simply love of Maily which drives the second mate. He wants to achieve bourgeoisie status at a bargain basement rate. He pays with malaria or dysentery and leaves his Eurasian sweet meat to die like a dog getting its skull fractured for a stew. The Sand Pebbles has an affinity with the equally commercial Sho gun of moral turpitude, homo sociability of unintended consequences as a result of the peasant caste system which Jake challenges through individualism and the love of being a journeyman in and of itself. Linda Lee Cadwell's exotic romance may not have been tinctured with this studio saga of the forbidden, but its real life tragedy had the same vitiating result.

Am I against multicultural fusion? Not at all. Pragmatic reality is another matter. My argument is that Crenna unexpectedly steals the film in his last twenty minutes of shooting, despite McQueen's abscess and his sickened sacrifice. A possible trigger for his mesothelioma? Feverish, pneumatic runs, hungry and not eating. Dry toast?