"No, with a prince."-- Catherine Devenuve, full bloom
I have been awake since about seven thirty Thursday evening, simply waiting for physiology to realign, and I am going to have to drive the Jazzy under the shower head fairly soon. It is risky, given that I have been lumbering in poor generic power chair technology with a short in its electric system for nearly three years, trying to upgrade, but it is less risky than a park near hot steam while I risk the old bathing chair, even though I should do things properly. My latest bad judgment was leaving Hahnemann for the ambulatory practice, in 14. I still have no new chair, and if I had the money, I'd skip the red tape and buy my own, but I'd be difficult about the fit, to get it right. But what are municipal progressives worried about? Not its marginalized underclass, but linking the commemoration of the Rizzo family to Charlottesville, because the city of brotherly love is a proverbial backwater, always has been, and I am wasting my data to burst out into tears. Frank and Joseph Rizzo have nothing to do with Bannon and Breitbart, and Trump's roiling rise, and Jim Kenney is old enough to know better. The Rizzos have a direct link to my family, and I don't have enough bullets through the heart. Now this. All evening, not to work, just to fight extraordinary dislocation pain, fight mild vertigo, indigestion, and take another bullet to the heart:
The outcry here to our prominent local anchor is very real. I know Joe Rizzo's daughter. I stood on Broad Street for Frank's funeral procession, and my father received a commendation for rescuing the late mayor in an emergency fire, and I am going to find and buy that article. I am not going to let this legacy be cheaply besmirched without a fight, so help me God. And Jim Gardner knows this too. He knows what utter folly this is, the preening local celebrity insider who occasionally flaunts his access to the local political scene. He is a show horse, whether or not also a phony, but his living memory parallels mine, and a well placed word from him about this utter nonsense would carry weight, not that he would do it for the sake of my distress. The extreme right may not want the burden I represent, but if the left isn't careful, I may become the most unique aberration yet. I disliked Michael Nutter, but at least he was a defined scold. Kenney is the most ineffectual executive this city has had since Wilson Goode.
A declaration of war.
I do not need Niall Ferguson to remind me how often these cataclysms human civilizations occur, usually through succession of newer-ending authority upon the old, Pharaohs or Emperors defacing sculptures or frescoes they do not like, riots or reactionaries destroying art, burning manuscripts. I thought by now Americans would know better, and even if I got as ugly as I pleased, and forced Google to suspend my platform services, or brought the administrators in my network to suspend me on Twitter, it would not do much good. I am a woman four years from sixty, with a passionate love for life, beaten down by minority arrogance most whites, barring extremists, or former Governor Sarah Palin, being dismissive with phraseology, like "shucking and jiving," though the behavior does exist, would find too radioactive to touch, but I just have to ask those on the ideological left, who the fuck do you think you are? Saints, incapable of cruelty in your own right? This isn't simply about the Civil War, which has as many elements of white trash as segregation once had the force of legal authority. It is more than that. You're trying to eradicate the very basics of human nature. It can't be done, and Africans can be bad: Louis Farrakhan once openly asked "what is a Jew?" on tabloid television, and Al Sharpton is as reactive as Donald Trump. He's certainly not Barack Obama, with that soaring audacity, and the occasional willingness to speak truth to power, despite the fact that his movement didn't move the barometer that much. We are just sorry, sad creatures, and I wash my hands of it. The superficiality of modern day constructs, like Bachelor in Paradise, doesn't help. Producers throw a bunch of 20 somethings together, and I have absolutely no idea where Corinne got her notions of sexual assault. I know what abuse is, the alcoholism and addictions tied into it. One of my mothers lovers, street name Beaky, tried to sleep with me when I still had a throb for John Tassoni. I have had to eat so much humiliation, but what buzzes is candied people on network getting into it beyond what ABC bargained for in playing up diversity and romantic tension. No one dares to say that perhaps Corinne was afraid of DeMario because he was black, though it sits right in front of us, social fears, reality on the ground, and sex makes us vulnerable. It is not always loving, has as many triggers as pleasures, and maybe shouldn't be played up for the camera in the course of normal courtship rituals. You're all beyond me today.
For the more delicate and costly articles of food for the sick we relied mostly on the agents of the Sanitary Commission.-- William T Sherman, ushering in the modern era, p 883
In terms of its neo-realism, Surrogates has many issues. Critics ask why humans would desire to be enveloped in a body length sensory console, but as the studio FX for this Willis vehicle illustrates, our physical bodies could not long survive such extended periods of inactivity, unless one has to adapt, as Cromwell's Canter does, to being a mobility impaired tyrant. The plot is also problematic. If VSI hired Stone to kill its founder in order to prevent catastrophe, one that makes the Third Reich seem inept, then you hire a contract killer to penetrate to the source, to make sure the hit is done right. If Willis can do it as Greer in the flesh, one can assume Kodjoe's no nonsense cueball supervisory agent could have found someone methodical and efficient enough to kill Canter before he uploaded the virus. But beneath the surface of its weak story, the industry's kick in the teeth toward itself might generate rancor. Even seeing what we see, and making pneumatic blockbuster allegories reveling in the very psychosis of mortality, we cannot stop the train. We're already plugged in and enhanced automated liars, and even the dowager, courageous as she is with appalling truths about physicality, poverty, and a stacked, corrupt deck, has certain episodes of omission. I do not reveal certain things about Lakisha Doe, not because I know she is online, but because her guilt doesn't deserve that I use it to hurt her. She wasn't a bad assistant as far as really African blacks go; tried to help me, using her money to buy me clothes, but I did not want a nigger surrogate for a daughter, and booted her, doing her a favor, really. Where she is at now with her dental company is better than where she was with me on the waiver system. And I'm sitting here writing this to jack up. God forbid I stay offline for a week and prioritize my many issues. I am sure this is what many followers who've abandoned this voice think. Do what you need to do, but like Rosamund Pike, many of are infected avatars, and mine concurs with Cromwell's final, insidious, implosive, intent. In the alternate timeline of Surrogates' futureworld, Canter would have become an immortal legend, demonized in eternal infamy. The truth of the matter, however, is there are already thousands of people in an extended matrix much akin to sim operators, forced to view the world through lenses with limited periphery. Of course it will not evolve in the manner of the graphic serial brought to life like a plastic surgery bill, but the allegory already lives. Much as Black Mirror's writers already know. Humanity isn't sure what exactly it wants for itself, a homogeneous utopia which removes adversity from our existence, which is what makes us thrive, or to limit our collective altruism for individual circumstances unique to each.
Yom Kippur has been called the "white fast." That's because it is not a fast of mourning, but rather a fast that is supposed to help the faster contemplate his or her sins and relationship with God. A different fast, one that mourns for the destruction of the Holy Temple, is a "black fast."--Craig Oren, Rutgers School of Law
Was Clint Eastwood thinking about this almost laughable leading man flick when he produced Million Dollar Baby? The dated new wave kill the sex symbol movie and the contemporary morality play, for all their differences, carry the same message: breaking free of the entrapment of sterile environment can be costly, in mind in body and spirit. Asinine activists protesting a narrative that had something to say. Linear minds are so limiting, so unwilling to think, to be challenged.
I have mentioned Marshall Zacharias (bottom still) more than a few times in the course of my writings on Blogger, and I forgive the man. As long as there is a Henry James Society scholars will be throwing spitballs around on bad hair days. I took my arguments about peers and collusion public, however, because Greg would not reply to my private email about the matter, and, as I have told my page views in the past, I hate social cuts, virtual or the three dimensional variety. I would have preferred even an angry response from him to no response at all, and I have to forgive that too. Perhaps his honors program had a crisis, or maybe he did not like how I ditched Louise, but why do I have to be in charge of wounded starlings? I am not getting paid to do that anymore and I didn't ask her to either follow me around online, or follow my example.
Does he look happy to you, or, like half the universe, is he a Zolcroft user?
Yahoo did not ban me for writing this. Surprise. I truly believed a flock of angry posters would have come at me, not two thumbs up. The dawn of a new civil war? Ah, clever spastic, that's all, no doubt, simply clever.
