The Phalanx of Walk Aways in Corrugated Engines

How about moving us up from number 3 for state corruption to 10? Then I will start to smile.

— Thomas Lynn Hamaker (@LynnHamaker) January 16, 2019

The corruption embedded in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania surrounds me like the Earth's penumbra. I have lived it intuitively, know it intimately, and had I had the ability to intern under a rational conservative such as Kinberley Strassel, then perhaps I could delineate it for you within the parameters of her no nonsense approach, but I have to strike at it with an ice pick in more dilatory fashion, wondering how much of it can be traced back to King Charles settling his debts in his aristocratic restoration with a radical egalitarian like William Penn. Probably more than we'd like to think, even though The Society of Friends has dissipated from a radical stripping down of Christian worship into a body of zealots determined at all costs to eliminate caste of any kind. Whatever accusations the left wants to hurl at conservatives for race baiting, a la Willie Horton, guilt riddled Caucasians cannot face the reality of what they subject congenital disabled individuals to as embodied in the Elwyn expose. It would be political suicide for a pedestrian such as Tom Wolf to even hint that invalids suffer even more hardship at the hands of black intransigence than they otherwise would against white indifference, and as for me, who cares? I have burned my bridges into a de facto censure from the establishment, but that doesn't make my observations less accurate or otherwise anguished: you're the one who wanted to move to the city. This is my cousin Jessica's accusation, in code, that as a deluded collegiate I too suffered from this utopian fairytale. And due to it, my rage transposed itself into the destruction of civilization that we see in a crudely constructed parable like Surrogates. Cromwell's depiction of Lionel Canter isn't as remote a possibility as you'd like to think. Family cohesion is always superseded by the institution, by the myriad clinical classifications that don't matter to the unskilled menial tasks bequeathed to African care givers. It isn't slavery anymore, of course not. They receive a salary for these crippled bodies economic necessity forces them to tend, only to have their own resentments lead them into a prosecutorial scold. But then again, I am not the only one burdened by the shame this Commonwealth's face presents to the nation. The perspective this allegation of fraud exposes is unacceptable, precisely because we all collectively deny the truth.

Grace Achieved Through Brutal Contingency

The red-team approach makes sense in the military and in consumer and technology companies, where assumptions about enemy strategy or a competitor’s plans are rooted in unknowable human choices. --Governor Whitman

Early on in my libertarian flirtation, I challenged Austin Petersen in what I hoped was friendly jostling, and he followed me back, then cautioned me on a gaffe which I did not have to make. If I explain this it will come out a bit droll, but nevertheless: I thought I could recycle a political bone out of Bush v Gore, due to a factoid from a Christine Todd Whitman opinion piece that bugged me some odd eighteen years ago, the percentage she cited. Al Gore lost his home state of Tennessee by 6 points, and had he actually carried his home state, the electoral college and the popular vote would have aligned in 2k. It baffled me that the Vice President didn’t carry his base. A local told me they thought Austin was from Tennessee, and I tagged him in error, thinking out loud on Twitter, something none of us should ever do. I explained to him that my synapses were fumbling for a story. I now know he is in quest of Missouri voters. As I’ve warned, droll, and my gratitude that he put me on his feed would have led to a rapid deflection, as he chastised that a block would ensue for off topic tags. I confused him without meaning to do so, and have come to respect him since then. But he and I are nearly polar opposites. He has the promise of his ambition. I have the scars of the welfare state. He is a social liberal. I’m not, wavering as I am, high risk invalid, with a natural inclination to purse my lips in disapproval. This would contrast sharply with his political smile, and, not that I want to shock the left, but I can see what they see: libertarians are about the alchemy of turning flax into gold. Cryptocurrency busts and the Apple fetish in Steve Jobs lifetime has the glint and weakness of chrome to it, but the left also blinds itself to the brutal truths libertarians like Austin aren’t fearful to point out. Healthcare is no more a right than unicorns are part of the equestrian family. Paul Krugman’s brain would explode if he actually applied himself to Maximus and public housing, since he sees all this as not enough expenditure. Having lived and fought and broken myself on it most of my life, throwing money at it doesn’t oxidize bureaucracy with a healthy metabolism. Some ambitious lawyer needs to sue over Maximus's centralization. It is probably an anti-trust issue.

I cannot tackle the decomposing carcass this evening, but the Commonwealth is in serious trouble with its astringent Medicaid allocations. It was always bad, but hell apparently has a guest suite in the Wolf residence. Libertarians are weak on healthcare for good reason. In rationed form, it is an aggregate enforced by public policy, like everyone getting vaccinated, these days, even that has resistance.

Earlier tonight, Adam Kokesh pulled a Petersen, and put me in his feed. And that was also an astonishment. I follow him because establishment media players know the potential for anarchy generates page views, and if my tongue in cheek column about his Liberty On The Rocks invite ran as news in Google once, I can do that again, presuming the immigrants don't hand me a malpractice claim on a platter. If everyone in PA knows Maximus is rot, I had a professional tell me that, and that Liberty Resources is a bad joke, I don't see why they don't fix it. The Olmstead Act, in context, is meaningless. Trump did not compile this deadwood. I am not entirely on board with Trump's hostility to healthy eco-systems, but I also never was a rave EPA enthusiast either.

DWTS in Obsolescence of Product

no one talks like that--a wheelchair mechanic

Death is the most carnivorous of any ecological process, particularly when it is embodied in John McCain’s overly long victory lap for a heroism plucked like a thorn out of a tenuous policing action, his emaciated skin all but fused to his now skeletal visage, his torture as a prisoner of Asians on the peninsula referenced as a secular hagiography but never discussed, unless it be by biographers able at one time to solicit the details. The dowager doesn’t know how his forearms were broken for the near term intelligence desired by the charlies of Ho Chi Minh’s collective nationalism, nor why the bones weren’t set properly. Nearly two decades ago, when his candidacy was a viable property, slight details of his personal grooming needs were mentioned in profiles, and Dick Polman’s skepticism of the Arizona Senator’s maverick label have certainly been refuted by the malignant glioma currently disrupting his brain function. While no one doubts McCain’s political skill, failed nominee or not he is a national figure, a patriot in the truest sense, willing to wear blinders for the sake of it, to strike at adversaries with inflammatory rhetoric, clever barbs which swayed the 08 electorate toward The Invisible Man, his speculative presidency, had the enthusiasm not gone to the paper doll of the Neutral zone, would not have engendered history. The man pulls on the reigns with far too much frequency, coaching and scolding from the bench, just another centrist, whereas I would have vanished into the wasteland of American indigence. Thursday, October 10^th, I packed my electronics, intending to depart my chaotic destitution, and as I was able to predict, my old Quantum shorted out. It is now in the hallway, Trudy Richardson’s chastisements forthcoming. With tremendous struggle, I purchased a bucket seat model on the blind, from an ever harried vendor. They are all the same, and I am still helpless, too weary to adapt to a swivel seat, calculating I’ll survive a failed transfer to my bed rather than the toilet, if I transfer at all. No more money to restore the independence I had with other models, barely able to get my ass on the vinyl with the foot stool upended. This is helplessness, my mind still intact, a 48 hour hospital stay indicating I am a healthy plow mare, one which spins our modern caste systems round and round, low skilled black technicians, cafeteria workers, social services, nurses, chaplains who I sent running with adept verbal fury. Physicians play very little part in this. The same can be proffered for rehabilitative medicine. McCain’s prominence is a constraint. His peers and admirers offer a modicum of delicacy to a dying man, one whom impatience might sweep off the stage: retire to a lucrative hospice suite already and allow your state’s legislature to fulfill its one constitutional function not abrogated by progressive amendments, and appoint your replacement, his heroism as much a construct as it is genuine. I really have to shit, thrown out with all lack of finesse. I may not survive attempting something different, as opposed to a lateral transfer, but medical model hierarchy isn’t as suave as what the industry serves as a daily aperitif. The cracks in the wall aren’t casually dismissed, and Shaun Murphy’s libertarian definition of himself echoes mine, but centralized institutionalism will take care of my dystopian vision of humanity. It won’t take too long. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is one of the origin territories, and it is strangling itself to death with its socialized governing structure. I weigh my will to survive on the minute, and I am going to do something which isn’t done: my address is 158 N 23^rd Street, Riverside. If anyone can stop by just for a few minutes, to stand by, no lifting, ring me. 267-207-5455. It is very temporary, and I prefer you not be black. I wouldn’t write this if my willpower wasn’t telling me to try to hang on.

Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.