Retrofits we don't have very long

From an ambulatory perspective, the older Quickie P-200 is not much different from the Jazzy Quantum. They are both six-wheeled motorized vehicles, both with large center tires balanced by front and back castors. The Quickie, however, is a performance chair, which Medicare decided "was a luxury," and so the horse's ass at Jazzy reversed the axis. The Quickie is slanted back. The Quantum tilts forward, and I've taken slight dips even opening the door. It is a dangerous unsafe machine, developed in a skewered and corrupt rationing system. Journalists do investigate corruption in health care. The Washington Post exposed issues at Walter Reed, but dissecting how fucking sick the system is becomes a mission for Lionel Shriver, and I can only stretch the chain links. I have never known one medical supply company to last more than five years, and the provider which furnished me the chair, JeffQuip, is now New Motion, and they refuse to service me. Magee, as well, is going to give me a hard time. My life is in danger in this contraption, and I let Mary, the therapist, pick the provider, pick the model. I liked another one similar to this Quantum at the time, and the well meaning rehabilitation expert said she'd stand with me for that over this, but I need a performance chair, and I no longer have the ability to empower myself with this narrative.

This is going to consume all of my time. My savings are gone. My life might as well be a hologram on Brian Greene's debit card, and Midwesterners observe, "your anger is frightening," get me banned from communities I care about, and tweeters are left to marvel at my savagery. I could try Moss. I was a patient there once as well, but Moss cares more about its contract with Septa, and denial of service options.

This all makes me puke, and it essentially forces me back on the Medicaid system. Tarantino's protagonists manage to cut the net, and the pleasures to be derived no doubt come in part from our merger with  their fantastic liberation and ability to dash on the freeway at dangerous speeds. The first half of Quentin's Kill Bill is the only thing running this afternoon, and I am surprisingly ambivalent about the beginning of the end I already know. I love David Carradine, always have, but I am not sure what the point was of all this fun loving gore. Kill Bill is, obviously, a homage, and allows Carradine to bring out his inner prick, something he had done in the past after Kung Fu, but being creative and decorative with human capacities for anger and torture simply for its own sake could have just as easily been animated.

Straw Dogs, whatever one feels about it, had a message, and a dark, concordant irony. Kill Bill seems to have a singularity of purpose, but doesn't know what it wants. To celebrate ruthless bastards? To celebrate taking extraordinary levels of punishment need to achieve one's objective?? Something gets lost in all this conflated wilding.

Stooping to genre

In relation to my last paragraph in Hawn, the difficulties in actually finding, hiring, and maintaining one's own safety, in searching out contract killers, seem to be insurmountable unless you're in prison on hard time. It preoccupies as an intellectual problem as much as a victimization appeasement, and Allen's dialogue in the mouth of Wilkinson's equivocal mastery is more persuasively realist than most political thrillers with superstar precision at the helm. This excludes classic shudder films like Jackal, which was brilliantly directed, and at its heart, about a man who loved his work, the challenge, the willingness to die to surmount his obstacles. Do assassins outside of professional military snipers still exist? I don't know how to research this on my on tine without placing myself in real trouble, as I've skirted around the fact that I have motive.

(I am rational enough to understand the sentiment of moving on, but what my few regulars may not understand is after the fact that I was royally screwed came to its completion, I lost Paratransit in 02, suffered equipment failure, battled Presby's managers prior to the fecal decoy moves of Miss Richardson, and did not come out of this without sustaining significant damage-- and suspect no matter what I do with the last of my assets now no one will employ me with the support I need. You dig?)