CBC Scorecard

"I hope you can recognize I'm just trying to be better informed." -- Stephanie G Fritz, batgirl

 I think, at times, I don't realize the toll Twitter takes on me, and the last thing I needed headed into Thursday afternoon was another bitch slap by more anal retentive and frigid libertarian females who don't like my lack of fealty to presidential candidates as pastry decorations, not that Donald Trump as circus barker and Joe Biden as a hollowed out trojan horse are unique in this respect. Ronald Reagan paved the way for the celebrity politician, whether at the gubernatorial level, like Arnold Schwarzenegger , or Jesse Ventura on Minnesota's less flamboyant pay grade, not to be outdone by Sony Bono curing himself of Cher  by ventilating scars of the heart by becoming a California congressman. It increasing feels like we've ceded Trump's 2020 opposition to the Covid and climate destroyed Pacific coast, and perhaps, if I had not continued to engage Miss Fritz while my minority janitor was on luncheon after my phlegm rode me through another virulent attack, she wouldn't have blocked me. I have little else to contribute to Jo Jorgensen's run for the Oval Office, her CATO Institute policy points. I like Hamza Haq as Dr. Bashir in Toronto, as opposed to Deep Space Nine. The Canadians are getting better at imitating American fractal points, and Haq is reasonably cute, reasonably functional beyond his traumatic experiences on the Syrian home front. One reviewer with paid byline didn't care for the pilot backstory, which I haven't yet streamed, against progressive lack of mercy for the mortally ill. I have other things to do than review and refine this failed Blogger account, but I fail to understand the demands Fritz was placing on me. I am not a card carrying LP member. 

The Slenderest Thread is Silver

"Help me," --Anne Bancroft in her genteel tragic fate before her invidious seduction of Dustin Hoffman

He gave me his cold. Sounds petulant, does it? Cerebral Palsy is a condition, as opposed to a disease, a very common indicator of biological trauma within the radicalization of obstetric mortality ratios. We are not true quadriplegics, like Jason Dorwart ventilating about Breaking Bad star Bryan Cranston, which in itself is a refutation of Jason’s resentment, the residual effects of critical acclaim. Breaking Bad was eulogized for giving the city of Albuquerque a rather juicy visual exposition, and it means, quite simply, that its starring actor had every right to play pretend with spinal paralysis. Jason has the community integration acolyte’s adherence down to the T-bone, without being able to actualize the distinction that managing care doesn’t make that care a business, and he’s also wrong about the industry’s predatory opportunism. Hollywood doesn’t need wheelchair users, as opposed to character actors with exotic conditions, like Alopecia. Wheelchair users would also tell me I should have told the care giver not to come in, or to leave, or use a mask, prior to battle with volcanic mud slinky. For 48 hours, I feared the very real possibility of walking pneumonia, sweating with chills, flushed cheeks, my bronchitis in ascendancy. Jamboree man needs his home owner's insurance paid so badly killing the fattened goose is not, ironically, an issue. There are growing tensions between us, and I kept it to myself that I threatened Jevs Health & Human Services division within an inch of their lives, although I haven't yet weaseled a lawyer into seeing the liability of lucre.

Jevs HHS isn't Jevs HC. 

Do you begin to see what a game this is, why I am attracted to quiet pockets like The Slender Thread? For Pollack's directorial debut, Thread is a taut, well executed game of cat and mouse in which LBJ might not have even existed. Inga's distress is handled according to the values which were instilled in Eisenhower's generation, despite the fact that it's a new age liberalism trying to reign in this woman's deceit. Pollack ends this film in such a way that he wants us to feel the impact of failure: Poitier, the rigid son of itinerant tomato farmers, fails to get the virtue of Inga's white privilege to see itself as paramount. The tack on rescue is merely a fairy tale ending to get past the willful censor of populism. You're free to disagree with an imperiled woman, but the script wasn't a sleeper success. Savalas and his medical humanism hits too close to home.

Polynomial Spectrums

Alessandro Manzoni's mother was the beautiful and brilliant daughter of Cesare Beccaria, a distinguished writer on penal reform who enjoyed considerable fame not only in his native Lombardy, but also in liberal literary circles in pro-revolutionary Paris.-- Bruce Penman, an introduction.

I do not particularly enjoy considering myself a stalker, not beyond a certain point, and if I was as callous as I purport myself to be, I would have simply removed Tassoni's account from my Facebook feed, in tacit correction of a mentally hamstrung minority who thought he was doing something good for me, but instead, as grist for the mill, with a mastication near to that of Jamesian attenuation, I weigh the matter as heavily as Queen Elizabeth does in beheading a Catholic subversive. Heartburn versus he isn't the bad guy, and why did he accept the request if we quarreled in 02 in our relatively hale middle age? He achieved his goals, and I've done remarkably well, considering, annoyed at myself. My feelings are still involved, as if my consciousness teleported itself into Marquez's Love in The Time of Cholera.

The care worker, however, provided me with an understated life jacket. John is an authentic link to my more aspirational past, when I did believe my writing was a calling. He has 417 Facebook connections. I have 23, and torched more than a few of those, removed my mother's family from view because Mary wants me to go to a home because her brother, my dear godfather, couldn't get his apathetic technician to do the fitting right for my needs. So I am dying, simple as that. This is a serious rift between me and my aunt, also a partial cyborg. From what I have read of Cronin's trilogy, the Fox Network has its work cut out for it, and I'm rather in agreement with critics like Wheldon that it doesn't interweave properly between the novelist's past and future shifts. It does, as a show, tap into our anxieties in this post Ebola age better than Stephen King does with The Stand. That novel, while driven by well formed characters, was never worth the effort. It simply transforms calamity into Armageddon, a 70's era neurosis in tow. Cronin taps into a more complex undercurrent of civilization overwhelmed by a brute atavism humans never truly conquered.

I have witnessed the same ghastly minority devaluations in North Philadelphia, with the same white clean up operation, that has left district attorney Matthew Weintraub so visibly shaken. We all see the paternalism involved here, the privilege aghast at the color coded gasps of despair. Gosselaar and Sidney's studio manufactured bond, for our disappointed escapism, is no palliative, neither is the progressive fairy tale that egalitarianism is the better part of valor. My sister in law disrespects me because I don't coo at her son's child in the mall, not stopping to think how long it's actually been since I voluntarily went to a mall, or even have any funds to spend there. Instead, my finely educated mind has to spar with a black man who goes off on me because I do not salivate at his movie recommendations. There isn't any statutory requirement in Medicaid Waiver services that I have to be grateful to be diminished by his rote series of tasks, after living a life of mostly sterile disparity, and yet for all the violence in my failing lungs, nearly aspirating to death on a flu shot I did not want, but complying with an Asian resident's request to receive, I still refuse to go down. Should the FBI tag me, you think?

Tommaso Landolfi's Amityville Horror

Ovviamente non poteva aspettare di liberarmi di me-- Tommaso Landolfi, An Autumn Story; p38

Occasionally, Hollywood will toss supporting actors like William Katt a bone, give them a lead in relatively superficial dramas like Steve Milner's House (1985), then repeat the formula ad nauseam for sequel syndication. A quasi-novella length idea of mine was closer to what happens to Doris Lessing as narrator in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where Western civilized world order is peeled away towards a tribal, and ferocious, transhumanism, if that resonates with any familiarity. On psychologically stressful days, Doris Lessing's rather inimitable parable frightens me, in our post-911 world, and Landolfi is somewhere in
between the poles of a two dimensional commercial product and Lessing's obfuscating, ambiguous, sinister novel. 

My tale never moved beyond 15 pages. It was about a daughter with a bisexual best friend who returns home to find the walls somewhat pliable, organic, and it was left unfinished during the time I was crushing on John Tassoni. I am having a devil of a time about removing or leaving him on my Facebook stream, primarily because I am in the preliminary stages of actively dying, and the paraprofessional tending to my stressed spastic body really didn't understand what he was restoring to my life. I don't love John anymore, and I'm not sure I even like him. Before I admitted my first love to him, cowardly, lying across from him on opposite bunk beds, perhaps we amused each other, and then in 85 I fled the home where he visited me. Be kind to the cripple. The home I link to is about our 3rd suburban house after my parents divorced, where I grew into a naive collegiate. You don't hold onto these memories when wellness flumes out of your intestines, no, what you cling to is the power of access to a celebrity like James Woods. I wanted to say goodbye to him, even if I had to do it through Kristen Bauguess, if she's still his fiance to be. From reporting I've scanned, Twitter will be deleting Woods' account permanently for non compliance. I don't care how hypocritical the left paints him due to his trophy dating, he kept my spirits lifted. Then again, why should Jack Dorsey give a fuck about the end of a torrent quadriplegic's life.

A Mission Creep Leap of Faith

I made a bet I’d last another year, despite chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, not quite so fast-acting as necrotizing fasciitis, and placed this dour domain on auto-renewal. It is true Sullivan’s closure of The Dish heralded the death of the blogosphere, as I continue to be less receptive to how he brings his experiences to bear on Trump era controversy. More on that later, while I plod along with no revenue because I write illegal threats I cannot carry out on my own, under no illusions: Even if I attract the crackpot elements, controlling them and creating incentives for enforceable codes of silence is another matter. When Pistorius had currency  in 13, I was unhappily conflicted over the events leading up to his disgrace. On the athlete’s side of the argument, even if he wanted to kill Reeva in a heat of the moment quarrel, he could have thought of a better strategy than “it was accidental” and then bawling himself into a pity party, though this last seems to have worked to his favor temporarily. Concessions may be given to the prosecution on the basis of the evidence, but where was this amputee’s incentive to kill the woman? He had everything to lose, unlike partisans, who are forced to utilize violence for autonomy, or to act against tyranny, and did lose it, his disability making him patently more vulnerable than a typical murderer, however that is defined in South Africa. My aunt argued with me about the case, equating Pistorius’ alleged fear of black crime as Americans would fear it in inner city Philadelphia, or the Bronx, or St. Louis, or Compton. The difficulty with this line of reasoning is that Africa is primarily populated by indigenous black natives, with allowances made for various Nubian populations, Africa belongs to black Africans. Europeans could not achieve in Africa what they achieved in the Northern Hemisphere, and into the sewer it goes, yesterday’s news pitted against a rare exceptionalism in a broken body made better than ableism through technical improvements on the bipedal biology. I wish reporters would follow up on these issues more often. If Pistorius is killed in maximum security because of his developmental birth defects, I doubt the Steenkamp family would find closure in a hypocritical justification. I am not excusing the man. He was a rare cross over hero against a majority that is so conflicted about deformities and damage in the first place, on one level just another he man venting misogyny, on the other, just another monkey who couldn’t be trust out of his cage. Flesh eating bacteria makes headlines because it is swift, and echoes pandemics of yore, if it isn't the opening salvo of the next. Complex mammals have few defenses against it; cases seem to be on the rise, and we've earned it, battling too hard against death as a natural process. My return will contain more of my leg crossing unpleasantness, terrain I've waded in before. We'll see whose stomach recoils first.

Critical Second Generation

I sure hope the road don't come to own me.-- Carole King, plaintive

My second generation kindle is showing its naked age at eighteen. The not quite French vanilla top cover is stained, its first hairline crack appearing early. Many years later it took a urine spill from my urinal, and the laminate on the five-way cursor split; it has to be coaxed. The screen is scratched, the battery isn’t taking a charge, the ink beads want to return to Israel for vacation, and yet, somewhat remarkably, I am still able to get it to function.

By necessity, I now depend on the marginally younger Paperwhite, but will miss the device, this particular device, when I can extradite myself to trade it in. I know Amazon has manufactured many kindles, and the $600 I spent for both of mine may seem steep compared to current prices, but I admit to attachment, and treat the outmoded model just as families treat coma patients, loving it more than the newer touch interface versions, since I am, unabashed, a proponent of keyboards. Guilt trails my soul, weeping a dirge at the organ. The Paperwhite has a protective case, O ye miserly dowager, if you are as devout as you claim, the older reader deserved the same consideration. Every actor in the industry has the art of portraying the coma nailed to the wall, in those reconstructed hospital episodes. The knack is in interpretation of the locked in individual. For Benjamin Walker, Teresa Palmer’s down time in The Choice, due to a car accident, represents coming to terms with loss. It permeates the dialogue of the movie skillfully for an otherwise light romance where the canines know everything ahead of their owners. In The Descendants, the comatose wife is a trigger, pain and discovery leading to a lesson in forthrightness. In House, the coma is the butt of a joke, and in the original Coma, the condition was weaponized to reveal medical conspiracy we all fear in physicians, surgeons especially, and in the canceled Hand of God, PJ the whining wimp is Ron Perlman’s moral guilt, divine mystery, or both. Wondering how many takes go into these efforts to illustrate the dilemma of how technology is used to force the living dead on our conscience, early on in this stupid crisis, I nearly choked to death aspirating a steak sandwich, and suppose this terror will be revisited, hardware in its ICU stages.

Patterson's Poor Execution

What is missed in penile insertion into the vaginal orifice, the depth of which is rivaled only by the anus, though both are out done by the esophagus, which I believe metastasized into a lump and killed Cousin Albert, a form of terminal demise to which I am privy, and rate second only to locked in syndrome as an expiration most desirous to avoid, is the heat of this highly sexualized piece of cartilage. The heat of a penis is a positive sensation, like the pilot light in an oven, and I never truly experienced it as a form of desire for me, as a liberating escape from ravages of conscious identity. It was only a curiosity, the few times I was at it, outside of tongue. Albert brought the Jewish blood in, as with most Italian families. I never see these favored cousins.
At this stage in my lifespan it is probably too late, any future potential sex little more than a violation and discomfort, rather than consensual adventure, or an act of love. We see how romantic congruence translates on the set on a daily basis, know what chemistry is. Frank tried his best to run through his paces, in fact, but as far as the dowager was concerned he might have been one of her groping clients, men and women, black and white, from whom evasive maneuvers were necessary: now the air we breathe is compromised. I did not realize, until recently, that Zoo was in its third season, with Billy Burke ever the intrepid survivalist. I have never read any of James Patterson's  stories, do not intend to, as much because of his inane commercial advertising as any of his other marketing strategies, but will give him this: Zoo is a nice revenge fantasy poorly executed, even if my rather late glimpse into what is going on felt like an episode of The 100, with every actor hiding behind skype and simulated computer graphics, signifying that complexity and catastrophe go hand in hand in our current populist age. I may have recycled this sentiment as well, but merge it with the pragmatic sensibility of the Amazon customer pointing out the opening season's rushed, choppy feel. Trump upbraided Lisa Durden for her vitriol, and I've reached a kind of plateau where no one truly cares about mine. I recycle too much of it, to the tune of tone deafness, and my white hot anger has not translated, quite, into consequence, as my COPD occasional flare ups slipped my mind. If I am actively in my early dying stage, I've markedly eluded emergency medical care. Perhaps it's too easy to blame barometric pressure, but how many good resets I have, this Thursday morning after Salvation's disruption, seem suddenly precious.
I cannot tell you, despite the grooves of my trauma, that I have been latently butch all along. Were that the case, the lesbian passes I've had to absorb, forced, would have gotten me off. This never happened. Not feeling well, I fathom getting back to bed without incident, shins swollen, wondering if its worth pushing matters, manufacturing a hate crime, on a strong day, rolling dice with God in a failing machine.

Guilt and Significant Licorice Craving

"A man's lowest ebb may be his finest hour."-- Kris Kristofferson

I made something of an error which led to a false reaction with ever fortunate players of capital injection, and I'm owning up, which is why I keep most of my twitter email for lengthy periods: Ronald Chernesky merely liked a technical news tweet of mine on Amazon Echo not many mornings back, and I looked at his account in Philadelphia's lousy holiday pre-dawn light, not very hard, or studiously, and followed him. I erred, therefore, in making the assumption that he was trying to pick up my account, and may be held accountable for confusing him with my mild objection about what he was doing on my feed-- but my aging nose smells something, nevertheless, like the odor of smoked mackerel, and I have filed "future article with bewildered hostile source," away for future reference-- not immediately. Let the mild turbulence expend its energy, then move to balmy. I was, however, in the wrong, and will lower my tire speed on twitter in the future. Scouts' honor (predatory grin). When I want to be acknowledged by the security of his world, I do mean it.
In the interim, my body wants jelled candy. I was nearly ready to blow a wad on Amazon.

Warning Signs of Indigestion

Ashlock told me many a tale of the Indian wars then in progress. -- William T. Sherman, Memoirs, page 18

I understand the arbitrary nature of social media, and had more than a few bouts of distemper on twitter, most of which aren't any fun, but to my recollection I haven't harassed or harangued any followers recent or long term. I may have mentioned a few of them, but certainly have not aimed any missiles, hence my puzzlement over a recent September 9 block, as I cannot fathom why it occurred; if anyone knows something for which I might consider an apology in order then I'll consider it, as I prefer to claim ownership of the sin: it is not the loss of a follower, but the block. The block in and of itself I find mystifying. I am what I've become, and if this summer and my COPD are any indicator, I am going to drown to death in my own phlegm soon enough, or head into congestive heart failure, and shall not apologize for what Southeastern Pennsylvania living has done to me, nor my frustrated and forceful assertion as its outcome.
Gary Johnson's honest ignorance in relation to the city of Aleppo is actually classic libertarian indifference to nation-state viability, while Thiel's war with Gawker is not really a traditional libertarian response. I was going to go on about this for at least a few paragraphs, that Thiel's purchase of civil tort hurt peoples' livelihood, until I looked up some biographical facts on Nick Denton, saw pictures of him and Derrence Washington, and my reactionary synapses said okay this is a homosexual war of thermonuclear proportions. 

I have been caught in such cross fires of men with such emotionally regressive traits, and blocking it all out is only delayed prevention, in essence, as this unfortunate quadriplegic does not have the strength, this evening, to bring down the wrath of a little pig bitch like Jimmi Shrode and his allies. Just as we cannot kill our way out of disability, we cannot kill our way out of homosexuality, but the LBGT activism and its growing power is cause for concern, as there are numerous examples of others becoming victims, and I am not writing this in merely to be a provocateur, but as a victim of progressive egalitarianism at its finest. The dowager understands why liberals feel they're on the right side of history. I was in a great deal of pain when I boomeranged from the Chester-Ridley Park axis to unwittingly burrow myself in Philadelphia's Third World destitution, but I had the liberal cause burning like the spastic orgasms over which my former supervisor liked to gloat, and I was dead center wrong about what I believed could be accomplished, and now I have to perish with all my actual potential squandered.

If I had listened to everyone and had not moved into Diamond Park, I'm not sure what my counterfactual would have been, as life in the rowhomes of  my aunts was little prettier, at the end of the day, but I'm no longer young enough to turn the stern and get myself out from under, even with all those wonderful behavior modifications of the health police. Like Ellen Muth's character in Dead Like Me, I cannot go back, and my bronchial flares are worsening, though I've contained them. Loss of control hasn't gone too badly this season, but it's over. I'll never recover the exuberant life which I believed possible, and the culture wars had a great deal to do with it.

Redford and Streisand

can it be that it was all so simple then

To pick up on Streisand's melodiousness, conventionalized regret, it was not so simple then, not for me. Whatever I may have intimated about my adhesion to Jerry McGuire, I fought a literal life and death struggle about emailing him in 2007 (am I a stalker?). I did not want to start crying, did not want to beat myself for failing the intellectual acumen he saw, and oh, we were fine in email, off to do my chores. A few hours later it was soup city. You haven't seen drama queen until you've seen an Italian American with cerebral palsy beat her chest with grief as if over a crack in the earth, about to fall. I did not want him to know my composure would be still that easily broken over this disciple teacher aggrandizement, but my composure is brittle. I knew he was aging, and for the sake of his legacy, I acted, but I also flipped out, and I mean flipped, and punished my ex, poor Frank. I railed, and the poor bastard took it, clueless, as I was trying to bust a hole through five inches of concrete, with no one to tell me "cool it."

He is just a very smart, brassy, peripatetic New Yorker, Jerry. I mean, that's about all. We're not gods walking the earth, disappointed in myself, him, both, a little envious that some students can fool around and it's cool, but subtextually knowing he would have rejected me as a woman anyway, regardless of personal loyalties and Widner's administration having a shit fest if their special student popped her cherry on a half cocked veteran. Merciless, aren't I? No longer feeling physical desire. My cunt is tweed and my lungs on auto alert, and in his last bit of sage advice, his bad heart taught him how to be positive.

But you never really talked to me old man, and one wonders why women like me do this to themselves, emotionally void fathers to the emotionally impenetrable, willing to perish in a pointless protest against society, never having gotten what I want.

Slopes of Mucus

It is difficult to know when a COPD flare up is a chronic bronchitis revolt, or just a cold, or allergies in my less than sterile environment. Eschatological alarms reign over my identity, and though the pneumonia grip has passed, this year of my life seems to be the year. However much the majority of happy go lucky social media users read Disability in Entertainment Arts and then flee, well, my spastic domestic terrorist in mortal combat with the obsessive disciple of a master I've all but disavowed in a 34 year tantrum because a childish invalid feels jilted, doesn't really have much quality time left at her disposal. I've diffidently grafted onto Yabberz, and though I may not be able to prove who came from twitter at the urging of my fanatical controlling tendencies, go, join.

I too want a verified account logo, as if I'm joining the next Cabinet on the Beltway in 2017.

Too Late Baby

The longer I remain at Riverside Presbyterian, the harder it becomes to hold myself together; if I give my notice the city will be forced to scrape me off the sidewalk unless I become dazzlingly clever, but the longer I stay the more difficult curbing my anger becomes. To stop living manufactured illegality and the intimidation of deliberate, or intentional bull dykes like Debra Horne remains difficult when fear and its past is omnipresent, but what I have been dancing around is responsibility for incitement when one's personal hell is the knowledge that ambition can no longer beat biology, and I'll probably die indigent, in more pain than I deserve, because social services is fucked, and nothing I can write, investigate, repairs this for me. Can't beat the clock, and the supervisor who hurts others remains secure, while I face incarceration because I'm furious enough for a jail cell on short time, at least before I'm forced on oxygen, should we get that far.

Yes, I know the drill, but Trudy Richardson has succeeded in pissing me off enough that the owners under Presby's corporate umbrella will soon make me someone else's problem. Do I blame myself for grinding the axe on my family? I do not know, but I'm defeated, whether or not I'm now criminally liable. No one would obey me because I'm pissed. I just wish I had understood the bullshit in the Waiver system sooner, did something, and I had hoped to control my ex to that end. Barring a miracle, I don't have a way out, even if I find a creative way to still have legal standing to sue Pennsylvania into perpetuity.

Comfort Foods and Better Place

The cashews are tucked away, craving sated, despite the seasonal consequences, but cashews rival the richness of pistachio, which mitigate sexual frustration better than testes when we want to put the anxiety of subordination aside and relax. Walnuts and hazel do better in cake mixes, peanuts with hops, brazil nuts tolerable with fruit. I cannot answer for chestnuts, usually having them in stewed greens and onions. Almonds fall up and down according to caprice, but there isn't a butter yet I haven't fallen in love with at some time or other.

Simply showing you I can enter into middle brow nutritional enthusiasm too. My lungs do work better after sustained nut consumption and I've no idea why if my particular pulmonary decline is irreversible.

Behind The Bars Schematic, With Sharp Hazel Glint

I never knew Patrick McGoohan was American born. I thought he was British, and his image was carefully crafted as such, that precursor to James Woods' hypermania. Perhaps I could go desecrate his grave and go out on a weird news item. I got up late and watched the tiresome Danes of Unit One despite myself and inadvertently went down memory lane with All Night Long, ate a little and managed no further misadventures on the toilet, and honestly do not know if I am dying due to my cop down to nicotine vapor, or if it is just the stress of generically bad medical equipment and that I need a shower and a better mattress. Acceptance. Seven stages of death, or aggrandizement of allergies, and I'm still in the process of sniveling to the Philadelphia police force. Can't get a lawyer? Whine to the enforcers and all the sudden you can die in Kafka's comic moral guilt. My fall in oh 2007 was actually serious. I was in my badly fitted manual Quickie I purchased for 810 on my own dime, and flipped accidentally wedging my left breast on the feline carrier. I thought I was going to die, and to make a long story short a rendezous with Geek Squad led the guard to my door but the stitch under my armpit is constant and if it is cancer it certainly isn't being aggressive.

I did actually see most of The Prisoner on PBS, and unfortunately cannot refresh my memory either through Amazon's avarice or AT&T's lassitude with their garrulous disabled customer, but the series is certainly a cult status farce with deep seated roots in the satirical tradition, and I'm interested in expanding its allegorical bent; for that reviewing is necessary. What McGoohan did well as a performer was offer the reassurance of definition and then fracture it. But let me go for now. I am trying to stay comfortable enough to work and shut off my "I cannot go on" outcry and work and remain upset that I managed nothing and had to log on because of the omnipresent automatic updates. I'm studying what I watch for a blog which really pleases my own interests, when I started what ten years ago was new fangled, all the rage, blogging, and it's already dead. Damned if I understand online ebbs and trends, but I cannot work and study every fucking video under my nose and make myself homeless to really shorten my death by COPD. Hopefully, I'll be back in a few days.

The Mucinex Capsules Slipped My Mind

Yael Grauer is right about one thing: Choices we make intersect with how life experience molds our outlook. Emotional over-investment can impede success, as much as alienation can enhance it, but in reading her post about her depressed friend, the dividing line comes into play: why ambulatory people who have work they care about would commit suicide is beyond me, and her work smacks of an insular narcissism typical of all Americans. Who among us would want to be in Jason Rezaian's predicament, whatever our problems? An Iranian interment might change my mind about bronchodilators, perhaps with lightning speed, although it would be something for the imagination, wouldn't it? Pitting caustic spastic intelligence against the Persian Revolutionary Guard. Acute blunt force trauma, and voila, one bravely deformed skeleton is a minute addition to anthropology. Where was I?

Suicide, or my fascination with Burry's speculative success, his willingness to trust Michael Lewis with such an intimate portrait in The Big Short, which I'm reading on loan. If I tried to invest the little I have left in any sort of speculative fiance I'd run afoul of HUD. Libertarians may hate the Internal Revenue Service, but if they had the clout to dismantle HUD I'd be able to move toward decomposition with some residue of pleasure. Every public housing unit in this country and not a few university apartments, look exactly the same, perhaps built up with Chinese drywall.

Before I graduated to COPD, I had chronic bronchitis, which Rick might remember, and expectorants used to clear me up, with a great deal of fluid, and I've cheated myself this way for many years, like a leper in a Philippine sanatorium, yet another de facto colony of the United States. Why do Asians inhabit these islands? Like many disparate regions in Africa, things haven't changed outside of Manila, beyond Imelda Marcos absences for a lampooning article in Time, and never forgotten from my history lessons was McKinley and his deplorable governance of  the islands at the turn of the century. Of course in 110 it has metamorphosed into progressive determinism, with typhoons and cluster villages ravaged by flooding. 

Forget my conflicts with my building managers, work, take it easy, and bolt, one last time, die hard, die well, write a better post in forty-eight hours. Forgive myself for being an asshole, something I find rather difficult to do.

Overly Involved

I am just an aging disabled woman on her way out, but what I do differently than the angry trolls on New Mobility chat boards, which New Mobility may have ceased to maintain, given Facebook's monopoly, is that I sublimate it into a justified critique of progressive overreach, while the left shifts uncomfortably with the implications, like the cremation of the Russian traitor in the new fast paced Allegiance on CBS. Very few people can handle that degree of ruthlessness. My medical model life has been an incremental equivalency of that ruthlessness, just as the ISIS burning death of a member of the Jordanian air force moves beyond the nature of any argument. The pedestrian nicety holds that Muslims don't kill other Muslims. Zarqawi's legacy closed the door on that polite fiction, but by the same token, graphic excess is not a triumph in fear.

Joshua was initially responsive toward my appreciation of Chaim Potok, and there it ended, and I just blocked a young woman named Natalia Lomala without knowing anything except that she doesn't tweet. Why should I care if my non-compliance is on the verge of more ruthless control? I'm on the verge of being finished, evacuating myself. I'll be placed somewhere, and social media won't do a damn thing for me.

Perhaps it isn't dying, yet. A simple bronchial flare which has subsided, but when did I ever have a moment of fulfillment outside of case management processes? During my inept sexual congress with Scott Bryan, recovering coke addict? My slightly less inept fling with Pat Dillon, the Irish version of my father, over-dramatizing my emotional vulnerability during our break-up? I drove out in a rain storm to a food vendor, crying. My sister screamed at me that he was married, what did I expect? And I forget what Edith, the assistant manager on Presby's typical minority promotional track, did at the time to console me. I was only a resident for three years, and rolled to the office to be consoled, Debra Horne not yet on tap as the bully matron.

"But you're a quadriplegic, what do you want?"

Too poor even for the salve a clean slate might offer, this is all I long for, the last desire, scarcity of resource will dictate how terrible this will be for me.

Tapestry Tracks

"The whole room trembles, expands, contracts, moves a few centimeters to the right or left, up or down, all the while keeping its cubical shape."-- Danilo Kis, Hourglass

I am a bit too dim-witted to understand just whom I am pissing off in the Google/twitter verse to have no referring urls on Blogger for a week. I have taken far more incendiary attitudes in the past than I have of late, though Bibi might find my attitude toward Israel perplexing, and I haven't addressed whether or not my disenfranchisement at the hands of the Jewish princess theme has made me Antisemitic-- though I may have lost a Jewish graduate student on twitter's back end. Even if I wanted to keep track of all that, however, twitter moves too fast. But the answer is no, with qualification, and that being, Jewish liberalism is also a flawed, human institution, This liberalism exists on the plane of Jonathan Swift's satirical bite evinced in Gulliver's Travels, and it is jaundice, but a jaundice with paucity. My Jewish cousins are my most favored family members, and if I could I'd move in with Robin instantaneously. Childhood affections, and she has style, a good metabolism, kept her figure, unspoken griefs shared at my brother's funeral. This is my remaining brother's twitter account, and you see his footprint; he dodges me, his bitter oldest sister. As good as his word, he will shut out my demise in an institutional environment, poor little Benny. Carries mother's maiden name, I don't really blame him. I may eat libertarian ideas as rapaciously as I gasp on fetid indoor radiated air, but Prince Charming isn't going to gallop over to Riverside from social media to rescue me from my remorseful imposition on African American society. If Benjamin cannot handle it, nor my sister, how much more the power males who admire my balls?

Yes, I have them, but only due to the fact I have no vested interest in not calling spades for what they are as I've experienced them, and in transit from Trader Joe's last evening, to the 7-11, I carelessly lost my sock assist, after years of caution, in the usual analogy of density and precocious wit. A simple piece of wood with rubber sealed wire, my entire life has been on the inside of the concentration camp, only flirting with the illusion of freedom in the flickering candle of liberal police states. I can't tell you what it is about the translucent finesse of Danilo's moral guilt that is worth revisiting as my exacerbations thicken with sputum, rereading too much at once, unwilling to fight, but equally not ready to go. I just started The Onion Field. The film made me realize Wambaugh's book would be better, because it isn't simply about a cop killing, but reverberation.

I concede, reluctantly, that small as my account may be, I am part of twitter verse, at least until I get myself banned. Why ever would a smart gal like me do that?

Letters to iconic old men

With an estimated 43 million smokers left in the US, it shows the Surgeon General has a cushy salary without much leverage, or that free market capitalism is as polite a fiction as socialism; more than this, juxtaposes itself badly. Government moralizes and rages over dried tobacco, but legislators refuse to criminalize nicotine, then we spend millions interdicting marijuana. Unlike you, real Nimoy, I do not advise cessation. Cold turkey is crueler than the addiction.

Addictions seem to be long form terminal illnessses, and I only quit due to inadvertently setting my hair on fire, cooking a portion of my back, scarring my shoulder. We share the same disease in COPD, however. Your stage at 82 years is nearly mine some 30 odd years your junior. Your tweets surprise me, like instant oatmeal. Why this is I don't know-- or I suspected portraying Spock made you insane, and you ramble like a sweet old fiddle, but that is 82. 

I'm a bitch, to say the least, not that admitting this to a character actor who fed my youth is a deliberate attempt to be unkind-- merely a wall. My grandfathers are dead, but the simplest of them lived to 88. Celebs with grandchildren ignore bitches, not that this is relevant while I wearily plod the keyboard after profiling your appearance in wheelchair for my a la carte aggregate. Kimmy my kitty puked twice in the last 24 hours and I hope it is a hairball regurgitation. She seems fine, but I worry. I don't mind aggregating so much. Journalism fuels motivation, but I am a good writer and want to work for a better company. Difficult affair with all my disadvantages. Maybe loneliness isn't it. Grasping at the relevance of your past limelight? "I have no regrets." That was your line with Brent Spiner. (I always forget his last name doesn't double consonant on the n.) Two automaton fencing, but Data was nothing like a real android, and this is somewhat aggravating. Your talent imprinted better, if this softball accolade is something of a kindness from a sister raspy voice, a fan of Trek from a distance. Trekkies are frightening. The role playing nearly religious fervor is a bit fucked up. I went to one convention with a black blind man who had glaucoma. Never again. Your bread and butter, the fans who lose themselves over the voyages of the Enterprise. Patrick Stewart was my fuckable. No one else did it for me. I envy his wives and respect the authority he projects and couldn't handle access to him. I'd flush and need to borrow your oxygen, raving maniac for a Shakespearean sugar daddy. Now I'm being facetious while we both die from vice and unintended consequences. I missed access to your 66 Deathwatch when I still had Netflix. Amazon doesn't list it. May have to settle for YouTube.

Affection, yes, I have that. I miss Peter Falk, but prefer suffocation to advanced dementia. My mother laughed at you and Shatner on the bus in the first movie. Small things like that make moments. Good luck to you. Best I can do in lieu of my cynicism. Dare I have the nerve to advise you? Die well, and do not allow your spouse to go the unseemly route of Chaz Ebert, with her video of Roger's last months.

Bell Bottoms Template

The flowers were indeed very very fresh: small autumn roses that were or had run wild. Joachim Neugroschel's translation, page 82.

Herve Villechaize had a vocation as a painter. The black and white photo spread of the once impoverished dwarf kneeling on the floor with his paint brushes may have appeared in Life Magazine; it may also have appeared in People. It was definitely not his newspaper obituary, but this is what immediately came from memory when Fantasy Island hit poor greaseball spastic trash recycled broadcast, aside from how tacky the show actually was. Look at the episodes now and wince, though Montalban is finally dead too, after braving his vanity by baring diseased shins on Chicago Hope. It breaks the heart, the eagerness and anticipation every week for quite stupid fantastical television which may have been the seed for my novel about characters disappearing to an island and made Abrams rich instead.

Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease is strange, at least within the damage matrix of cerebral palsy. Every time I am ready to dial emergency hospice the lung phlegm seeps down into my spastic colon and fecal discharge has a field day. Two or three days of shit pus, and then it starts all over and barring an unexpected traffic accident or otherwise violent death in Black Urban Landscapes, this is how I am going to die. This is how I am going to die unless unless I live long enough to get digitized, Jesus Fucking Christ in the most exasperated expression of real life horror I can utter. Comparatively it isn't enough, how lucky I am compared to native Koreans or Africans. If I was in their particular geography I could not compare myself to America's public housing police state for losers. Just as the industry wasn't enough for Villechaize. He probably regretted the gun shot and the triage if he was conscious after his injury at the utter lack of dignity involved in the attempt to keep him alive. Sutures, IV. Clinical applications are more dehumanizing than any comic routine in white suits with Mexicans he did not like.

There is a blog contest at some press, and if I entered it the entire literary community would no doubt read me the riot act, and then some. I'd lose on design outright because I have no idea how to design and none of you have written a dam word since I opened this account. In a brief email exchange with a literary editor, I tried to hint nicely that I needed subscribers to my Examiner page and she hinted nicely she needed financial support. I bit my lip. My desire to support journals through subscription is dead on arrival, this artistry on which I staked my muted east coast life. Poor Herve, whether or not he picked the better of two lousy choices for unhappy people within broken bodies. I never properly knew any midgets, just those with brittle bones, and one of those was a participant in the ugly incident my spastic supervisor thrust upon me.

Colon Viscosity

Save any free email addresses you inadvertently receive from current or former faculty @ Harvard. You could imitate Pynchon's illustrious  homage to Joyce in Gravity's Rainbow and suck the excrement straight from Wood's colon, using the hose portion directly affixed from the scope. I take this link to James Wood on faculty to be the James Wood I've so often read on TNR. In another life, Wood may not have found me the perfect good wife, but we might have gone snit to snit over an anomalous crab salad in the faculty cafeteria. I am actually deploying my stalking skills on another Personaged Instructor, who shall remain unnamed because I am going to WHINE as politely and literately as possible about writing a post on my pet light bulb for him; but I can't read every thing, and this is me screaming about reading everything and raging at the ridicule of taking down a supervisor I looked up to because of a homoerotic panic that was fake and triggered by other underlying anxieties, not that it doesn't mean she did not deserve a comeuppance. More will follow, perhaps in accelerated fashion, because I will be a centurion before the Congress of the United States yields to the spastic dowager. Where were we again? The unnamed academic, yes, not that I have not named a few. Sheldon would not be entirely startled to discover he is the digitized father-rabbi I never had. He is a good man, and that is spastic's seal of approval. Where was I?

Research, yes, sick to my puss. I have no desire to set foot in Paley ever again but I have to schedule a contact. Alma mater electronic utilization. Lie down an hour. I have too much to do, oddly enough, though spastic can't stop the train. My savings may evaporate entirely by spring.