"They are more afraid of assisted living than they are of dying." A liberal analyst
Liberals always ably diagnose problems of their own making, which invariably leads to retrenchment, the brawn of knocking a defined but slightly less ripped contract killer Jason Statham inhabits as himself. Statham is not a portrait actor. He doesn't inhabit. He performs as an action figure, in most of his films in affiliate circulation, but he seems to have a particular comprehension of his niche that is put together just well enough to be funny. I like Crank, which says something about me. Some of my regular readers know this already.
Having stipulated viewing pleasure, however, doesn't mean a trained eye doesn't see the narrative as fantastical. Gangsta may get off on breaking each other down, but surely Chev's employers knew he was dangerous, and if they wanted him to die hard, they would have further disabled him in the opening jump, mind games aside. Neveldine and Taylor make up for their preposterous plot devices, and Statham is in obvious sympathy with the notion that action achieves more than sensitivity training, but even here there is a beneath the surface subtext: Defiance is maintained through perseverance. Loopholes, like keeping yourself on uppers, can pay dividends, and being smart about not over-reaching can pull you out of a tight spot. How real world is Statham's urban jungle for the rest of us? Well, poverty is mostly accrued in increments of petty vandalism. Not that gun ownership isn't ubiquitous in black society, but city violence is by and large, banal, taking a toll on everyone.
My eye was running over my old files, and I still have Dana's email from Poets & Writers Speakeasy, banning me in 02 for personal attacks against other users, as if I was the Tantrum Special Needs student from The Slap, or Modern Parenting. I remember a few flares, and suppose, justifiably, users may have been frightened. Vitriol comes from unreachable pain-- but what I wanted, from P&W, from anyone, was out of the regimented hell of my domestic life. The poet Bob Zordani suggested going back into the MFA system (if you know of him he was pretty cool back in the day) and so forth. I wanted the fucking liberals and more moderate suburbanites to come rescue me, literally, and a part of me still does. We do not, in general, tend to do that for each other, but cripples do, without much hesitation. The new social media, to some extent, reigns me in, and there are only so many ways to reap revenge on a system, and a supervisor, who did their number, then their expulsion; family pushes back, even mio padre, however, on the arc of where I've been, where I'm going, honestly, children do not need to be saved if they cannot make their own decisions. I may start something in the morning, filing a police complaint against Presby. It may not be enough of a something that the officers will arrest me. I don't know, but I'm starting it anyway, hopefully with enough composure intact. I want to be able to vacate Riverside with a modicum of safety.
My instructors meant well, but my wounds go too deeply for ever a full recovery. "Hang on for a little while." Whisper in my ear. May be a bummer busy week.
Showing posts with label crank. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crank. Show all posts
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Friday, March 20, 2015
Jason Statham's Inspiring Disenbodiment
"Mental health will drive you mad." Quiet Riot
Liberals like Paul Krugman would argue, not without some justification, that public housing affords a person of my physical vulnerability more protection than would a private rental, and indeed, when I toured the Presidential Suites between 1992-93, Linda Dezenski referred me to her private contractor for unit modification. He wanted 5k, which for me, or my father, my mother, would have been astronomical at the time, on top of the rent, and if I or the landlord terminated the lease, I would have had to restore the apartment, and although this may sound accusative, I have no idea where Linda thought I could come up with that kind of expenditure. Her department and Staroscik's department were paying me seven dollars an hour as a consultant. My entry level salary at Matrix was an improvement, but I would have needed at least an annual salary of 50,000 to maintain the lifestyle my father provided me as an adolescent, and I would have also needed tenure, which, even if I listened to all the middle class advice, put myself on an autonomic pharmaceutical regimen, would not have been guaranteed. The field was already becoming saturated, and the humanities is soft. Even a successful founding country import like Niall Ferguson buttressed himself as a historian by creating an interesting specialty as it relates to economic policy and development. I could have never hoped for that kind of intellectual magnetism, not easily afforded to women as it is.
But my intelligence still deserves better than this sterile, fatalistic paralysis, the regulatory paradigm designed deliberately not to allow me to keep my assets. I do not want to do my recertification, which will be scheduled soon, not making it easy on myself. I would have approximately six weeks to find persons unknown willing to help me pack, in exchange for what, a tutorial? Six weeks, a storage facility, deciding what to do with the feline children, what temporary shelter I could find, destroying my comfort to decouple myself from the burgeoning industry of plurality poverty in this country. The recession hit many people hard, maybe even those reading this, but my upward mobility ended because I did not have the emotional armor necessary for case management after my accumulation of inner city and suburban poverty progressed against my well being like brain plague and rabies. For such a large country to lose the dynamism of aspiration signals deeper structural flaws, and with my age, I have to trend my expectations downward, but even if Presby staff and PCA deescalate the institutional bias against me, on top of the overt discrimination and abuse, I simply cannot continue in this environment, with Jimmi Shrode's indignation a silent slap in the face with every encounter between us. I no longer know how active his near zombie partner is on Liberty's board of directors, but the two of them, as homosexual militants, like mafia bosses, have pull, and my level of critical dissent against the so called activists, it simply isn't tolerated. Aside from which, I simply cannot return to 714 Market Street. That my conflict with disability intake is so public is, of course, in the present tense, my responsibility, but when I was being humiliated by them, this was not due entirely to my breakdown. Linda put me through my paces with former colleagues, former suburban school mates and neighbors. It is very difficult to live with, and Riverside's tentacles are very much entwined with it. Henry Miller, so slowly digested, has been a bad influence, evidently, as if I could waltz, penniless, from predicament to predicament, without legs to stand on-- though there are sexual fetishes out there which could garner me traffic in the red light district.
Liberals like Paul Krugman would argue, not without some justification, that public housing affords a person of my physical vulnerability more protection than would a private rental, and indeed, when I toured the Presidential Suites between 1992-93, Linda Dezenski referred me to her private contractor for unit modification. He wanted 5k, which for me, or my father, my mother, would have been astronomical at the time, on top of the rent, and if I or the landlord terminated the lease, I would have had to restore the apartment, and although this may sound accusative, I have no idea where Linda thought I could come up with that kind of expenditure. Her department and Staroscik's department were paying me seven dollars an hour as a consultant. My entry level salary at Matrix was an improvement, but I would have needed at least an annual salary of 50,000 to maintain the lifestyle my father provided me as an adolescent, and I would have also needed tenure, which, even if I listened to all the middle class advice, put myself on an autonomic pharmaceutical regimen, would not have been guaranteed. The field was already becoming saturated, and the humanities is soft. Even a successful founding country import like Niall Ferguson buttressed himself as a historian by creating an interesting specialty as it relates to economic policy and development. I could have never hoped for that kind of intellectual magnetism, not easily afforded to women as it is.
But my intelligence still deserves better than this sterile, fatalistic paralysis, the regulatory paradigm designed deliberately not to allow me to keep my assets. I do not want to do my recertification, which will be scheduled soon, not making it easy on myself. I would have approximately six weeks to find persons unknown willing to help me pack, in exchange for what, a tutorial? Six weeks, a storage facility, deciding what to do with the feline children, what temporary shelter I could find, destroying my comfort to decouple myself from the burgeoning industry of plurality poverty in this country. The recession hit many people hard, maybe even those reading this, but my upward mobility ended because I did not have the emotional armor necessary for case management after my accumulation of inner city and suburban poverty progressed against my well being like brain plague and rabies. For such a large country to lose the dynamism of aspiration signals deeper structural flaws, and with my age, I have to trend my expectations downward, but even if Presby staff and PCA deescalate the institutional bias against me, on top of the overt discrimination and abuse, I simply cannot continue in this environment, with Jimmi Shrode's indignation a silent slap in the face with every encounter between us. I no longer know how active his near zombie partner is on Liberty's board of directors, but the two of them, as homosexual militants, like mafia bosses, have pull, and my level of critical dissent against the so called activists, it simply isn't tolerated. Aside from which, I simply cannot return to 714 Market Street. That my conflict with disability intake is so public is, of course, in the present tense, my responsibility, but when I was being humiliated by them, this was not due entirely to my breakdown. Linda put me through my paces with former colleagues, former suburban school mates and neighbors. It is very difficult to live with, and Riverside's tentacles are very much entwined with it. Henry Miller, so slowly digested, has been a bad influence, evidently, as if I could waltz, penniless, from predicament to predicament, without legs to stand on-- though there are sexual fetishes out there which could garner me traffic in the red light district.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Lethal Injection for Horses
"What?"-- Jason Statham
It is difficult to evaluate Jim Webb as an alternative to Hillary on the basis of his one recent interview with Judy Woodruff. He hasn't been exactly visible, but is a potential candidate who used to have a gravitational pull for me, and he seems to recognize progressives are free-falling out of a helicopter in an ironic, fantastical, denouement. If Mrs. Clinton doesn't run, or in some context loses the primaries in a bloody fight with a dark horse like Webb, the problem becomes obvious, in that, all things being equal, Webb would lose to the Republican nominee, barring something extraordinary, like a Rand Paul Ben Carson ticket, and by Christ wouldn't that be fun!
Pleased to recapture a cultural reference, I remember Carson doing an interview on his advisory role on the Bijani twins, and he cut an impressive figure. I was going to do a very long apologia for him on his views of homosexuality, and we may return there, to my delicate gay bashing with its hideous implications-- but not today, since I can't handle a battle with the German left and moral umbrage of my minority wardens combined, at least not without becoming a full fledged Libertarian first-- I've flirted, spiritually, with Libertarian philosophy for a long time, and telephoned the party from the ghetto, years back, and argued with the gentleman who answered my call about my terror over guns-- however, if one has to pick a side, I'm leaning heavily, today, towards becoming an operative, without any reason, thus far, to like Carson-- remembering the eclipse of Herman Cain. Even at the price of losing ground, Carson should have explicated his anti-homosexual bluntness, not backpedaled.
The right needs more courage to remain unpleasant; if a neurosurgeon of such skill and compassion can see homosexual activity in a vein so similar to mine, journalists with a platform might want to ask more questions before dismissing us as bizarre.
Jason Statham has the bizarre action thriller humor all to himself, and Crank nearly had me pissing myself with its humorous subversions, including its homage to Jon Voight and Midnight Cowboy. My thought processes need fermentation, however, in my balance between rough draft and polish.
It is difficult to evaluate Jim Webb as an alternative to Hillary on the basis of his one recent interview with Judy Woodruff. He hasn't been exactly visible, but is a potential candidate who used to have a gravitational pull for me, and he seems to recognize progressives are free-falling out of a helicopter in an ironic, fantastical, denouement. If Mrs. Clinton doesn't run, or in some context loses the primaries in a bloody fight with a dark horse like Webb, the problem becomes obvious, in that, all things being equal, Webb would lose to the Republican nominee, barring something extraordinary, like a Rand Paul Ben Carson ticket, and by Christ wouldn't that be fun!
Pleased to recapture a cultural reference, I remember Carson doing an interview on his advisory role on the Bijani twins, and he cut an impressive figure. I was going to do a very long apologia for him on his views of homosexuality, and we may return there, to my delicate gay bashing with its hideous implications-- but not today, since I can't handle a battle with the German left and moral umbrage of my minority wardens combined, at least not without becoming a full fledged Libertarian first-- I've flirted, spiritually, with Libertarian philosophy for a long time, and telephoned the party from the ghetto, years back, and argued with the gentleman who answered my call about my terror over guns-- however, if one has to pick a side, I'm leaning heavily, today, towards becoming an operative, without any reason, thus far, to like Carson-- remembering the eclipse of Herman Cain. Even at the price of losing ground, Carson should have explicated his anti-homosexual bluntness, not backpedaled.
The right needs more courage to remain unpleasant; if a neurosurgeon of such skill and compassion can see homosexual activity in a vein so similar to mine, journalists with a platform might want to ask more questions before dismissing us as bizarre.
Jason Statham has the bizarre action thriller humor all to himself, and Crank nearly had me pissing myself with its humorous subversions, including its homage to Jon Voight and Midnight Cowboy. My thought processes need fermentation, however, in my balance between rough draft and polish.
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