Every time we post something which can be seen as inflammatory on the basis of reality, social media administrators warn us about privacy settings. Is there a tally to this before account suspension sets in? The poet Robert Thomas posted a link to a Washington Post data survey about the GOP and the failure of black economic matriculation, found it deplorable, and I posted a stark reality reminder comment about inner city living by referencing a Sunday evening sexual assault event currently under investigation, even while merrily skimming past my former minority co-worker Cheryl's sunny day images which are the equivalent of my family's sunny day images, a blanket cover of positronics, almost like automated cymbals through which we deafen ourselves, even if the reality represents something we as a populace are helpless to mitigate. Another victim, another day, and the half cocked spastic should just grin and bear it and stay put. Wilson Goode set an entire neighborhood in flames in an attempt to pacify Move, before I became locked in as a Presbyterian zoological specimen, then the more dynamic prosecutor Ed Rendell sued gun manufacturers, then Michael Nutter had to wear the shame of Danieal Kelly on the city's face. Danieal doesn't happen with a great deal of frequency, but just enough to remind us how low humanity is capable of sinking, much like Russian thugs perforating livers of Putin dissents reveal the nature of Slavic brutality beneath the surface; and Kenney? Jim Kenney is not a mayor who is intent on creating his own imprint on Philadelphia. He is an interim executive with a corrupt DA on the sole of his shoe, a carry over of liberal exhaustion, no less factually bankrupt simply due to the fact that Ross Douthat epitomizes Trump as the exhaustion of the libertarian idea on the other end.
What I wrote in the comment on Robert's feed was that blacks who "aren't matriculated through their counter culture are exploitative opportunists." So I did leave something of a gap open for the civility of black professionals who would no more use sex to subdue a quadriplegic than the few academics who occasionally cock their ear in my direction. Am I a bit pensive? Most assuredly. Can't I ever be in a good mood about anything? Ah, but bursting bubbles in the swirl of indigence which can be directly attributable to former disability activists is all part of the fun.
Robert and I have interacted with each other well over a decade. Shudder. We met once. Are we true friends? Location prohibits either couple friends intimacy, if I had a new couple prospect to consider, or the nuisance invalid interloper, in the less charitable role of a third wheel, into a rare example of Californian style marital happiness. We do not pick up the telephone to chat about intimate details of our lives, but we respect each other's accomplishments. Is that now doomed because I spearhead Frisco's patrician gentility? Not on my end, not yet, as long as ideological cleavers don't slice the gourmet pizza into a potentially dangerous wedge.
Showing posts with label danieal kelly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label danieal kelly. Show all posts
Monday, April 3, 2017
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Arrest Worthiness Metrics
"Do you think I'm over-reacting?"-- Patrick Stewart as Loomis
The beginning of the end of sedate misery, not yet transmitted, barreled through to simmer, a day, two, no more:
To the ninth district:
I am writing to file a discrimination complaint against Presbyterian Homes, their present supervisory agent Ken Cantrell, current manager Trudy Richardson, and long time former vocational employee Debra Horne.
In 1993, under the duress at my former location, the Diamond Park Apartment complex on 1500 West Page Street, I was a victim of an aggravated assault by the grandson of a tenant. Presby's owners had some liability for that home invasion. The grandson, whose name was Brandon Phillips, had free access to the building. The grandmother either could not or did not escort her relative out after his visits, and I bore the brunt of this by being staked out by a minority, without even so much as a hint of security at these dual complexes, on a day when I had taken off from work. There was no eye level peep hole for me to look out of when the Phillips boy knocked, and perhaps, had I not been worried about clearing my cabinets for the exterminator, had not rushed to open the door, Brandon might have gotten lucky and actually killed me later on, and I wouldn't be sitting here 15 minutes away from the area, virtually penniless, and still traumatized.
The detective who investigated the case closed it rapidly and the perpetrator served his time. My issue is Preby's culpability. I wanted to pursue litigation against this huge rental corporation, so much more powerful than I, and allowed their manager, Terri Way, to talk me out of it. I know there is nothing any officer can do about that. It was many years ago, and reluctantly, I followed Ms. Way to Riverside, with great resistance. The supervisory agent then, Ellen Hovey, knew she dodged a bullet, knew how traumatic becoming a crime victim was for me, and under her manager, Michael Howard, I was treated with deference until he left.
Since he was replaced by Debra Schwab in 2005, I have been under repeated duress. I was banned from the dining service during that time, harassed by the tenants knocking on my door and pelting me was bars of soap. An attorney named Steven Gold assisted me with that, and undoubtedly as officers you might suggest it is over and done with. Of course, but then I was molested and robbed by two personal care attendants from Unlimited Staffing in 2006, at which time I ceased getting aides on the Medicaid Waiver, out of fear. At least one in three of these woman attempted to exploit me, and I've let it go and let it go, and can't anymore.
Up until last year, I used my personal monies for housekeeping help, and that is now gone. I am unemployed with the exception of sparse freelance commissions. Trudy Richardson, her boss, and Debra Horne have repeatedly threatened me and excoriated me at every opportunity, and if I had stood up to Ms. Way in 1993, I could have litigated the Diamond Park owner's negligence and returned back to Delaware County near my immediate family. I want an admission of liability from Diamond Park's owner, and given what I've been through, if Presby is a so called Christian company, let them pay for unit cleanings. I am strangled in debt, trying to go back to work, and if Ms. Horne is so concerned about my mental affect, she and I had a meeting about the fact that my former supervisor at the local disability center had created a toxic environment for me, but in 2007, with an assessment team corralling me in the doorway, they insisted that I return to the disability center for services while my supervisor was Vice President and chief officer.
Every white professional I've spoken to about what happened to me due to my interaction with Linda at the center understands I cannot return there with their coordinators, but not Debra Horne. Her role here at Presby is to attack every vulnerability, and treat wheelchair users like zoological specimens who need to be caged. I refuse to go down this way after years of fighting for viable matriculation. If this company wants to evict me, that is an option freely available to them. If your officers think I am now falling into the troublemaker category and want to remove me from the building environs for not being able to measure up to ambulatory standards, then do that. I do not do drugs. I don't drink, but I'm going to put your motto to protect and serve to the test. This company violates my rights, and I consider the fact that I've lived in a senior living facility since I was 23 tantamount to a hate crime. I want out, and I want this company's conduct toward the disabled investigated. Copies of this complaint will be going to the ACLU, state attorney's offices, and the Human Relations Commission.
I realize you have much more traumatic domestic issues to deal with, but I am not going to die like Danieal Kelly begging for water while this city's governing competency continues to generate national embarrassment. I apologize for the two or three minutes of your time this took to read.
The beginning of the end of sedate misery, not yet transmitted, barreled through to simmer, a day, two, no more:
To the ninth district:
I am writing to file a discrimination complaint against Presbyterian Homes, their present supervisory agent Ken Cantrell, current manager Trudy Richardson, and long time former vocational employee Debra Horne.
In 1993, under the duress at my former location, the Diamond Park Apartment complex on 1500 West Page Street, I was a victim of an aggravated assault by the grandson of a tenant. Presby's owners had some liability for that home invasion. The grandson, whose name was Brandon Phillips, had free access to the building. The grandmother either could not or did not escort her relative out after his visits, and I bore the brunt of this by being staked out by a minority, without even so much as a hint of security at these dual complexes, on a day when I had taken off from work. There was no eye level peep hole for me to look out of when the Phillips boy knocked, and perhaps, had I not been worried about clearing my cabinets for the exterminator, had not rushed to open the door, Brandon might have gotten lucky and actually killed me later on, and I wouldn't be sitting here 15 minutes away from the area, virtually penniless, and still traumatized.
The detective who investigated the case closed it rapidly and the perpetrator served his time. My issue is Preby's culpability. I wanted to pursue litigation against this huge rental corporation, so much more powerful than I, and allowed their manager, Terri Way, to talk me out of it. I know there is nothing any officer can do about that. It was many years ago, and reluctantly, I followed Ms. Way to Riverside, with great resistance. The supervisory agent then, Ellen Hovey, knew she dodged a bullet, knew how traumatic becoming a crime victim was for me, and under her manager, Michael Howard, I was treated with deference until he left.
Since he was replaced by Debra Schwab in 2005, I have been under repeated duress. I was banned from the dining service during that time, harassed by the tenants knocking on my door and pelting me was bars of soap. An attorney named Steven Gold assisted me with that, and undoubtedly as officers you might suggest it is over and done with. Of course, but then I was molested and robbed by two personal care attendants from Unlimited Staffing in 2006, at which time I ceased getting aides on the Medicaid Waiver, out of fear. At least one in three of these woman attempted to exploit me, and I've let it go and let it go, and can't anymore.
Up until last year, I used my personal monies for housekeeping help, and that is now gone. I am unemployed with the exception of sparse freelance commissions. Trudy Richardson, her boss, and Debra Horne have repeatedly threatened me and excoriated me at every opportunity, and if I had stood up to Ms. Way in 1993, I could have litigated the Diamond Park owner's negligence and returned back to Delaware County near my immediate family. I want an admission of liability from Diamond Park's owner, and given what I've been through, if Presby is a so called Christian company, let them pay for unit cleanings. I am strangled in debt, trying to go back to work, and if Ms. Horne is so concerned about my mental affect, she and I had a meeting about the fact that my former supervisor at the local disability center had created a toxic environment for me, but in 2007, with an assessment team corralling me in the doorway, they insisted that I return to the disability center for services while my supervisor was Vice President and chief officer.
Every white professional I've spoken to about what happened to me due to my interaction with Linda at the center understands I cannot return there with their coordinators, but not Debra Horne. Her role here at Presby is to attack every vulnerability, and treat wheelchair users like zoological specimens who need to be caged. I refuse to go down this way after years of fighting for viable matriculation. If this company wants to evict me, that is an option freely available to them. If your officers think I am now falling into the troublemaker category and want to remove me from the building environs for not being able to measure up to ambulatory standards, then do that. I do not do drugs. I don't drink, but I'm going to put your motto to protect and serve to the test. This company violates my rights, and I consider the fact that I've lived in a senior living facility since I was 23 tantamount to a hate crime. I want out, and I want this company's conduct toward the disabled investigated. Copies of this complaint will be going to the ACLU, state attorney's offices, and the Human Relations Commission.
I realize you have much more traumatic domestic issues to deal with, but I am not going to die like Danieal Kelly begging for water while this city's governing competency continues to generate national embarrassment. I apologize for the two or three minutes of your time this took to read.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Misty Gorillas Steam Ventilation
Coalbed methane developed from a safety hazard in coal mines to an unconventional gas reservoir in the last quarter of the 20th century.-- John Seidle in his preface on reservoir engineering.
Sigourney Weaver, like Ben Kingsley, has a versatile hard edge of definition I have often dismissed over the course of her career, though of course Gorillas In the Mist is a volatile film and is meant to be, leaving us little love for the poachers we do not execute for poaching. I saw video of hunters wasting an American mountain lion once and I would have wasted the bastards and told the courts to kiss my ass, not that this is an uncommon sentiment. Passions have to go somewhere. I did not dismiss Sigourney in the alien franchise. She made a preposterous take on evolutionary theory work, and I may not be dying quite yet. It may be gas build up when I do not eat and my stool doesn't move in position for a couple of days, again, not an uncommon problem, but with my small stature staying lucid is difficult without extra sleep, and then I have to destress until fecal waste decides to move, and then Joanne, wondering what the fuck happened to her life, sort of returns, her past never her past. I am trying to get a letter from Steve Gold, a Jewish lawyer who believes he has the right to judge what a disabled woman spends on cigarettes, and I put in three telephone calls to Disabled In Action, Liberty's political arm, prior to Thanksgiving 2014, and then found myself forced to control my desire to vomit and telephoned the center, twice, and had to threaten Information and Referral with a police contact before Connie dialed my number, and in attempting to call her back I got Linda Dezenski's voicemail and blew up in it; for a manager who left, that seems rather strange.
Again, I put it to you, the center was created for quadriplegics like me. I did my job, served their ideology faithfully, and when Linda turned on me, it was like being set upon by hooligans in middle school, in addition to the personal trauma she caused me-- then Liberty's case management staff disparaged me, repeatedly saying they would or did transfer my file after I was swindled and molested by two agency attendants, and the one thing that unites Senator Toomey and a squishy liberal homosexual legislator like Brian Sims is pity. Will anyone act? I doubt it, but I have to spend all my time on this nearly obscene absurdity because I am an expendable human being, because I did not bobble head myself right back up and file with the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission and receive a pittance of a settlement, and I'm hanging by a thread with an equally corrupt Protestant corporation who's life's blood is the low income elderly as an expendable class of person. A law firm on Logan Square dialed my number, and their receptionist will not bother to tell me what type of civil litigation the firm engages in. She hung up on me when I tried to find out. Futurists, who sound like theologians when discussing the trans-optimist advance of A.I., delude themselves with the notion of singular superiority.
Efficiency models don't say much about the price of human dignity when being damaged makes you useless at the age of 36. I cracked a molar on a pork rind, and since the day I emailed Linda about it, at 36, I haven't been able to afford the dental insurance for a damaged occlusion that would cost a fortune to repair. Linda's extension is 227. For Michael Nutter, this is as close as I get to becoming a deranged spree killer, the nanny state mayor of a provincial backwater who scolded the parents of Danieal Kelly over the media airwaves. Everyone's emotional armor relinquishes, but only at funerals, when we toss dirt on the coffin with pus faces. Only the truly bereaved live their grief, all for a damn piece of paper from a Jewish attorney who judges you with the appropriate apologia for your poverty. This is my clinical expertise in the mouth of Weaver's scarred forensic therapist.
Sigourney Weaver, like Ben Kingsley, has a versatile hard edge of definition I have often dismissed over the course of her career, though of course Gorillas In the Mist is a volatile film and is meant to be, leaving us little love for the poachers we do not execute for poaching. I saw video of hunters wasting an American mountain lion once and I would have wasted the bastards and told the courts to kiss my ass, not that this is an uncommon sentiment. Passions have to go somewhere. I did not dismiss Sigourney in the alien franchise. She made a preposterous take on evolutionary theory work, and I may not be dying quite yet. It may be gas build up when I do not eat and my stool doesn't move in position for a couple of days, again, not an uncommon problem, but with my small stature staying lucid is difficult without extra sleep, and then I have to destress until fecal waste decides to move, and then Joanne, wondering what the fuck happened to her life, sort of returns, her past never her past. I am trying to get a letter from Steve Gold, a Jewish lawyer who believes he has the right to judge what a disabled woman spends on cigarettes, and I put in three telephone calls to Disabled In Action, Liberty's political arm, prior to Thanksgiving 2014, and then found myself forced to control my desire to vomit and telephoned the center, twice, and had to threaten Information and Referral with a police contact before Connie dialed my number, and in attempting to call her back I got Linda Dezenski's voicemail and blew up in it; for a manager who left, that seems rather strange.
Again, I put it to you, the center was created for quadriplegics like me. I did my job, served their ideology faithfully, and when Linda turned on me, it was like being set upon by hooligans in middle school, in addition to the personal trauma she caused me-- then Liberty's case management staff disparaged me, repeatedly saying they would or did transfer my file after I was swindled and molested by two agency attendants, and the one thing that unites Senator Toomey and a squishy liberal homosexual legislator like Brian Sims is pity. Will anyone act? I doubt it, but I have to spend all my time on this nearly obscene absurdity because I am an expendable human being, because I did not bobble head myself right back up and file with the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission and receive a pittance of a settlement, and I'm hanging by a thread with an equally corrupt Protestant corporation who's life's blood is the low income elderly as an expendable class of person. A law firm on Logan Square dialed my number, and their receptionist will not bother to tell me what type of civil litigation the firm engages in. She hung up on me when I tried to find out. Futurists, who sound like theologians when discussing the trans-optimist advance of A.I., delude themselves with the notion of singular superiority.
Efficiency models don't say much about the price of human dignity when being damaged makes you useless at the age of 36. I cracked a molar on a pork rind, and since the day I emailed Linda about it, at 36, I haven't been able to afford the dental insurance for a damaged occlusion that would cost a fortune to repair. Linda's extension is 227. For Michael Nutter, this is as close as I get to becoming a deranged spree killer, the nanny state mayor of a provincial backwater who scolded the parents of Danieal Kelly over the media airwaves. Everyone's emotional armor relinquishes, but only at funerals, when we toss dirt on the coffin with pus faces. Only the truly bereaved live their grief, all for a damn piece of paper from a Jewish attorney who judges you with the appropriate apologia for your poverty. This is my clinical expertise in the mouth of Weaver's scarred forensic therapist.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Information and Referral
Shut the fuck up, I'm not going to hurt you-- lines I have to live with the rest of my life
My sin, such as it is, a skim of the jeremiad written by John Lewis for The Atlantic. With the latest tally in Peshawar being 141 killed by the Taliban, initially supported by ISI, as I need not remind you, African Americans seem to have it pretty good these days, despite their own predation among themselves, and what their social dysfunction has inflicted on me. I have seen what local police experience daily, indigent minorities engaging in systemic violence among themselves with impunity, in some of the poorest urban environments. Danieal Kelly wasn't killed because my Italian father fled South Philadelphia, or because a cop shot first and assessed later. Despite the fact that this child was case managed by city services, she was an embarrassment to her mother, who ignored her daughter's pleading for water. Lewis might rebut me that police aggression is different in kind from racial shame, and my response?
Oh please. Poverty and wealth are not entirely about the luck of distribution. Inner city entitlement breeds its own myopia, among blacks, among certain classes of disenfranchised homosexuals, among disabled individuals like myself. I am overweight, and it is hard to knock those extra pounds off with one good arm, but I have made an effort, in maturity, giving up ice cream, eating at least two salads a week. I saw a new tenant get on the elevator as I was coming in, and she easily doubled me for obesity, probably due to soda, which I swore off a long time ago. The woman probably doesn't care, given her age-- you have to be 62 to live here--I, and a few other crippled sots, were let in younger because we're exactly that--the tarts-- I just have the misfortune to have a genius IQ battered by my own obstinacy-- and that indifference to her health isn't socio-economic. Poor people are either brutal or fatalistic; if they are white like me with a useless humanist education stuffed into them beaten down by the procedure, then they are angry and pissed off.
Lewis fears for the country. Christ. I don't get stoned, don't drink, don't have a criminal record. and my life is on the margin. Because of predatory lending? Hardly. My mother was a fucking nut case and I couldn't get what I wanted as an undergraduate, trotted off to live life in an urban liberal dictatorship, and got screwed by activist collusion at the end of the day-- with the Matrix Research Institute's Pew grant funding being a noble experiment pitted against an entitlement system designed to ration and penalize incentives. Once an individual gets on disability, getting off is life threatening, barring the relative security of civil service, or tenure, and I am too old to aspire to that now. Ambulatory minorities don't have that excuse; they have chips on their shoulders, or dream of professional sports, but none of us have equal worth, regardless of which nation we inhabit. The Scandinavians, maybe the Japanese, have the closest thing to a classless society, but there is hardly any nirvana in that when these nations depend on China or Russia being placid, or on America power maintaining a certain status quo for Europe and the Pacific.
Progressive idealism is noble? Fine. Move in with me and see what life is like in North Philadelphia or Kensington for two years. I'm done beating my breast over officers who profile on the basis of ethnicity or criminalizing on the basis of a chronic condition. I spent my whole life trying to be decent, as a case manager or otherwise, and certain situations are irredeemable.
My sin, such as it is, a skim of the jeremiad written by John Lewis for The Atlantic. With the latest tally in Peshawar being 141 killed by the Taliban, initially supported by ISI, as I need not remind you, African Americans seem to have it pretty good these days, despite their own predation among themselves, and what their social dysfunction has inflicted on me. I have seen what local police experience daily, indigent minorities engaging in systemic violence among themselves with impunity, in some of the poorest urban environments. Danieal Kelly wasn't killed because my Italian father fled South Philadelphia, or because a cop shot first and assessed later. Despite the fact that this child was case managed by city services, she was an embarrassment to her mother, who ignored her daughter's pleading for water. Lewis might rebut me that police aggression is different in kind from racial shame, and my response?
Oh please. Poverty and wealth are not entirely about the luck of distribution. Inner city entitlement breeds its own myopia, among blacks, among certain classes of disenfranchised homosexuals, among disabled individuals like myself. I am overweight, and it is hard to knock those extra pounds off with one good arm, but I have made an effort, in maturity, giving up ice cream, eating at least two salads a week. I saw a new tenant get on the elevator as I was coming in, and she easily doubled me for obesity, probably due to soda, which I swore off a long time ago. The woman probably doesn't care, given her age-- you have to be 62 to live here--I, and a few other crippled sots, were let in younger because we're exactly that--the tarts-- I just have the misfortune to have a genius IQ battered by my own obstinacy-- and that indifference to her health isn't socio-economic. Poor people are either brutal or fatalistic; if they are white like me with a useless humanist education stuffed into them beaten down by the procedure, then they are angry and pissed off.
Lewis fears for the country. Christ. I don't get stoned, don't drink, don't have a criminal record. and my life is on the margin. Because of predatory lending? Hardly. My mother was a fucking nut case and I couldn't get what I wanted as an undergraduate, trotted off to live life in an urban liberal dictatorship, and got screwed by activist collusion at the end of the day-- with the Matrix Research Institute's Pew grant funding being a noble experiment pitted against an entitlement system designed to ration and penalize incentives. Once an individual gets on disability, getting off is life threatening, barring the relative security of civil service, or tenure, and I am too old to aspire to that now. Ambulatory minorities don't have that excuse; they have chips on their shoulders, or dream of professional sports, but none of us have equal worth, regardless of which nation we inhabit. The Scandinavians, maybe the Japanese, have the closest thing to a classless society, but there is hardly any nirvana in that when these nations depend on China or Russia being placid, or on America power maintaining a certain status quo for Europe and the Pacific.
Progressive idealism is noble? Fine. Move in with me and see what life is like in North Philadelphia or Kensington for two years. I'm done beating my breast over officers who profile on the basis of ethnicity or criminalizing on the basis of a chronic condition. I spent my whole life trying to be decent, as a case manager or otherwise, and certain situations are irredeemable.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Degrés de barbarie
Timothy Taylor does not address the empirical quagmire of what actually constitutes poverty on the basis of geography. In my fight with Presby, for instance, I may achieve the unthinkable and make myself homeless, and if that happens, then what happens to me is not a cardboard box in Fairmount Park-- I am physically incapable of surviving on the street. What happens is I shift into the margins where I lose what I'm fighting for by fighting the system in the first place: my self-determination in my last few viable years. Yet, even hurling myself into the bottom of the abyss in Eastern Pennsylvania, I cannot enter into the unimaginable bestial behavior of Lisa Coleman and her former partner, impatient as I may be with children. Murdering enemies is one thing. We all understand revenge motives, but the relentless torture of other human beings, sans Ariel Castro, or other gruesome domestic instances, is beyond me, even if the social safety net has done a significant degree of damage to my well being. Yet it happens in this country over and over again, the sordid shame on the social fringes: the scandal of Danieal that made Philadelphia a confirmed national stigma.
Fences have eroded. After 9/11, I had rather diminutive views of the sterility within the Arabic world of what led to the creation of Isis, but not anymore, not for all the vigor in the united alliance between Obama and Cameron, Isis beheadings of hostages is a form of extreme bombastic hyperbole, one beneath contempt, from the same old playbook, regardless of Ali's ruthless battle prowess, but it is, nonetheless, an argument against liberalism, a facade of contraction, which, even if victorious in some of its aims, is as corrupted by material greed as any other ethnic adhesion.
Coleman's brutality, however, is not. It is not even innate to primate aggression. Great apes occasionally engage in infanticide for evolutionary reasons, but they lack our cognitive capacity for such an extraordinary ability to degrade our own kind in such a fashion. It is beyond disgust.
Fences have eroded. After 9/11, I had rather diminutive views of the sterility within the Arabic world of what led to the creation of Isis, but not anymore, not for all the vigor in the united alliance between Obama and Cameron, Isis beheadings of hostages is a form of extreme bombastic hyperbole, one beneath contempt, from the same old playbook, regardless of Ali's ruthless battle prowess, but it is, nonetheless, an argument against liberalism, a facade of contraction, which, even if victorious in some of its aims, is as corrupted by material greed as any other ethnic adhesion.
Coleman's brutality, however, is not. It is not even innate to primate aggression. Great apes occasionally engage in infanticide for evolutionary reasons, but they lack our cognitive capacity for such an extraordinary ability to degrade our own kind in such a fashion. It is beyond disgust.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Developmental Fecal Discharge
I will put enmity between you and the woman, between your offspring and hers; they will strike at your head, while you strike at their heel. 3:15
Sean is not an ideologically committed Marxist. As channeled through Mickey Rourke, Penn realizes the film industry is a business. Dead Man Walking and I Am Sam reflect this. Both cater to the popular impulse. Conservative reaction is corrupted tunnel vision. Progressives are the bona fide heroes in this argument, but don't push your audience too hard, driving it to the mat, for the state does have legitimate interests in protecting children from developmental limitations. Sean wears Sam like a fashion statement, much like his politics. Where was he, or this prima donna, when this poor child needed rescue? We don't see things in the film that just barely scratch the surface. Mentally retarded people can be aggressive, thereby possibly abusive to offspring, as much so as the paradigm discards them. Cassie James is a militant exhibitionist; my critique will not change that, but for all her static, she apologizes for case management racism, her psyche divided and contradictory precisely because she failed to matriculate outward.
Actions can speak louder than words, and she quit Liberty twice, the first time as my peer support counselor, which is nothing but a fraudulent method of being tone deaf, repeating the concerns of the nascent inductee back to them, the second time for marriage and a move to Britain, where upon an accidental pregnancy, she has an existential crisis akin to my own, and Nancy flies to England to bring the ADAPT firebrand home, tail between her legs. I despise Cassie James almost as much as I hate what Linda did to me. They are both analogous to the thunderous collapse of the Twin Towers. Penn, however, has a creative artist's versatility. Leftist that he is, the dialogical interplay in some of his riskier roles offers another language, something authentic in the merger of paranoia and a skewered perspective that is as conversant with the Outsider as one of Eastwood's westerns with their snark. Cassie just hits scales with a spoon, tone deaf, keeping Depends as brand name adult diaper viable in the rhythm and commerce of our capitalist system. She paid her dues. I have no issue with that, as opposed to the corruption she maintains, soiled, stinking up the hallway, as blind in her vision as Rush Limbaugh.
Does anything I post get back to the vanguard at the center, and its political arm? I have no data on that and don't care, not after the hoops I've jumped, but much of what ADAPT does backfires, intimidates (hello), and has negative consequences. If Cassie was as principled as her public rhetoric is to be believed, Liberty Resources would actually take pride in being a competent system of support. In its 30 years of existence, it vomits as much entrails as it elevates on the other, much like Sean's hairstyle generates electricity.
Sean is not an ideologically committed Marxist. As channeled through Mickey Rourke, Penn realizes the film industry is a business. Dead Man Walking and I Am Sam reflect this. Both cater to the popular impulse. Conservative reaction is corrupted tunnel vision. Progressives are the bona fide heroes in this argument, but don't push your audience too hard, driving it to the mat, for the state does have legitimate interests in protecting children from developmental limitations. Sean wears Sam like a fashion statement, much like his politics. Where was he, or this prima donna, when this poor child needed rescue? We don't see things in the film that just barely scratch the surface. Mentally retarded people can be aggressive, thereby possibly abusive to offspring, as much so as the paradigm discards them. Cassie James is a militant exhibitionist; my critique will not change that, but for all her static, she apologizes for case management racism, her psyche divided and contradictory precisely because she failed to matriculate outward.
Actions can speak louder than words, and she quit Liberty twice, the first time as my peer support counselor, which is nothing but a fraudulent method of being tone deaf, repeating the concerns of the nascent inductee back to them, the second time for marriage and a move to Britain, where upon an accidental pregnancy, she has an existential crisis akin to my own, and Nancy flies to England to bring the ADAPT firebrand home, tail between her legs. I despise Cassie James almost as much as I hate what Linda did to me. They are both analogous to the thunderous collapse of the Twin Towers. Penn, however, has a creative artist's versatility. Leftist that he is, the dialogical interplay in some of his riskier roles offers another language, something authentic in the merger of paranoia and a skewered perspective that is as conversant with the Outsider as one of Eastwood's westerns with their snark. Cassie just hits scales with a spoon, tone deaf, keeping Depends as brand name adult diaper viable in the rhythm and commerce of our capitalist system. She paid her dues. I have no issue with that, as opposed to the corruption she maintains, soiled, stinking up the hallway, as blind in her vision as Rush Limbaugh.
Does anything I post get back to the vanguard at the center, and its political arm? I have no data on that and don't care, not after the hoops I've jumped, but much of what ADAPT does backfires, intimidates (hello), and has negative consequences. If Cassie was as principled as her public rhetoric is to be believed, Liberty Resources would actually take pride in being a competent system of support. In its 30 years of existence, it vomits as much entrails as it elevates on the other, much like Sean's hairstyle generates electricity.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
A Response to Michael Gerson
Michael, the fact that I have adopted the role of a gadfly to mask very deep seated levels of emotional pain sometimes deliberately obfuscates my intent of getting my viewers to think, as well as the price I pay for the struggles I have in my need for legitimacy, desperate to de-marginalize, (un-marginalize?) as I have been for a significant length of time in my uneven bid for matriculation, but let me take on the raw wound of George Zimmerman, not as an adjudicated legal debate, nor even how it is viewed strictly along the lines of ethnic perception, but as a personal narrative that points to the complexity of lack of answers:
At the risk of her sons ostracizing me along with the rest of my family, I know my paternal aunt feels that Zimmerman was justified in murdering Trayvon, and I find her attitude horrific. Diminished as I may be through my admission of bigotry, I do not like stacked decks, and even under my aunt's rationale, if Trayvon was a troubled juvenile, he did not deserve the summary execution that Zimmerman's actions provoked. My aunt's attitude reflects the reality of my family's need for boundaries of the type that existed before Johnson managed to get civil rights legislation passed, reflects the difference between my white Catholic/Methodist/Jewish family and African Americans, even that of my mother's sister, with her PhD in education leadership. Over the dinner table, in her discussion of pedagogy and the Philadelphia school district, she says, "Who wants to deal with that?" As you have a background in speech writing, I am sure you can infer her meaning.
I, as a disabled woman, have had to deal with that, since my parents institutionalized me in Home of the Merciful Savior, from the time I was nine years old: I was sexually abused by minority internees I lived with, and by the orderlies who attended to my personal needs, and then I was assaulted by my mentally ill mother's lovers, was a matriculated out cast in high school, pretty much the same during my active university years, and then exposed myself to a genocidal third world subsistence level of poverty in North Philadelphia, nearly lost my life once to a drug addict there, and what I have sustained in the years since is none the less horrific as the bullet on which Trayvon bled to death. It is even worse for developmentally disabled and black. Danieal is dead despite all the DHS and disability services within Philadephia combined, not only because she was voiceless, but worthless by this city's standards. The fact that I was of an affluent well educated family protected me from Danieal's end of life starvation, but only up to a point.
I hate urban African American norms, and it is a hatred learned through the observation of inner city devaluation of their own lives. I hate the depreciation and the fatalism of those norms, and the bigoted narrow mindedness of the working class who cannot even read Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I have had the text thrown back in my face as a near implied accusation because I dared to use great minority achievements in literature as a starting point for discussion. Have you yourself ventured much beyond K street, gotten your hands dirty, ignoring your own affluence and demeanor, waded into the hood so you can be accused of paternalism for trying to reach out to a black boy under threat?
Obama is not a miracle. He is a multi-faceted exception who has the same symbolic level of helplessness as the titular ADAPT activist who has left me hung out to dry because I keep trying to build bridges back to the ambulatory world you inhabit.
At the risk of her sons ostracizing me along with the rest of my family, I know my paternal aunt feels that Zimmerman was justified in murdering Trayvon, and I find her attitude horrific. Diminished as I may be through my admission of bigotry, I do not like stacked decks, and even under my aunt's rationale, if Trayvon was a troubled juvenile, he did not deserve the summary execution that Zimmerman's actions provoked. My aunt's attitude reflects the reality of my family's need for boundaries of the type that existed before Johnson managed to get civil rights legislation passed, reflects the difference between my white Catholic/Methodist/Jewish family and African Americans, even that of my mother's sister, with her PhD in education leadership. Over the dinner table, in her discussion of pedagogy and the Philadelphia school district, she says, "Who wants to deal with that?" As you have a background in speech writing, I am sure you can infer her meaning.
I, as a disabled woman, have had to deal with that, since my parents institutionalized me in Home of the Merciful Savior, from the time I was nine years old: I was sexually abused by minority internees I lived with, and by the orderlies who attended to my personal needs, and then I was assaulted by my mentally ill mother's lovers, was a matriculated out cast in high school, pretty much the same during my active university years, and then exposed myself to a genocidal third world subsistence level of poverty in North Philadelphia, nearly lost my life once to a drug addict there, and what I have sustained in the years since is none the less horrific as the bullet on which Trayvon bled to death. It is even worse for developmentally disabled and black. Danieal is dead despite all the DHS and disability services within Philadephia combined, not only because she was voiceless, but worthless by this city's standards. The fact that I was of an affluent well educated family protected me from Danieal's end of life starvation, but only up to a point.
I hate urban African American norms, and it is a hatred learned through the observation of inner city devaluation of their own lives. I hate the depreciation and the fatalism of those norms, and the bigoted narrow mindedness of the working class who cannot even read Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I have had the text thrown back in my face as a near implied accusation because I dared to use great minority achievements in literature as a starting point for discussion. Have you yourself ventured much beyond K street, gotten your hands dirty, ignoring your own affluence and demeanor, waded into the hood so you can be accused of paternalism for trying to reach out to a black boy under threat?
Obama is not a miracle. He is a multi-faceted exception who has the same symbolic level of helplessness as the titular ADAPT activist who has left me hung out to dry because I keep trying to build bridges back to the ambulatory world you inhabit.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Mafioso Googliia!
Only in America can a quadriplegic rewrite Highsmith in real time while her corporate handlers siphon what profits they can off her flaking epidermis while she subsists in entitlement bondage and her right wing aunt wants her to simply give in to the welfare state. If Google will not allow me to utilize my AdSense account on Blogger because my posts are indicative of potentially disturbing signals, it isn't so much a question of what I can or cannot do about it, as it is an issue that I cannot access any technical support to repair the problem. I suspect Google itself is a conspiracy at this point, not manned by human agents at all in their quest for efficiency.
I executed today in relatively good sequence, but, as with old Tommy, I am still past my prime. Perhaps you believe my need for justice is callow. I'd agree with you, except for one thing. Putting justice on a glider because no one cares about the apartheid of independent living centers leads to horrific injustices, such as Danieal's starvation and suspects like Ariel. I cannot rely on my family, I cannot trust the activists who lead in Philadelphia not to keep me from turning into another sordid statistic. I already know I cannot rely on you, but if I can rouse the smallest civic conscious of engagement to stay alert on those tracks, maybe we can challenge worthwhile paradigms and move on from trivial pursuit.
I executed today in relatively good sequence, but, as with old Tommy, I am still past my prime. Perhaps you believe my need for justice is callow. I'd agree with you, except for one thing. Putting justice on a glider because no one cares about the apartheid of independent living centers leads to horrific injustices, such as Danieal's starvation and suspects like Ariel. I cannot rely on my family, I cannot trust the activists who lead in Philadelphia not to keep me from turning into another sordid statistic. I already know I cannot rely on you, but if I can rouse the smallest civic conscious of engagement to stay alert on those tracks, maybe we can challenge worthwhile paradigms and move on from trivial pursuit.
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