"I've done thousands of interviews!", the little big man, on my provocation
Somehow, I knew The Washington Post would produce this column on Angela Merkel, even if I lacked the requisite knowledge of Stelzenmuller and Brookings Institution Senior Fellows. Progressives, mothers, women, need assurance even while their worries are stoked, and I've written posts in the past that Merkel has, essentially, reconstituted German imperial ambitions which the Third Reich strove for, and had Hitler defeated the British, we might be in exactly the same place.
If you'd like evidence that lithium might have a beneficial, mitigating effect on my dead brain tissue, my quarrel with Schneider in or around 2009 might offer proof I am in denial: when I cut myself off from his Cosmoetica site I thought I basically destroyed my career, and literally hid in the kitchenette, literally, cowering as if Dan and his wife were brain bugs about to suck my bodily fluids into a husk, and telephoned Marie in tears. The laity doesn't do what I did, even to B personalities, and here we are, perhaps my journalism days comparatively over. I don't know, not for sure, though it is harder to get paid, harder still to get prominent, and it isn't that Schneider is stupid, or doesn't have a point or two. I simply hated him, and didn't have the deviance to finesse it, play the facile invalid, take what opportunities I could.
He isn't wrong about creative writing complacency, that it is coprocephalic. I came up in it's culture as an indigent poet starving to death offside Temple's campus, and going down in it through the firewall of Submittable fees, and don't have time to read it all, even if I wanted to put on liberal costumes to get laid. The journals aren't commercial products because heaven forbid students learn how to sell a marketable product. Would it have helped me in the eighties? No. Jerry was the Irish atheist Christ, and Professor Clark was beloved Apostle Thomas, and I was Janis, flaming out on angel dust for all that I truly thought about the future, and now I am megalomaniac enough to believe I can penetrate access to Bannon for vengeance, burying my hatchet in the rabbit hole that I voted for Trump the motherfucker over more of the same subsistence under the left. As much trauma as Diamond Park's location inflicted on me, I was still young, resilient, believed I could succeed, did, until I let the walls come tumbling, and never truly resurfaced. I'm hanging by my fingernails, actually pleading in my soul to threaten Riverside's manager in my notice, storming off, dead of winter in the bend, only my hellish intestines keeping me on the bit. Anything I can do to constrict CILS even further, like an anaconda, I'm going to do. The snake kills that way by design, atavistic. Revenge, that denotes a great deal of emotional involvement.
Showing posts with label daniel schneider. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daniel schneider. Show all posts
Monday, November 14, 2016
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Name Recognition Genealogy
"No, he can't be on all the time," --Malaak Rock, in response to Oprah's query about comedy in the home.
When Malaak appeared on Oprah with her husband, the undercurrent of tension between Rock and wife was discernible. Malaak's reservations could be read in her face, her husband as passive as if he needed to be reigned in for premature ejaculation while she was calculating fortune and Chris's net worth as a bankable asset, and Rock's currency is obviously under threat of hyperinflation.
In generational terms, why Rock has been successful as a comedian is a legitimate query. Bill Cosby may not be Mr. Clean, to recaption Joan's protest about the conspiracy of silence surrounding the allegations toppling the old man, but he did not devalue education, self-reliance. For those of a certain generational cast, permission to mourn is understandable. Rock, with Schneider behind him as a producer, disparaged higher education. What substance there was in Everybody Hates Chris was overwhelmed by clashing cymbals and Rock's high voice, always in an exasperated panic mode.
Not to say Rock is incapable of eliciting laughter from those who coast on C's, but who has a vested interest in keeping him in the public eye? His agent? His union? John Lewis? People like Coates? Why does Access Hollywood disseminate such innocuous articles about the B list?
Malaak was the matriarchal force in this spousal union, and when applied correctly, there is no harm in being chirpy. Many women relate to Winfrey's struggle with chips, but the emphasis here is on the level of correction. Why marry a frog who needs pyrotechnics to coax the caboose? Foiled against Freeman in Betty, a fugue state on overdrive, the bullied boy was passable. All Americans understand the juxtaposition of violence as one kind of economic capital against the subversive following of soap opera plots, but that was nearly 15 years ago.
I would not mind making friends with a woman like Joan Tarshis, in part because despite our experiences being exclusive to ourselves, my sympathy for her struggle to deal with her violation is intuitive. Multiply her rape allegations by 15, maybe 20, and then weigh venom in that context.
When Malaak appeared on Oprah with her husband, the undercurrent of tension between Rock and wife was discernible. Malaak's reservations could be read in her face, her husband as passive as if he needed to be reigned in for premature ejaculation while she was calculating fortune and Chris's net worth as a bankable asset, and Rock's currency is obviously under threat of hyperinflation.
In generational terms, why Rock has been successful as a comedian is a legitimate query. Bill Cosby may not be Mr. Clean, to recaption Joan's protest about the conspiracy of silence surrounding the allegations toppling the old man, but he did not devalue education, self-reliance. For those of a certain generational cast, permission to mourn is understandable. Rock, with Schneider behind him as a producer, disparaged higher education. What substance there was in Everybody Hates Chris was overwhelmed by clashing cymbals and Rock's high voice, always in an exasperated panic mode.
Not to say Rock is incapable of eliciting laughter from those who coast on C's, but who has a vested interest in keeping him in the public eye? His agent? His union? John Lewis? People like Coates? Why does Access Hollywood disseminate such innocuous articles about the B list?
Malaak was the matriarchal force in this spousal union, and when applied correctly, there is no harm in being chirpy. Many women relate to Winfrey's struggle with chips, but the emphasis here is on the level of correction. Why marry a frog who needs pyrotechnics to coax the caboose? Foiled against Freeman in Betty, a fugue state on overdrive, the bullied boy was passable. All Americans understand the juxtaposition of violence as one kind of economic capital against the subversive following of soap opera plots, but that was nearly 15 years ago.
I would not mind making friends with a woman like Joan Tarshis, in part because despite our experiences being exclusive to ourselves, my sympathy for her struggle to deal with her violation is intuitive. Multiply her rape allegations by 15, maybe 20, and then weigh venom in that context.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Plummet
"I had stopped petitioning the heavens for miracles four days before."-- Sheri Booker
Even in 2009, during my brief electronic correspondence, or conservation, with Daniel Schneider, his offer of a byline in Cosmoetica would have been a downgrade. I had already appeared in nearly a hundred literary journals. Even with my CV, I've lost count of my bylines, for everything, articles, poetry. In this sense, my long nine month stint at Examiner hurt me too. After getting in legacy media, chasing tail aggregating for peanuts kept me fluid, but hurt me professionally. Perhaps constancy reflected a certain uneasiness. Getting buried in endless repetition of stringer scoops is nothing, and it is the same with Dan's writing. Good for a student, but at some point, exposure is meaningless if all we do is skim. Penetrating the value market will not help me much unless I can build something sustainable from any future bylines, and get work I can handle.
The flap over Erdely's lax dependence on her primary source, which seems to involve more than a hint of buyer's remorse (collegiate age girls may want to rethink promiscuity?) and the much more disturbing crisis with Hughes and TNR, suggest that the lightning speed of reactivism is a continuing problem, and that we're fast losing nuances in contemplation, which at the very least, The New Republic offered as a glossy, whether or not you were a supporter. I appreciated the fascinating insights into a composer like Stravinsky even if I never invested in learning classical music, and I suspect the insulation needed for that is difficult to accrue through surfing a synopsis-- it points to my level of indifference over the death of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, which is as cold as you like. Not that cops aren't a favorite target of beat reporters for a reason. Police do criminal things, sometimes rape hoes as well, but protesters develop tunnel vision, and I've turned myself blue in the face attempting to expose what I have acquired, empirically, through so called disability activism. My antagonism toward individuals like Jimmi Shrode and Erik and Josie, and the catastrophic knife in my back from Linda and our disability center, is as much about their hypocrisy as it is the ossified sterility of the paradigm. Jimmi is all about transitioning the helpless, decentralizing them. Accepting my emotional injury because he used his personal relationship with Erik to take advantage in an federalized system which demands impartiality, this he cannot do, and thus I'm persona non grata.
It will happen among these progressives of conscience with their sit ins. Darren Wilson did not set out to murder Brown. He was doing his job on patrol, and the NYPD did not intend to kill Garner in public. They were subduing a man placed under arrest. To use Erik's phrase, "shit happens," like the climate change which we're all on the doomsday machine to repair. We may not be able to repair it, and if we traded off civil liberties for the sake of security after 9/11, what about our food sources in a hundred years if global warming becomes a calamity? Take a step back. We are not all equal in value, and never will be.
Even in 2009, during my brief electronic correspondence, or conservation, with Daniel Schneider, his offer of a byline in Cosmoetica would have been a downgrade. I had already appeared in nearly a hundred literary journals. Even with my CV, I've lost count of my bylines, for everything, articles, poetry. In this sense, my long nine month stint at Examiner hurt me too. After getting in legacy media, chasing tail aggregating for peanuts kept me fluid, but hurt me professionally. Perhaps constancy reflected a certain uneasiness. Getting buried in endless repetition of stringer scoops is nothing, and it is the same with Dan's writing. Good for a student, but at some point, exposure is meaningless if all we do is skim. Penetrating the value market will not help me much unless I can build something sustainable from any future bylines, and get work I can handle.
The flap over Erdely's lax dependence on her primary source, which seems to involve more than a hint of buyer's remorse (collegiate age girls may want to rethink promiscuity?) and the much more disturbing crisis with Hughes and TNR, suggest that the lightning speed of reactivism is a continuing problem, and that we're fast losing nuances in contemplation, which at the very least, The New Republic offered as a glossy, whether or not you were a supporter. I appreciated the fascinating insights into a composer like Stravinsky even if I never invested in learning classical music, and I suspect the insulation needed for that is difficult to accrue through surfing a synopsis-- it points to my level of indifference over the death of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, which is as cold as you like. Not that cops aren't a favorite target of beat reporters for a reason. Police do criminal things, sometimes rape hoes as well, but protesters develop tunnel vision, and I've turned myself blue in the face attempting to expose what I have acquired, empirically, through so called disability activism. My antagonism toward individuals like Jimmi Shrode and Erik and Josie, and the catastrophic knife in my back from Linda and our disability center, is as much about their hypocrisy as it is the ossified sterility of the paradigm. Jimmi is all about transitioning the helpless, decentralizing them. Accepting my emotional injury because he used his personal relationship with Erik to take advantage in an federalized system which demands impartiality, this he cannot do, and thus I'm persona non grata.
It will happen among these progressives of conscience with their sit ins. Darren Wilson did not set out to murder Brown. He was doing his job on patrol, and the NYPD did not intend to kill Garner in public. They were subduing a man placed under arrest. To use Erik's phrase, "shit happens," like the climate change which we're all on the doomsday machine to repair. We may not be able to repair it, and if we traded off civil liberties for the sake of security after 9/11, what about our food sources in a hundred years if global warming becomes a calamity? Take a step back. We are not all equal in value, and never will be.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Plight of Placenta Detachment
This type of venue is about producing the product and sales data. I am more interested in the analytics which might still pay me for a well produced piece. Daniel Schneider tried to encourage me in this direction even as thinking about that first contact causes me to shrivel into a little ball, but search my archives. I don't need to remind myself all of the time-- and I cannot really say what Dan was guilty of that set me off. Sigh. I just don't work well in online groups, certainly not with a B actor trying to be charitable-- but with that episode I was stupid, and realize it. Had I just bit my tongue and faked a certain wide eye respect, played sweet little passive cripple, Dan Schneider and wifey might have been of use. Recognize him? He reached out to me in 2009, and now I BEAR THE MARK OF SHAME. Meaning the fact that he was obnoxious was not worth getting emotionally distraught, which I did.
Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.
I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.
I'm wearing out.
Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.
I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.
I'm wearing out.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Lieutenant To Grisham's League
"I believe people think their lives are more important than they really are."-- Daniel Schneider, pratfall analyst
I could use some pro bono assistance researching statue of limitation exemptions under Pennsylvania state law.
I am also interested in whether systemic failure of service delivery is actionable as gross negligence if it led to significant asset reduction and physical injury, I have a documentary timeline to establish this.
Can I bring a complaint to the Philadelphia bar association if I can establish that an attorney failed to engage in due diligence as an officer of the court when he was given evidence of hostile environment conduct and failed to act due to vested interest?
A legal aid professor I attempted to discuss this with wasn't interested due to a contractual relationship and budgetary gutting. I will find a legal forum, but I'm establishing my thought processes. Unlike bit industry guru's, I believe in self-worth.
I could use some pro bono assistance researching statue of limitation exemptions under Pennsylvania state law.
I am also interested in whether systemic failure of service delivery is actionable as gross negligence if it led to significant asset reduction and physical injury, I have a documentary timeline to establish this.
Can I bring a complaint to the Philadelphia bar association if I can establish that an attorney failed to engage in due diligence as an officer of the court when he was given evidence of hostile environment conduct and failed to act due to vested interest?
A legal aid professor I attempted to discuss this with wasn't interested due to a contractual relationship and budgetary gutting. I will find a legal forum, but I'm establishing my thought processes. Unlike bit industry guru's, I believe in self-worth.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Fervor
"I am only going to say this once; if you do not stop harassing me I am going to contact the police."
As much as I hart poor Joanie across the way, I had to put a stop to the behavior; she was driving her power chair into the vestibule of my building and dialing my intercom, because she needs toilet paper. If I had sales, even if I had only succeeded in completing my hearing loss piece (the editor of which declined my Linked In invite, so there you go; it smarts just a little despite the fact that it was my failure under pressure), I'd give the barnacle tart what she needs, but I myself am in a near constant state of being overwhelmed, and decided it was necessary to shut her down. Do I enjoy behaving toward her as so many have toward me? No. I understand she is lonely. I understand she is looking for support. Frank hates her, and to the degree I hate him as an ex-fiance, I am tickled. But my understanding of Joanie nevertheless necessitates limits on my mercy. I am not getting paid to be the pied piper anymore. Was she harassing me as a matter of criminal liability? Maybe. What differentiates her behavior from my own as it relates to using email to converse, or chasing a personal attendant, or Daniel Schneider ceasing to respond to me once I asked to be removed from his Cosmoetica list, or what differentiates it as a dangerous behavior, is a matter of degree.
Would it alarm Jorge Mario Bergoglio to know that I would kill for Le Santa Sede? Catholic atheists are scary! But it is a basic truth: I would defend the Vatican and the Papacy regardless of the sacrifice; every Pope should be a radical Christian; he is also the last vestige of the Roman Empire, and the college of cardinals would do well to remember that.
I weep for Francis. Sheer zeal.
As much as I hart poor Joanie across the way, I had to put a stop to the behavior; she was driving her power chair into the vestibule of my building and dialing my intercom, because she needs toilet paper. If I had sales, even if I had only succeeded in completing my hearing loss piece (the editor of which declined my Linked In invite, so there you go; it smarts just a little despite the fact that it was my failure under pressure), I'd give the barnacle tart what she needs, but I myself am in a near constant state of being overwhelmed, and decided it was necessary to shut her down. Do I enjoy behaving toward her as so many have toward me? No. I understand she is lonely. I understand she is looking for support. Frank hates her, and to the degree I hate him as an ex-fiance, I am tickled. But my understanding of Joanie nevertheless necessitates limits on my mercy. I am not getting paid to be the pied piper anymore. Was she harassing me as a matter of criminal liability? Maybe. What differentiates her behavior from my own as it relates to using email to converse, or chasing a personal attendant, or Daniel Schneider ceasing to respond to me once I asked to be removed from his Cosmoetica list, or what differentiates it as a dangerous behavior, is a matter of degree.
Would it alarm Jorge Mario Bergoglio to know that I would kill for Le Santa Sede? Catholic atheists are scary! But it is a basic truth: I would defend the Vatican and the Papacy regardless of the sacrifice; every Pope should be a radical Christian; he is also the last vestige of the Roman Empire, and the college of cardinals would do well to remember that.
I weep for Francis. Sheer zeal.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Top Ten
All this phrase making was a game, she thought, for if she had said half what he said, she would have blown her brains out by now.--Virginia Woolf
When I was all too briefly on Daniel's gmail group, I asked his clique what was the best movie on disability. I am not sure I saved their answers; I have my regrets about Schneider, though one look at his page says our personalities are too similar, which does not excuse the fact that I did not have to react, to him, or anyone. I could have just hit delete and hit delete and pulled on him or the clique when I thought it useful. Not sure what his complaint about Google Search means. With my colorful level of denigration I am lucky Blogger doesn't reinvent the wheel and blow me a kiss. I see nothing wrong with gay panic as a self defense, for example, since women have hit on me, four, five times. Aggression is justified when a firm no doesn't halt the behavior, and I am not a still virile Kevin Spacey gently disengaging Chris Cooper in American Beauty. The more I think about the edits made to this film due to screen testing, the less I like it, but American dysfunction and broken bodies are not quite the same.
The disability movement as it is recognized today started with the American Civil War, and in symbolic and actual terms, this fucking country always reenacts the conflict, so of course one of the most radicalized studio dares is the 1946 classic, which ends with its celebrated inclusion due to love. The double amputee lets his little woman on the inside. Aw. Love. One of Josie Byzek's favorite words of emphasis. The activists she profiles agitate against the able bodied world out of love. The thought occurs. If I log onto twitter and have a row with Hillary Clinton's account, then I'd possibly be in real trouble, and laugh silently due to my curious thought processes. An FBI dossier would get the right individuals to pay attention, and I'd launch the wheels of justice. This is probably why the poor utilize violence to resolve disputes.
Next I'd pick A Patch of Blue, so forbidden and sexually charged. It was a great influence on my desire to become (no, won't type it but I do think it) a black man's lover, which almost happened twice. The third time my father threatened my life, but that third time was a deliberate provocation on my part. I yelled at da last week "I am a throw back to Mussolini and now I am worse than you!" I guess I was trying to tell him he should have killed me. The man is now eighty and cares about absolutely nothing. Not me, his grandchildren, nothing. I am not including The Miracle Worker. All of these films carry Scott's "too schematic" charge, but this play turned movie about a favorite patron saint over does it. Beyond this there isn't much which isn't worth forgetting until we reach the present day. For me this starts in the nineties.
Eastwood's Million Dollar Baby makes the list as a backhanded compliment; the film is not about disability, which the rabid protesters either would not, or could not understand, and I defend its message without necessarily defending the actor's politics. The same entrapments closing over Swank's fighter are the ones I want out of as well.
Beyond this there are allegories, other titles, vulnerable wheelchair users, demonic wheelchair users, the *uplifting* biopic empowerment narratives that bore me in the same way a ritualized prey kill becomes a banal inconvenience, but nothing which reaches the magnitude of Orson Welles, and his ground breaking work, with the exception of Diving Bell, which Amazon finally bought for instant video. I may not view it till next month, depends.
Stories like this give me wicked, diabolical ideas, but with my luck I'd kill the worm after a fest of trots.
When I was all too briefly on Daniel's gmail group, I asked his clique what was the best movie on disability. I am not sure I saved their answers; I have my regrets about Schneider, though one look at his page says our personalities are too similar, which does not excuse the fact that I did not have to react, to him, or anyone. I could have just hit delete and hit delete and pulled on him or the clique when I thought it useful. Not sure what his complaint about Google Search means. With my colorful level of denigration I am lucky Blogger doesn't reinvent the wheel and blow me a kiss. I see nothing wrong with gay panic as a self defense, for example, since women have hit on me, four, five times. Aggression is justified when a firm no doesn't halt the behavior, and I am not a still virile Kevin Spacey gently disengaging Chris Cooper in American Beauty. The more I think about the edits made to this film due to screen testing, the less I like it, but American dysfunction and broken bodies are not quite the same.
The disability movement as it is recognized today started with the American Civil War, and in symbolic and actual terms, this fucking country always reenacts the conflict, so of course one of the most radicalized studio dares is the 1946 classic, which ends with its celebrated inclusion due to love. The double amputee lets his little woman on the inside. Aw. Love. One of Josie Byzek's favorite words of emphasis. The activists she profiles agitate against the able bodied world out of love. The thought occurs. If I log onto twitter and have a row with Hillary Clinton's account, then I'd possibly be in real trouble, and laugh silently due to my curious thought processes. An FBI dossier would get the right individuals to pay attention, and I'd launch the wheels of justice. This is probably why the poor utilize violence to resolve disputes.
Next I'd pick A Patch of Blue, so forbidden and sexually charged. It was a great influence on my desire to become (no, won't type it but I do think it) a black man's lover, which almost happened twice. The third time my father threatened my life, but that third time was a deliberate provocation on my part. I yelled at da last week "I am a throw back to Mussolini and now I am worse than you!" I guess I was trying to tell him he should have killed me. The man is now eighty and cares about absolutely nothing. Not me, his grandchildren, nothing. I am not including The Miracle Worker. All of these films carry Scott's "too schematic" charge, but this play turned movie about a favorite patron saint over does it. Beyond this there isn't much which isn't worth forgetting until we reach the present day. For me this starts in the nineties.
Eastwood's Million Dollar Baby makes the list as a backhanded compliment; the film is not about disability, which the rabid protesters either would not, or could not understand, and I defend its message without necessarily defending the actor's politics. The same entrapments closing over Swank's fighter are the ones I want out of as well.
Beyond this there are allegories, other titles, vulnerable wheelchair users, demonic wheelchair users, the *uplifting* biopic empowerment narratives that bore me in the same way a ritualized prey kill becomes a banal inconvenience, but nothing which reaches the magnitude of Orson Welles, and his ground breaking work, with the exception of Diving Bell, which Amazon finally bought for instant video. I may not view it till next month, depends.
Stories like this give me wicked, diabolical ideas, but with my luck I'd kill the worm after a fest of trots.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Jim Croce, Canonized
I work so hard on some of these posts, and then I scroll the account every so often and wonder if I should not simply delete, accept that some form of anxiety and early dementia is taking over. Alzheimer's is not yet an affliction, but short term memory blocks started to plague me when Frank and I were current. Growing in concern. Louise is the only online contact who gave me any worthwhile feedback, and Steve Tara interacted and helped me along when I was active on LiveJournal. Why Daniel Schneider invited me to his community is lost on me, and my Russian viewers are a criminal cyber nuisance merely looking for an opportunity to antagonize me with more of the same.
Once I found out Louise was disabled, her backhanded compliment of my published essay diminished, but Steve Tara's interaction was pleasurable, the difference between being being a good lieutenant under an obligation, and a chance meeting of the minds.
I'd enjoy having fun in digs somewhere in Sydney with Steve, but I never wanted to engage Louise once I knew what she had, and understood her lack of sustaining socialization, because the work I did for the supervisor who traumatized me was mentoring. I have had enough of not being able to make my own choices on who I choose to empower. Louise said that if she friended me "you will not talk about me," essentially asking me to honor accepted social manner; what she confided to me is not interesting, but I am willing to violate her trust, or, in a more conscientious fashion, know my own capacity for it. In the usual manner of binary oppositions, I appreciate her outreach, her attempted assistance on a source, and offer her this advice if she is "out there" lurking: Do not invest in safety valves like I did. Find a partner, be wise about your finances, learn how to assert yourself, and stay away from damaged women like me. I am bad news Louise, for a sheltered younger lady like yourself, and do not want people like you looking up to me, and I'll never mention it again unless for reasons unknown it comes up.
This is why I made the interaction cease: the potential to cause her pain, passing it down the food chain. The disabled community itself taught me how to be that vicious, let alone the fabulous homosexuals who familiarized my past, and if I queried those who view this account if you are getting any sense of my strategy, what I am trying to do, or even where I am too obtuse, if you haven't commented in 300 posts to brave the demonic extremism of a damned mind, you aren't about to start now.
Once I found out Louise was disabled, her backhanded compliment of my published essay diminished, but Steve Tara's interaction was pleasurable, the difference between being being a good lieutenant under an obligation, and a chance meeting of the minds.
I'd enjoy having fun in digs somewhere in Sydney with Steve, but I never wanted to engage Louise once I knew what she had, and understood her lack of sustaining socialization, because the work I did for the supervisor who traumatized me was mentoring. I have had enough of not being able to make my own choices on who I choose to empower. Louise said that if she friended me "you will not talk about me," essentially asking me to honor accepted social manner; what she confided to me is not interesting, but I am willing to violate her trust, or, in a more conscientious fashion, know my own capacity for it. In the usual manner of binary oppositions, I appreciate her outreach, her attempted assistance on a source, and offer her this advice if she is "out there" lurking: Do not invest in safety valves like I did. Find a partner, be wise about your finances, learn how to assert yourself, and stay away from damaged women like me. I am bad news Louise, for a sheltered younger lady like yourself, and do not want people like you looking up to me, and I'll never mention it again unless for reasons unknown it comes up.
This is why I made the interaction cease: the potential to cause her pain, passing it down the food chain. The disabled community itself taught me how to be that vicious, let alone the fabulous homosexuals who familiarized my past, and if I queried those who view this account if you are getting any sense of my strategy, what I am trying to do, or even where I am too obtuse, if you haven't commented in 300 posts to brave the demonic extremism of a damned mind, you aren't about to start now.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Tron Beats
This is the difference between me and a dead optimist who is as vibrant as I am leaden: he keeps making the best of it and he's dead. I am calculating a pitch based on the cost of his saliva cancer as a rational argument for a federal euthanasia standard; if you're wondering if I am that ruthless, yes. What saddens me is the fact that Siskel & Ebert taught me how much I like to argue. I paid attention to the conversation as much as to the movie under discussion. What does Chaz do with Roger's online accounts, or the Chicago Sun-Times with theirs, for that matter?
I could not bring myself to take his twitter account off my following list, and now I'll never know whether it went like this:
EBERT: "Dan I have a dysfunctional groupie for you; look at her comment in response to my post on loneliness..."
Or like this:
SCHNEIDER: He won't mind if I peel off this spastic figure for my Cosmoetica lists. (and a week later). "Look at what I get for trying to be nice. She told me to fuck myself because I don't have a hard on for Marcel Proust."
I could not bring myself to take his twitter account off my following list, and now I'll never know whether it went like this:
EBERT: "Dan I have a dysfunctional groupie for you; look at her comment in response to my post on loneliness..."
Or like this:
SCHNEIDER: He won't mind if I peel off this spastic figure for my Cosmoetica lists. (and a week later). "Look at what I get for trying to be nice. She told me to fuck myself because I don't have a hard on for Marcel Proust."
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Midnight Cowboy
"Our neighbor's head landed in our house." --a young Syrian refugee
If there is the slimmest possibility that I can manage the relocation necessary for any author who truly takes risks, that I can stave off degeneration long enough to accomplish something and redeem my self-respect, I'd like to end this last score of my life as an investigative journalist. I like asking hard questions, and making everyone uncomfortable, not that this would be easy for a spastic quad on her last legs, but I know my own self-worth. I am smarter and sharper than Josie Byzek, the Jesus dyke who knows whats best except for when it comes to violating my trust, and I am a better writer than Daniel. In truth, I feel some pity for Schneider's wasted potential, and I hit on it yesterday. He does not apply himself to focusing on what he knows how to do in his on voice, and devolves in semi-automatic recriminations that interest no one. My persona and his are not so dissimilar, but I have an agenda. Does he, other than culling stray pups to be his online personal groupie base? If you are one of his sympathizers and think you have some insight, I will approve your comment and let it stand, and I don't bruise easily. If you want to let me have it, you may.
Michael Snyder is more informative on Herlihy than either Dan or I are on any topic, but does not answer the central question. If James and Tennessee were so complete in themselves, why did Herlihy kill himself in 1993? He was aging, certainly, but was he sick, tired of being a one note wonder compared to Steinbeck? Lee's stills are priceless and come as a bit of a shock, as both the playwright and novelist look like wax contortions in pain, not only from a different era, but otherworldly, except that their lifestyle, their coded literary subversions, are as familiar to me as the piss in Erika's urine bag. I am interested in an answer, because I am working, torturing, if you like, an essay on writers suicides, and need more facts on the more notorious, and Herlihy made my list.
I empathize with Voight's Joe in the film, and if I can manage, intend to watch it early Friday morning, again. When I will start the digital etext, only Josie's *baby boy* in the manger may know, but I do agree with other viewer comments that the jump cuts in the film suggesting that Buck was gang raped take the edginess out of Herlihy's seminal accomplishment, because it obscures the narrative arc. If Joe and Ratso trend gay, Schlesinger seems comfortable leaving new wave homoeroticism swinging on its own rope, murky in terms of Buck's future maturity and wisdom.
I want progressives, or left center moderates, to understand something: I treated the Philadelphia community I knew with all the tolerance I had, that started to come to an end in 2006, after Miss Eddy, the mixed race inner city woman, threw all her sexual needs into hitting on me, when she was my agency aide. My anger does not stem from an auto-erotic response. I am physically impaired, and I am tired of being used for target practice by men, women, lesbians, and other sociopathic reflectors, whatever the ethnicity, and I did a disservice to my own esteem in breaking bread with Josie and Ginny, even if that social setting was their gesture of remorse. An atypical opponent, I am not quite an over-simplified redneck. The gay scene is not healthy for heterosexual confidence, not in terms of emotional intimacy, confiding friendships. I am going to dismantle your comfort zone, gay equality be damned.
If there is the slimmest possibility that I can manage the relocation necessary for any author who truly takes risks, that I can stave off degeneration long enough to accomplish something and redeem my self-respect, I'd like to end this last score of my life as an investigative journalist. I like asking hard questions, and making everyone uncomfortable, not that this would be easy for a spastic quad on her last legs, but I know my own self-worth. I am smarter and sharper than Josie Byzek, the Jesus dyke who knows whats best except for when it comes to violating my trust, and I am a better writer than Daniel. In truth, I feel some pity for Schneider's wasted potential, and I hit on it yesterday. He does not apply himself to focusing on what he knows how to do in his on voice, and devolves in semi-automatic recriminations that interest no one. My persona and his are not so dissimilar, but I have an agenda. Does he, other than culling stray pups to be his online personal groupie base? If you are one of his sympathizers and think you have some insight, I will approve your comment and let it stand, and I don't bruise easily. If you want to let me have it, you may.
Michael Snyder is more informative on Herlihy than either Dan or I are on any topic, but does not answer the central question. If James and Tennessee were so complete in themselves, why did Herlihy kill himself in 1993? He was aging, certainly, but was he sick, tired of being a one note wonder compared to Steinbeck? Lee's stills are priceless and come as a bit of a shock, as both the playwright and novelist look like wax contortions in pain, not only from a different era, but otherworldly, except that their lifestyle, their coded literary subversions, are as familiar to me as the piss in Erika's urine bag. I am interested in an answer, because I am working, torturing, if you like, an essay on writers suicides, and need more facts on the more notorious, and Herlihy made my list.
I empathize with Voight's Joe in the film, and if I can manage, intend to watch it early Friday morning, again. When I will start the digital etext, only Josie's *baby boy* in the manger may know, but I do agree with other viewer comments that the jump cuts in the film suggesting that Buck was gang raped take the edginess out of Herlihy's seminal accomplishment, because it obscures the narrative arc. If Joe and Ratso trend gay, Schlesinger seems comfortable leaving new wave homoeroticism swinging on its own rope, murky in terms of Buck's future maturity and wisdom.
I want progressives, or left center moderates, to understand something: I treated the Philadelphia community I knew with all the tolerance I had, that started to come to an end in 2006, after Miss Eddy, the mixed race inner city woman, threw all her sexual needs into hitting on me, when she was my agency aide. My anger does not stem from an auto-erotic response. I am physically impaired, and I am tired of being used for target practice by men, women, lesbians, and other sociopathic reflectors, whatever the ethnicity, and I did a disservice to my own esteem in breaking bread with Josie and Ginny, even if that social setting was their gesture of remorse. An atypical opponent, I am not quite an over-simplified redneck. The gay scene is not healthy for heterosexual confidence, not in terms of emotional intimacy, confiding friendships. I am going to dismantle your comfort zone, gay equality be damned.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Exsanguination
Whether Giuseppe Tomasi was a true pacifist is debated; perhaps even he did not know for certain. His psyche was, at the very least, complex, even to his psychologist wife. Nevertheless, his defiance of Italian social conformity was very real if often subtle. Best of Sicily
Doing some biomethodology research for a fantasy piece of mine, of all the contemptible genres, yes, a fantasy story that every science fiction editor swears is boring is actually working for me. Now you see why I have only earned about 3,000 USD, and no, I do not know the exact total, never filed a schedule C, not that I would not have, but journalism breaks your heart, lies, and every journalist knows this, which is why plagiarism scandals like this skirt the truth, and no, I never engage in unethical behavior, that is not what the issues are in the fourth estate; it is a huge question, whether or not access serves the public trust, like when David Brooks and Petraeus have lunch and then the general's penis sets the stage for the next international Bourne identity entertainment, but I have other things on my mind, the morning quarrel with Vinnie, which led to a second pair of broken glasses. I was going to go back to bed and simply cave in, and then had a mild second wind and said if dressing is too much writing is not, just do what I am able; my shins are hurting, however.
I know how this is going to come off, given what I have revealed, and how often I have written Linda's name, and my frank exposure of a life in emotional pain, but the demon/saint dichotomy within disability culture is still a real prejudice, and creating a real crippled killer, that an audience would accept, seems an almost insurmountable challenge. We are angels if we're helpless with drooling eye floating smiles, demons, if like me, we tell minor film personalities like Schneider to go fuck themselves, hurt their feelings, and then have a crying fit because said man is a jackass rather than an established connection who might have connected me to real work.
Dan, if I had known who you were when you approached my old account, I would not have ignored you but would have turned you down. You, your wife may not have thought you were patronizing me but you were. However, I apologize, and my upset apple cart was uncalled for. Now that we have that out of the way, no one cares about the chip on your shoulder with the Kenyon Review. You need an editor, and have to understand that the academy, not unreasonably, treats creative writing as a craft, which it is. I came up in literary small presses, and you do not understand the culture, even if, like me, you recognize the problem. The issue is how one markets poetry and fiction that has by necessity become beholden to historical canons. We're not enemies, but regardless of your classes at Harvard, your bakery, your talents at producing inane black television comedy, you are a fool who doesn't know how to apply yourself.
Write about being a minor figure in the industry. Stop complaining and pasting email arguments, and get yourself a better web design. You certainly have the connections. I don't. Use what you have.
Doing some biomethodology research for a fantasy piece of mine, of all the contemptible genres, yes, a fantasy story that every science fiction editor swears is boring is actually working for me. Now you see why I have only earned about 3,000 USD, and no, I do not know the exact total, never filed a schedule C, not that I would not have, but journalism breaks your heart, lies, and every journalist knows this, which is why plagiarism scandals like this skirt the truth, and no, I never engage in unethical behavior, that is not what the issues are in the fourth estate; it is a huge question, whether or not access serves the public trust, like when David Brooks and Petraeus have lunch and then the general's penis sets the stage for the next international Bourne identity entertainment, but I have other things on my mind, the morning quarrel with Vinnie, which led to a second pair of broken glasses. I was going to go back to bed and simply cave in, and then had a mild second wind and said if dressing is too much writing is not, just do what I am able; my shins are hurting, however.
I know how this is going to come off, given what I have revealed, and how often I have written Linda's name, and my frank exposure of a life in emotional pain, but the demon/saint dichotomy within disability culture is still a real prejudice, and creating a real crippled killer, that an audience would accept, seems an almost insurmountable challenge. We are angels if we're helpless with drooling eye floating smiles, demons, if like me, we tell minor film personalities like Schneider to go fuck themselves, hurt their feelings, and then have a crying fit because said man is a jackass rather than an established connection who might have connected me to real work.
Dan, if I had known who you were when you approached my old account, I would not have ignored you but would have turned you down. You, your wife may not have thought you were patronizing me but you were. However, I apologize, and my upset apple cart was uncalled for. Now that we have that out of the way, no one cares about the chip on your shoulder with the Kenyon Review. You need an editor, and have to understand that the academy, not unreasonably, treats creative writing as a craft, which it is. I came up in literary small presses, and you do not understand the culture, even if, like me, you recognize the problem. The issue is how one markets poetry and fiction that has by necessity become beholden to historical canons. We're not enemies, but regardless of your classes at Harvard, your bakery, your talents at producing inane black television comedy, you are a fool who doesn't know how to apply yourself.
Write about being a minor figure in the industry. Stop complaining and pasting email arguments, and get yourself a better web design. You certainly have the connections. I don't. Use what you have.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Boulet and Nicholas
"Yeah, you're going to make us all famous--" Nicholas Marinelli, Jr, approximately 1991, when the editor of River Rat Review unwittingly caused me huge problems by mailing my contributor copy of a poem about my mother's drug addiction to my father's address, at which point, I was threatened with Hollywood style Italian vengeance. I had a ball and didn't, simultaneously.
Course correction for my dead little brother's diseased and wasted skeleton, whatever is left of it after 18 years, I have no desire to make our family skeletons into a Spielberg movie, only justice for what was stolen from me in my evidently fatal migration back to the city of my birth. The dignity of my ability to stake out my own self-definition against the backdrop of my now severely limited economic options, for one. Did you know Gloria Reuben is Canadian?
I did not. Chuckle. I do not remember the entire storyline in her role as Jean Boulet, but vividly recall the scene, after the HIV positive diagnosis, when she visited her treating physician, an actress I also recognized, and if you trivia buffs want to get off your asses and help me dig the episode out of archive, that would be lovely; for whatever reason, that sappy bit of realistic dialogue, and Reuben's expressive, limpid eyes, remained with me, not while Nicky was dying horribly and I could not be there to touch him and tell the little criminal bastard I loved him anyway, but the scene stayed with me, the way these things do: I wonder whatever happened to her? Then there she was, proof, with my favorite occasional television abrasion, and I felt an odd surge of, what, exactly? Gratitude and nostalgia? Not entirely sure, but trotted myself to her website and snivelled, piteous disability journalist as I wish to remain. Her handlers are probably asking themselves what does she want from us if she doesn't have a plan?
Nothing, as of yet, but a teeny tiny bit of compassionate star dust wouldn't hurt. You might say that's what this corn fritter was offering me two years ago after he read my comment on Ebert's loneliness post, and okay, I became impolitic and paranoid with lightning speed, but that is both Daniel's and my fault. Me for not asking myself better questions before I waded into his community, and he for making assumptions about my track record. Gloria is B+ celebrity third contact attempt, another quasi-shelf possibility. We'll stay tuned, shall we?
I am not sparing you little Nicky, but, not this morning. Relieved?
Course correction for my dead little brother's diseased and wasted skeleton, whatever is left of it after 18 years, I have no desire to make our family skeletons into a Spielberg movie, only justice for what was stolen from me in my evidently fatal migration back to the city of my birth. The dignity of my ability to stake out my own self-definition against the backdrop of my now severely limited economic options, for one. Did you know Gloria Reuben is Canadian?
I did not. Chuckle. I do not remember the entire storyline in her role as Jean Boulet, but vividly recall the scene, after the HIV positive diagnosis, when she visited her treating physician, an actress I also recognized, and if you trivia buffs want to get off your asses and help me dig the episode out of archive, that would be lovely; for whatever reason, that sappy bit of realistic dialogue, and Reuben's expressive, limpid eyes, remained with me, not while Nicky was dying horribly and I could not be there to touch him and tell the little criminal bastard I loved him anyway, but the scene stayed with me, the way these things do: I wonder whatever happened to her? Then there she was, proof, with my favorite occasional television abrasion, and I felt an odd surge of, what, exactly? Gratitude and nostalgia? Not entirely sure, but trotted myself to her website and snivelled, piteous disability journalist as I wish to remain. Her handlers are probably asking themselves what does she want from us if she doesn't have a plan?
Nothing, as of yet, but a teeny tiny bit of compassionate star dust wouldn't hurt. You might say that's what this corn fritter was offering me two years ago after he read my comment on Ebert's loneliness post, and okay, I became impolitic and paranoid with lightning speed, but that is both Daniel's and my fault. Me for not asking myself better questions before I waded into his community, and he for making assumptions about my track record. Gloria is B+ celebrity third contact attempt, another quasi-shelf possibility. We'll stay tuned, shall we?
I am not sparing you little Nicky, but, not this morning. Relieved?
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Kubik's Chameleon
The sheriff's Goddamn was a murmured curse
Not for the dead but for the blinding dust
-- Allen Tate, The Swimmers
I sigh in disappointment, but no studied individual in filmography is assisting me, whether or not they care that Schneider and I sparred each other's bones, and I doubt they do, even in the likeness between Mr. ChickenFried and myself as ugly brunettes and the related caste resentment. Shame at the provocative trigger, and the feeling that I have an occlusion the size of a walnut thrombing in my armpit, waiting for the exact implosive stressor. A little worm made my mind flag slippery in my observation of Larry Gates as Sid Kubik. I should have placed him against Poitier as Endicott, or in the classic anti-communist polemic. Long term memory subtly alerting me, but not effectively until I linked him in this mild winter storm that technically prevented me from driving to the DVM. In actuality, a packed defecation made me fear a Presley simulation. Mildly faint, from leg to left temple, I am the daughter of my grandfather's terminal coronary, "Poppa Lilly," I called him, so you know my Roman grandmother ruled us with an iron fist. Her husband was soft as marshmallow, handing the eight year old in the armchair a copper penny, shiny with the magic of his broad smile, "What 'tis?" He bent over me like a jowl wagging hound, but it is Lillian whose absence pulls; she lived very long, but I miss her the most of all my family. She kept me fluent, beautiful woman, every inch the grand belle, silent strength, auburn hair coiffed perfectly, my body tells me I will be back in her warmth and homemade escarole soon. Mi dispiace nonna Lilly, ti prego perdonami.
Bow our heads. Whatever his ethnicity, for the purposes of the studio system, Gates was a blank check, and did not have any point of origin; he wasn't supposed to have those traits, unlike Ernest Borgnine. This does not mean he could not have been a mafia Don. Northern Italy has its Sweden spillover, fair skin, the type who could have kept a Rico like Eddie rolled in pork grease. Karlson condenses this with theatric artifice, as I mention. Real life does not suck you in to a methodical quarry hunt not minutes after you put a punk in the dungeon, warding off the potential fury of your wife who will probably rip out your eyes if she doesn't get that baby, properly adorable, and a necessary retrograde: Dianne's Alice will not be deprived of the blessings of new life, a happiness given to a man as uncomplicated as a truck driver employed by her husband. Conte flies to New York, in an affluent cosmopolitan mobility, that might have been a stage set for a cabinet meeting with Ike. There is no question, that to all intents and purposes, Sid Kubik is the assimilated appearance of senior management at the country club, and Conte can be many things in the example of Sinatra, the rat pack play boy, the swarthy breeder whose seed is desirable, but make no mistake. Only Gates can aspire to WASP pretensions, whether or not he is merely a brilliant imitation.
They parry, the nervous avoidance of eye contact by Conte effective; he may not know that Gino has been caught, marked for death not ten feet away, but are we supposed to believe that Eddie buys Kubik's fancy footwork. Is pretty boy really that gullible?
Not for the dead but for the blinding dust
-- Allen Tate, The Swimmers
I sigh in disappointment, but no studied individual in filmography is assisting me, whether or not they care that Schneider and I sparred each other's bones, and I doubt they do, even in the likeness between Mr. ChickenFried and myself as ugly brunettes and the related caste resentment. Shame at the provocative trigger, and the feeling that I have an occlusion the size of a walnut thrombing in my armpit, waiting for the exact implosive stressor. A little worm made my mind flag slippery in my observation of Larry Gates as Sid Kubik. I should have placed him against Poitier as Endicott, or in the classic anti-communist polemic. Long term memory subtly alerting me, but not effectively until I linked him in this mild winter storm that technically prevented me from driving to the DVM. In actuality, a packed defecation made me fear a Presley simulation. Mildly faint, from leg to left temple, I am the daughter of my grandfather's terminal coronary, "Poppa Lilly," I called him, so you know my Roman grandmother ruled us with an iron fist. Her husband was soft as marshmallow, handing the eight year old in the armchair a copper penny, shiny with the magic of his broad smile, "What 'tis?" He bent over me like a jowl wagging hound, but it is Lillian whose absence pulls; she lived very long, but I miss her the most of all my family. She kept me fluent, beautiful woman, every inch the grand belle, silent strength, auburn hair coiffed perfectly, my body tells me I will be back in her warmth and homemade escarole soon. Mi dispiace nonna Lilly, ti prego perdonami.
Bow our heads. Whatever his ethnicity, for the purposes of the studio system, Gates was a blank check, and did not have any point of origin; he wasn't supposed to have those traits, unlike Ernest Borgnine. This does not mean he could not have been a mafia Don. Northern Italy has its Sweden spillover, fair skin, the type who could have kept a Rico like Eddie rolled in pork grease. Karlson condenses this with theatric artifice, as I mention. Real life does not suck you in to a methodical quarry hunt not minutes after you put a punk in the dungeon, warding off the potential fury of your wife who will probably rip out your eyes if she doesn't get that baby, properly adorable, and a necessary retrograde: Dianne's Alice will not be deprived of the blessings of new life, a happiness given to a man as uncomplicated as a truck driver employed by her husband. Conte flies to New York, in an affluent cosmopolitan mobility, that might have been a stage set for a cabinet meeting with Ike. There is no question, that to all intents and purposes, Sid Kubik is the assimilated appearance of senior management at the country club, and Conte can be many things in the example of Sinatra, the rat pack play boy, the swarthy breeder whose seed is desirable, but make no mistake. Only Gates can aspire to WASP pretensions, whether or not he is merely a brilliant imitation.
They parry, the nervous avoidance of eye contact by Conte effective; he may not know that Gino has been caught, marked for death not ten feet away, but are we supposed to believe that Eddie buys Kubik's fancy footwork. Is pretty boy really that gullible?
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Drum Roll Ready Exasperation
Now I am being asked to review certain genres for kindle, that is when I am not being excoriated by the likes of Lee Doty and then abandoned by the likes of Susanna Daniel for their fear that my perception of their work as being relatively shallow is accurate. Although we might add to this by saying Susanna ceased any response to me because I do not medicate my emotional response, and that violates her suburban Christian fastidiousness, and is not true to the revolutionary intent of Christianity in its early formation; it still hurt my feelings, because I had no original intent, not on twitter, of being unfriendly. As to reviews, I turned one fantasy writer who praised me for knowing my stuff down, but this time I do not know. There is as much collusion in publishing as anything else. I wish Susanna well, and of course, she has the perfect right not to see me as one among equals, but all I wanted was a normal interaction with a female novelist who had what I did not, a happy life. I can never have whatever that is, but not being able to build bridges defeats my goal.
Toying with the idea of constructing a mass email to Amazon writers: "You want a review, I want my blog downloaded for kindle." Then WaPo will unearth a price gouging scandal, and I'll be investigated by the FBI.
The power of monopoly.
*
Not that I wish to make overt assumptions, but the aspiring(?) science fiction novelist from the UK has, at least since my Monday transmissions, remained mute. People, look: writing, to me, is not a parlor game, nor is it an Amazon sales ranking. If you are going to approach me hoping for my interest, then don't inconvenience me by vanishing because you suddenly feel intimidated. I have published over 300 poems, I became a semi-established journalist been 99 and 04, and have a small press issue of the now defunct Crawlspace 17 devoted to my work. Small presses are a marginalized joke whether they are training grounds for MFA students or the winsome nostalgia of the radical left for men like Steinbeck and Dreiser. If I had understood this when Jerry and Michael tried to talk me down when I was your age, I would have listened to my father and gone into accounting. I will write until I am dead, but being a publishing whore, that is another issue. Public arguments between established pundits, or even the head bashing between Lee Doty and myself, or Poets & Writers and myself, or my umbrage at Daniel Schneider for making me feel like a fucking asshole, is not what it is cracked up to be. My body is a half century old and might as well be three times that. I have nothing except a small library and an indulgence for cats. If you write shit I'll crucify you, and if you sweat blood and tears and do something from the heart, then I'll recognize that, but if you are going to solicit Joanne because her insights into what she likes or doesn't impresses you, more to the benefit of Bezos bottom line than ours, then Joanne needs help too. Those in the top echelons who get paid for critical review analysis are far and few between, and as a professional, cosmopolitan breed, a dying class. Grow up.
Toying with the idea of constructing a mass email to Amazon writers: "You want a review, I want my blog downloaded for kindle." Then WaPo will unearth a price gouging scandal, and I'll be investigated by the FBI.
The power of monopoly.
*
Not that I wish to make overt assumptions, but the aspiring(?) science fiction novelist from the UK has, at least since my Monday transmissions, remained mute. People, look: writing, to me, is not a parlor game, nor is it an Amazon sales ranking. If you are going to approach me hoping for my interest, then don't inconvenience me by vanishing because you suddenly feel intimidated. I have published over 300 poems, I became a semi-established journalist been 99 and 04, and have a small press issue of the now defunct Crawlspace 17 devoted to my work. Small presses are a marginalized joke whether they are training grounds for MFA students or the winsome nostalgia of the radical left for men like Steinbeck and Dreiser. If I had understood this when Jerry and Michael tried to talk me down when I was your age, I would have listened to my father and gone into accounting. I will write until I am dead, but being a publishing whore, that is another issue. Public arguments between established pundits, or even the head bashing between Lee Doty and myself, or Poets & Writers and myself, or my umbrage at Daniel Schneider for making me feel like a fucking asshole, is not what it is cracked up to be. My body is a half century old and might as well be three times that. I have nothing except a small library and an indulgence for cats. If you write shit I'll crucify you, and if you sweat blood and tears and do something from the heart, then I'll recognize that, but if you are going to solicit Joanne because her insights into what she likes or doesn't impresses you, more to the benefit of Bezos bottom line than ours, then Joanne needs help too. Those in the top echelons who get paid for critical review analysis are far and few between, and as a professional, cosmopolitan breed, a dying class. Grow up.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Soirées à Marcel
"There are people who should die." Rose might be discussing the price of milk. "Americans have a hard time with that, because they think everyone who is bad got broken somehow and someone else is at fault."
--Timothy Hailinan, A Nail Through the Heart, kindle edition, location 672
--Timothy Hailinan, A Nail Through the Heart, kindle edition, location 672
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Spaz take
I have read much more about Oprah Winfrey than I spent time viewing her show, and very little of that reading material does little more than kiss her chirpy narcissistic ass, including such material in The New Republic, though their analysis was the best in terms of the problematic nature of her influence in American pop culture, and at a later date I may pull it and snatch a few quotes. I never took to the persona, and if she tried to offer me a charitable gift, I'd actually have the gall to refuse her, and suggest that she ship malaria treatments to Uganda. One of her few shows I remember is the one with Chris Rock and his wife, where Mrs. Rock informed her spangled sister that her husband did not always have to be on. I mused over this in thinking about his social satire I Think I Love My Wife, which is not much for nuanced subtlety on the fusion of upper middle class conventions with black norms, just as Rock himself is not much for penetrating wit, given that he never completed his education, and is no doubt on the bandwagon for the latest progressive mission to eradicate bullies, He is passive enough to be a facsimile for a white collar professional, but he lacks Cosby's gravitas, and represents, once again, the type of entitlement coasting that I have issues with. From 8th to 12th grade I was shunned; in university I had to fixate on a boxer an a war veteran in order to rationalize that I'd probably never get laid (and almost did not but got lucky), but I graduated, have degrees, and this little punk boy has money because he is a modern minstrel with some capacity for exaggeration. I can see why Daniel produced "Everybody Hates Chris". Meritocracy in the entertainment industry is elusive. Had I handled Schneider in more neutral terms, I am not sure if that would have gained me any purchase. I do not regret his elist, only my own naivete, and throwing a fit over the phone with my aunt, with Frank, because I was frightened that I pissed off a *personality*. Purple flesh tones are not particularly attractive, and it was only after this that salmon oil became a regular regiment. I take being an online cast off to heart, just like my dead cats.
Schneider also probably did not realize that I felt he was condescending to me, but this is what I felt when I asked him to be removed. I have a paying track record; of course, I have no data on how much Cosmoetica serves as a stepping stone for paying freelance jobbers, but after I agreed to write about Dune, after the little man offered me a byline, I realized I just could not afford this. The assignment I procured, the one that tragically died on the table, was accepted on the basis of merit, which is why I do not complain about the editor, and still hope I can make it up to her publication. I am not conveying that either Daniel or myself are mind readers, but we did engage each other at cross purposes, and this is the problem with device as connection, device as shield.
I am sure real fame is a curse in the sense that Ted Koppel meant it in his latter day NPR pieces, but the right to pursue happiness is a tight bottleneck. If Rock had any real talent this would be a different post, but as an opium dose he has a lot of impurities, much the same as his erstwhile producer. Had I not joined his list, been quiet, would he have been a useful contact down the road?
Schneider also probably did not realize that I felt he was condescending to me, but this is what I felt when I asked him to be removed. I have a paying track record; of course, I have no data on how much Cosmoetica serves as a stepping stone for paying freelance jobbers, but after I agreed to write about Dune, after the little man offered me a byline, I realized I just could not afford this. The assignment I procured, the one that tragically died on the table, was accepted on the basis of merit, which is why I do not complain about the editor, and still hope I can make it up to her publication. I am not conveying that either Daniel or myself are mind readers, but we did engage each other at cross purposes, and this is the problem with device as connection, device as shield.
I am sure real fame is a curse in the sense that Ted Koppel meant it in his latter day NPR pieces, but the right to pursue happiness is a tight bottleneck. If Rock had any real talent this would be a different post, but as an opium dose he has a lot of impurities, much the same as his erstwhile producer. Had I not joined his list, been quiet, would he have been a useful contact down the road?
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Funereal Esplanade
I did call my brother this evening around nine to see if he would assist me with the AdSense authentication code for this Blogger account. Benjamin is *done* with me because he feels guilty about my circumstances. I ceased being the stoic elder among my siblings, surviving siblings, and took a pic axe to the birthday card facade, and the luv ya! from my unfortunate half brother, who is the sire of a dead alcoholic whose schizophrenia was blooming when he was my deceased mother's lover, turned into "you and your wicked tongue; no one wants to deal with you, probably bipolar, go get some help, you're not coming to my house and I am not responsible for your fucked up life..." but both he and the middle princess, Stephanie, were perfectly fine taking four thousand dollars from their disabled public housing sister who spent the early years of her twenties starving on egg noodles in the inner city. I have to be insane you see, because I violate good manners that Levi-Strauss worked so hard to prove was a universal concern through his research into the Borneo tribes in his now famous study The Raw and the Cooked, which I doubt anyone would contend isn't the structuralist masterpiece of its era, but I called him anyway, and can still pull rank even if diagnosing me is his way of compartmentalizing me aside, or downwind, from his familial stresses. I have a chip on my shoulder, as relates to his better half, in relation to his selfishness, but remain more wounded from my sister's indifference, which some of you may have read from my other account.
No mental health professional ever diagnosed me as bipolar like my mother, even when I drove myself in to one of the old intake centers during my post-supervisor depressive episode, and even when I suggested to a no name treating intern that I would try an anti-depressant to see if the drug would heal the wound. It did not. Brand name Wellbutrin (I nearly always misspell its proper name) knocked me out. I could not transfer from my wheelchair safely, but it was only after Daniel Schneider came trolling to put me, poor spastic, on his poor man's groupie mailing list, that I tried saturating myself with a heavy fish diet and salmon oil and I posted that on good days, it moderates. I could not expect miracles after losing Joey, however, and grew a little weary, last week, of our species ocean rape for our seafood palette. Varied my diet but upped the oil ingestion.
Does the medical model label matter? I suppose it depends, if it might have saved David Foster Wallace, or Virginia Woolf, which it did not. Wallace had the technical advantage, and Woolf has my admiration. I am reading Jacob's Room, comforted by her mild individuation of Topaz the cat, who "was now a very old and mangy cat and would soon have to be killed." The only Woolf novel I ever formally studied and finished was To The Lighthouse, remarkable, however we label her diagnosis, that she could complete such a masterpiece. Woolf is no Sylvia Plath, and has a real social intelligence that remains a quiet genius that even the studio system quietly translates. I have Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway. The latter is still uncut; the former I may have to start again. I am in the middle, before the master's sex change. Whether or not Woolf was bi, and her mental instability may have contributed to that, I do not read Orlando in the modern sense of transgender advocacy. Many readers would disagree with me on this, but I will tackle my argument with a finished, fresher reading in the future. I viewed a mediocre adaptation of the novel years ago, when Bravo was actually a relevant syndicator.
Heat, grief, a life long marginalized poverty. I have to compartmentalize AdSense away this humid morning, but I hope to make an effort to solve my illiteracy after the heatwave, as I have a great deal of content to transfer anyway, aside from pitches, my creative writing, whose production has slowed, because I must do less
No mental health professional ever diagnosed me as bipolar like my mother, even when I drove myself in to one of the old intake centers during my post-supervisor depressive episode, and even when I suggested to a no name treating intern that I would try an anti-depressant to see if the drug would heal the wound. It did not. Brand name Wellbutrin (I nearly always misspell its proper name) knocked me out. I could not transfer from my wheelchair safely, but it was only after Daniel Schneider came trolling to put me, poor spastic, on his poor man's groupie mailing list, that I tried saturating myself with a heavy fish diet and salmon oil and I posted that on good days, it moderates. I could not expect miracles after losing Joey, however, and grew a little weary, last week, of our species ocean rape for our seafood palette. Varied my diet but upped the oil ingestion.
Does the medical model label matter? I suppose it depends, if it might have saved David Foster Wallace, or Virginia Woolf, which it did not. Wallace had the technical advantage, and Woolf has my admiration. I am reading Jacob's Room, comforted by her mild individuation of Topaz the cat, who "was now a very old and mangy cat and would soon have to be killed." The only Woolf novel I ever formally studied and finished was To The Lighthouse, remarkable, however we label her diagnosis, that she could complete such a masterpiece. Woolf is no Sylvia Plath, and has a real social intelligence that remains a quiet genius that even the studio system quietly translates. I have Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway. The latter is still uncut; the former I may have to start again. I am in the middle, before the master's sex change. Whether or not Woolf was bi, and her mental instability may have contributed to that, I do not read Orlando in the modern sense of transgender advocacy. Many readers would disagree with me on this, but I will tackle my argument with a finished, fresher reading in the future. I viewed a mediocre adaptation of the novel years ago, when Bravo was actually a relevant syndicator.
Heat, grief, a life long marginalized poverty. I have to compartmentalize AdSense away this humid morning, but I hope to make an effort to solve my illiteracy after the heatwave, as I have a great deal of content to transfer anyway, aside from pitches, my creative writing, whose production has slowed, because I must do less
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Freelancer, Half-Assed
I wonder if I have enough clout to approach McCarthy in relation to work, in yet another speculative feather. I am too old to reinvest and create a new career with the industry, but can develop amnesia over incidents like Daniel Schneider. Even online, people of similar look and build behave like compatible molecules, don't they? Since not all of my older posts will be transferring to Blogger, I should explain that Daniel accessed one of my comments on Ebert's blog, found me on LiveJournal, invited me to his Cosmoetica gmail community, sparks flew, I left, and blew a gasket due to being naive and vacuous in my own right, subsequently damaging this long term project, and yes, the paranoid intensity of my reaction was not healthy, and you may be satisfied with your holistic balance in comparison. I am not really angry with the well meaning fool, so much as [was, sic] really upset that I let myself be flummoxed; it is over, and in the same mold can leave my Roger Ebert anxiety at the door, strike out on my own. I still respect the old man, but think his mild detractors, those whom I've read, have a point in the way he caters to popular sentiment, perhaps confusing respect with common denominators.
I doubt I can earn a living on regret, but as an episode, the situation points to the limitations of connecting via device. I did not know who, or what, Daniel Schneider was, and he in turn was entirely ignorant of my economic and social marginalization, and the length of time I have spent in online communities of all different stripes. Before he ended his interaction with me, he wrote, "I have done thousands of interviews in this industry, and David Foster Wallace is a fraud." I honestly don't know what I am supposed to take from this assertion, and a Cosmoetica gmail community with eclectic discussions about movies and Daniel's pontifications about politics, his wife's personal literary reviews, may be charming to some, but I am a spastic quadriplegic whose last and best hope is to restore her work ethic. Email groups clog our inboxes, along with tons of spam, and whatever support he and Mrs thought they were offering, let me pose a question, do they have the ability to hire a wheelchair user at their bakery?
I handled this contact badly, and there is no way around that, my own level of impatience and insolence, but even his rape-victim nurse who chased me down to my LiveJournal inbox, believing that her emotional pain would give me pause, this woman had employment, and has much better access to resources through her hospital to get treatments, access and medical expertise I do not have, and need to restore in my actual, physical existence, a social structure. Daniel calls David Foster Wallace a *fraud* to level an accusation, but lacks the expertise to see why Wallace succeeded, deploying fraudulence as a literary conceit.
*
When felines want to wake up their crippled mothers, they push the call switch, summon security, and freak out when a minority unlocks my door. Of course I was naked and finally sound asleep, and had to get up, shout that I was indecent. I cannot quite cross the Rubicon, and lose my lions to make a venue change easier. Not that I do not love my boys, and indeed, during that *assessment team* intimidation tactic that Trudy Richardson, the manager, threw at me in 08, I offered to get rid of my pets, and this was Debra Horne, a woman who passes for a social services professional:
"We do not want you to get rid of the cats," yet she was standing there with two black men and a swaying older woman of lighter color, trying to gauge my removal, never mind that their subcontractors broke my desktop, that I could not get the CRT equipment I needed, and that I am still paying for. Debra is pretty high up on entitled but ignorant people I hate list. I know why they want me to keep the children, however. My responsibility for them is a distraction, but I am not working, and at this rate, I may never get back on my feet. Thus my children add to my financial burdens, and without them I'd be freer to leave, at least lighten my options.
I love da Joey, and little Vinnie. Of course I am a sap, but. It is a balancing act of bad choices, and depositing them at the SPCA would probably end their lives, and is no guarantee I can find better living arrangements.
I have to make some revisions to my complaint letter to previously mentioned officials, but I should be packed up by Friday. Rocking the boat is so very difficult, but I have to. What I went through could wind up killing someone else like me. I am old and tired, but have to shout, and this is complete. Here is hoping for Tuesday.
I doubt I can earn a living on regret, but as an episode, the situation points to the limitations of connecting via device. I did not know who, or what, Daniel Schneider was, and he in turn was entirely ignorant of my economic and social marginalization, and the length of time I have spent in online communities of all different stripes. Before he ended his interaction with me, he wrote, "I have done thousands of interviews in this industry, and David Foster Wallace is a fraud." I honestly don't know what I am supposed to take from this assertion, and a Cosmoetica gmail community with eclectic discussions about movies and Daniel's pontifications about politics, his wife's personal literary reviews, may be charming to some, but I am a spastic quadriplegic whose last and best hope is to restore her work ethic. Email groups clog our inboxes, along with tons of spam, and whatever support he and Mrs thought they were offering, let me pose a question, do they have the ability to hire a wheelchair user at their bakery?
I handled this contact badly, and there is no way around that, my own level of impatience and insolence, but even his rape-victim nurse who chased me down to my LiveJournal inbox, believing that her emotional pain would give me pause, this woman had employment, and has much better access to resources through her hospital to get treatments, access and medical expertise I do not have, and need to restore in my actual, physical existence, a social structure. Daniel calls David Foster Wallace a *fraud* to level an accusation, but lacks the expertise to see why Wallace succeeded, deploying fraudulence as a literary conceit.
*
When felines want to wake up their crippled mothers, they push the call switch, summon security, and freak out when a minority unlocks my door. Of course I was naked and finally sound asleep, and had to get up, shout that I was indecent. I cannot quite cross the Rubicon, and lose my lions to make a venue change easier. Not that I do not love my boys, and indeed, during that *assessment team* intimidation tactic that Trudy Richardson, the manager, threw at me in 08, I offered to get rid of my pets, and this was Debra Horne, a woman who passes for a social services professional:
"We do not want you to get rid of the cats," yet she was standing there with two black men and a swaying older woman of lighter color, trying to gauge my removal, never mind that their subcontractors broke my desktop, that I could not get the CRT equipment I needed, and that I am still paying for. Debra is pretty high up on entitled but ignorant people I hate list. I know why they want me to keep the children, however. My responsibility for them is a distraction, but I am not working, and at this rate, I may never get back on my feet. Thus my children add to my financial burdens, and without them I'd be freer to leave, at least lighten my options.
I love da Joey, and little Vinnie. Of course I am a sap, but. It is a balancing act of bad choices, and depositing them at the SPCA would probably end their lives, and is no guarantee I can find better living arrangements.
I have to make some revisions to my complaint letter to previously mentioned officials, but I should be packed up by Friday. Rocking the boat is so very difficult, but I have to. What I went through could wind up killing someone else like me. I am old and tired, but have to shout, and this is complete. Here is hoping for Tuesday.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Silver Linings
By some interesting quirk of fate, it seems I will not have to use my savings for at least a week or two. I have been playing the usual parlor games since I was a young woman between jobs, and now? What choices do I actually have?
I can make things worse; this is what constitutes the illusion of having any further options. I am looking at InstaBulb here. The extra light would be useful, and I can use it near the PC when I want to charge but read kindle at my desk. It is late summer now as I archive this on Blogger, and I not only do not know when this order will ship, but have no idea how to contact the marketer.
They claim they will utilize COD, but I guess the tool would only work as well as the brand of battery used. In this unit I need it, but then I may return to bed. Not feeling well, not sleeping well, I can milk for my source later tomorrow if I do not hear from first contact. I may also be in the full throttle of a menopause adjustment, as it has only been three months since my cycle stopped.
I still get cramps, and wasted, or took the time to type the Administration a message @ the White House, but the portal did not carry. Not sure what use it would be to try again this evening. My shins are swelling. My brother Benjamin will not speak to me. I tried him three times this Sunday, because my health actually is failing, and I'd like my nephews to remember me. I don't know why this price is so extraordinary.
I am not sure what I once imagined about my life, but it wasn't this, and the real subtext behind my sibling rivalry breach is guilt. They took my assets, and expected a free ride. Now I am not a person because I am asserting that I have needs.
However you read me, or what conclusions you draw, I have no support, no friends that I actually like to be around for themselves, and more than likely will never regain a career in any viable sense of the word, and what I meant to convey is, you can't know how it feels.
I am not my mother. I do not find a vein in Will Self's drug culture and do dangerous things with the syringe for the thrill of it. I haven't gotten myself pregnant, or medically sucked a fetus I did not want out of my uterus, like my sister, and yet, because I never wanted to live in 202 housing, and it angers me due to the waste of my intelligence, this is an indication of crisis for homosexuals who insert their penises into the rectums of other males, or an excuse for my damn family to close off in rank, never mind that doing the same thing to my mother probably increased the pressure she felt to do hard core psychotropics, which may have contributed to her cardiac arrest.
I can't rebuild myself a viable social outlet, and if you are going to say look at how I treated Schneider, an over the top trigger is conceded; had I known it was that Daniel Schneider, I would have ignored him after a preliminary query, or tried to utilize his outreach in better fashion, dubious as that might have played out as an alternative.. List serves and viral networking take time. They are not cocktail parties, and I happen to like cocktail parties, the clink of ice, a joke regarding All About Eve.
I can make things worse; this is what constitutes the illusion of having any further options. I am looking at InstaBulb here. The extra light would be useful, and I can use it near the PC when I want to charge but read kindle at my desk. It is late summer now as I archive this on Blogger, and I not only do not know when this order will ship, but have no idea how to contact the marketer.
They claim they will utilize COD, but I guess the tool would only work as well as the brand of battery used. In this unit I need it, but then I may return to bed. Not feeling well, not sleeping well, I can milk for my source later tomorrow if I do not hear from first contact. I may also be in the full throttle of a menopause adjustment, as it has only been three months since my cycle stopped.
I still get cramps, and wasted, or took the time to type the Administration a message @ the White House, but the portal did not carry. Not sure what use it would be to try again this evening. My shins are swelling. My brother Benjamin will not speak to me. I tried him three times this Sunday, because my health actually is failing, and I'd like my nephews to remember me. I don't know why this price is so extraordinary.
I am not sure what I once imagined about my life, but it wasn't this, and the real subtext behind my sibling rivalry breach is guilt. They took my assets, and expected a free ride. Now I am not a person because I am asserting that I have needs.
However you read me, or what conclusions you draw, I have no support, no friends that I actually like to be around for themselves, and more than likely will never regain a career in any viable sense of the word, and what I meant to convey is, you can't know how it feels.
I am not my mother. I do not find a vein in Will Self's drug culture and do dangerous things with the syringe for the thrill of it. I haven't gotten myself pregnant, or medically sucked a fetus I did not want out of my uterus, like my sister, and yet, because I never wanted to live in 202 housing, and it angers me due to the waste of my intelligence, this is an indication of crisis for homosexuals who insert their penises into the rectums of other males, or an excuse for my damn family to close off in rank, never mind that doing the same thing to my mother probably increased the pressure she felt to do hard core psychotropics, which may have contributed to her cardiac arrest.
I can't rebuild myself a viable social outlet, and if you are going to say look at how I treated Schneider, an over the top trigger is conceded; had I known it was that Daniel Schneider, I would have ignored him after a preliminary query, or tried to utilize his outreach in better fashion, dubious as that might have played out as an alternative.. List serves and viral networking take time. They are not cocktail parties, and I happen to like cocktail parties, the clink of ice, a joke regarding All About Eve.
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