Genealogy of Insidious Threat

Al Baldasaro has a point, which by reason of association, I am grudgingly admitting Donald Trump does as well. Unless there is classified information about the threat of sedition during the last days of Roosevelt's administration to which we aren't privy, he had Japanese Americans interred as he walked the country into the Asian Pacific theatre without much evidence that Japanese Americans would rise up for their Emperor back home. When it was over, sure, recrimination simmered, reparations were bandied about, but I certainly don't recall Japanese militias rising up to slaughter clueless Protestants busy buying Buick's under Eisenhower.

But since this is the century of digital device, we're all militant victims, even ISIS terrorists with no limits. Pedestrians like Michael Gerson and David Brooks decry Donald's demagoguery, on the one hand, and then vent spleen. "God help us is they get their hands on bio-chemical weapons." This is what Brooks said on the Newshour, doing his job.

Now, of course, things aren't that simple, and people were wrongly abused after they were rounded up under Ashcroft, in the heady winter days of 2002. Reactionary Islamists were matched with reactionary American military personnel, and here we are, how many terrorist acts later. The Obama Administration was liberal with the Tsarnaev brothers remember. And way back in 1987, my long missed friend Tom Reid and I had dinner with an Iranian on a foreign student visa who gave me the heebies, acted out like a repressed homosexual, or spastic made the young man a tad frenetic. It was a bizarre sharing of fettuccine alfredo, as bizarre as the fact that HUD forces me to live with two Afghan refugees of the Taliban, and no one wants the specter of actual camps for hostile aliens, since we'd all have to foot the bill, but don't kid yourself. As diametrically opposed as the noted activist Cassie James and I are, the woman I insulted after she returned from England, we know Fascism is never really far below the surface, unjustly so. I may be wrong about this, but believe Trudy Richardson rationalized attacking me with the Department of Health and Human Services using a "threat of violence" argument with my almost deranged father's sister. 

What threat of violence? One black woman after another exploits me, their white counterparts either indifferent or guilty of bad judgment, and my confrontational anger toward Trudy's dissembling crap is all of the sudden violent? Is there a secret video where I slash the radials on her automobile? The corrosive nature of my bitterness comes from what I've had to sustain in 30 years with this landlord and Philadelphia's corrupt welfare praxis.  It is a more justified trigger than what motivated Timothy McVeigh, but more limited in the scope of its unsated vengeance, limited by the fact that I have no command and control over a militant crew willing to disrupt the paradigm. Systems that keep up Presbyterian Homes always win, until public anger builds to the point that a sea change occurs. In terms of IL corruption, that will be a long time coming.

In terms of ISIS, however, proactive authoritarian crackdowns seem necessary, though the price tag is too high in geopolitical terms. Punish Iran and Saudi Arabia. Therein lies the source, along with taking away the fiction of sovereignty from unstable states, which I've already mentioned. The difference between me and the right wing like Paul Ryan, is I'm willing to pay the price for a real war as a trade off against the worse of fanaticism to come.

Begrudgingly, Foot and Mouth

The Norwegian adaptation of Christensen's novel is kinetic enough, and I certainly appreciated the dripping excrement in the boys shared bedroom during episode four. Our European counterparts are always braver, and it signifies that this was the best shit scene I've ever seen on video. It beats Death at a Funeral, and Styron's 98 Shadrach, which was less about the might of grand nigger burden and more about family clasping hold, even if we're invariably eclipsed in that battle against the dark, so spastic has to eat soap. It is a relevant series, the Half-Brother, pity the post war working class doomed to their station.

Speaking of which, my reactionary pain shall not gravitate to Donald Trump, but that very same reactionism supports his right to be ugly, all the same. If the angry Caucasian working class want their spleen with the casino realtor mogul, they have a right to it. Wapo's contributors have been all over the map on this, offering cautious respect, and alternately comparing him to Putin, and yesterday, to Hitler. There are times it is useful to ignore established news content, and this is one of them. On the off chance that Trump can beat Clinton, his term in office would be paralyzed by SCOTUS litigation, and he would wind up impeached, and the federal government would cease to function. Yours truly would wind up a hate crime, barring some cleverness, as in spinning my drying vagina around a libertarian erection.

My anger at Charlie Sheen's cover-up is germane, and if it is an outcry against a certain fundamental unfairness, so be it. 10 million may not be what it once was against the backdrop of Google Apple Silicon uber wealth, but it is still an astounding amount of money for a performer to engage in a desperate evasion; alternately, the sexual partners purportedly suing him have no real standing to claim personal injury. If they fucked him consensually, that is simply a fact of life, the kind of promiscuity Salon enjoys quantifying as liberating, positive-- not that I haven't weighed a submission to the publication. 

I am scrambling to create employment, dared to contact the National Review with a slightly antiseptic tone, as they produced David Brooks, not my favorite analyst.

Follow the guidelines

I do not enjoy taking myself too far afield with this account--

("oh really, that's news" I hear you people, since we all regress to high school, I hear you) but I'll address twitter directly, though this applies to author viewers who happen upon this account through other means:

After nine months of practice, I have learned I actually don't mind reviewing if I care about something, so I am still willing to review twitter authors. I looked up Publisher's Weekly guidelines, and they need four months advance notice. I know their voice from my third life on Amazon--don't we all-- and they will probably reject any write up I do at first; the tough part is they require a four month advance notice.

If you want to trust me that far, contact me with at least that much time prior to your publication date, though for me, a few weeks extra might be advantageous, and if, or when, I find another outlet similar or akin to Examiner, I will let you know.

One thing that annoys me about myself is why I allow myself to get upset over so little. Examiner was like a middle school refresher, and while I may never be good enough for the bylines I'd kill for (I believe that I am on the basis of past experience) getting back on the horse wasn't valueless. That David Brooks made the leap from The Weekly Standard to NYT informs on the insights gained about the dirt in this business, however, and Clarity Media has questionable ethics because it is a cut rate operation.

Viatica Franchise

"It won't be Amazon." -- Leon Wieseltier

No, it won't be Amazon, nor will it be Google Books, but like Leon in his past, I am always broke and skirting the edge of destitution, and gave my ambulatory younger sister and brother four thousand dollars while Trudy Richardson was threatening me on the telephone in an imitation Oprah Winfrey voice that "I would not be living at Riverside." Four years later I wrote her a letter and said back "as an African American woman who can live where you choose, either evict me or leave me alone," and like magic the black police state flips a pancake: "oh of course you're normal, you're not doing anything wrong..." Landlords really hate litigation, don't they, in the munificence of forced egalitarianism of the pluralistic American landscape? Is digital monopolization of publishing good for the dialogic of ideas, the very cause of authorship? Sure, I can teach myself how to take my work straight from hard drive to a kindle file, and turn (a) blog account into a spam market for my own vanity, but would it pay? I am not part of the establishment in which Leon and Marty Peretz wag their inner Jewish mother at the Beltway because we have 2000 years of Hebraic law on which to draw, nor could I maintain the visibility pressure through which David Brooks secures his affluence by being the voice of Everyman. I hate David Brooks, because I have intellectual parity with him and live on rats corn seed and he gets money for saying on air what McCain believes: That American prestige necessitates involvement in a sectarian schism American citizens know we need no part of. McCain may deserve his own affluence, but Brooks? Brooks is where he is because Buckley chanced to offer him a job. Marianna Torgovnick examines the merger of Italiano Americana with the conceit of Jewish men making good husbands. Had I walked I might have been a variation of her, the feminine Italian intellect lost in the humanities shuffleboard with that *good husband* who, even with that veneer of feminine taming, betrays me in some manner that is displeasing. Ed Berkowitz did not mean to set me up with fringe nut cases; it happened because he could not think to tell me that Zach Tollen was a mental health consumer. If Ed had been able to offer this sacrosanct assessment I would have avoided interacting with a nut case with a not unusual Jungian fixation that more or less is an indication of limitation. I will get past all this, but it tells me I was wrong to single out Mr. Berkowitz, to attempt to bridge a gap, or even to worry about my loyalties to whom, since Ed's partner has epilepsy. If you see me as just another fringe player out of the world of James Leo Herlihy, then that defeats the purpose.