Next In Line

Um. Details please.

— Soledad O'Brien (@soledadobrien) June 26, 2019

There is an incurious internecine battle going on this late but cooler Sunday, as if the Me Too movement decibel decided to metamorphize its attention to patriarchal complacency masquerading as competency. Soledad O’Brien and other women in the fourth estate have launched some scathing criticism of Bret Stephens. According to these strident feminine voices, Stephens is the worst columnist printing at the flagship New York Times. All I can do is sit back and wish for a bag of herbal popcorn, as all I can tell you is I know Soledad’s name. She and I had a brief thread about titles which may have puzzled both she and I. Perhaps she wanted to know how I got an opinion piece about Jennifer Wilbanks into the Philadelphia Inquirer and made it my own. It was the convenience of timeliness, something I now lack due to a black woman named Trudy Richardson who has used her power to abuse me so thoroughly that my fantasies of motion involving her homicide where I fracture her skull into a mortal trauma isn’t too well held in check by the fact that it is what she wants so that she can dispose of me. I may hate what my former supervisor Linda did to me to get me to this point, and I hate those who protected her criminal malfeasance, but my life has endured incontrovertible set backs due to two black women in public housing, and it galls me beyond measure that all my academic promise has transmuted. I am a rabid animal who wants to destroy the domestic matron class forcing me to suffer almost beyond my capacity to endure it, and the hen house is now acluck over Stephens and his statistical inaccuracies, his designation of a new class, the Obama-Trump voter. What can I say? I am one of them. Obama and Mitt Romney and Pelosi made my life a living hell with Romney’s healthcare plan for Massachusetts, and Trump running around goring the establishment has only accentuated the city of Philadelphia’s time honored provincialism. I never had an easy time of it with NYT. Shortly before I managed online access, they threatened me with a collection agency over a three dollar deficit. Once online, they suspended my book forum account for momentary frustration with another poster, which was nothing, teeny funnel, but from what I can glean from Google, the media brand that the New York Times is has been challenged of late by other feature writers. I myself don’t believe Douthat and David French are worth what they’re paid: I demand more of Douthat’s mindset, and French is simply a cowering liberal who pities the police when they use deadly force against aggressors like me.

Water Pollution

How many of you remember this as one of the most notorious news segments of its time? There are two seminal events of the later 20th century which prefigure the blasted husk of human empathy and its erosions of trust in its own institutions in the 21st. Although I find it exceedingly difficult to practice the craft of journalism at this moment in time, I still consider myself one, even though admirable quacko Iranians who still have the energy to live in it have stolen the thunder of throbbing cerebral intellects gone south in anarchist glee. I am following Yashar, temporarily, to utilize his ledes when I can. The jury is still out on whether or not I despise him. Perhaps, but he is also honest, ruthless, brash, and unlike the embattled Kim Foxx, of whom my initial post was to be much longer, this not so much to excoriate the lack of impartiality in the bayous of black liberation and its cohesiveness (also hidden fissures, as Foxx seems to disdain Smollett's insecure swagger behind his body guard as much as a significant portion of conservatives do), but to illustrate how faulty Robby Soave's hastily written pieces are. Soave leads us to believe that Foxx was to recuse herself from Jussie's case due to conflict of interest. Gaynor, of Fox News, walks the recusal back, allowing the state's attorney to explain she had *contact* with Smollett's family. Where are the violins for the bedevilment of deadlines? David French considers Yashar Ali's integrity remarkable. Perhaps, but Yashar isn't truly impartial. We tried that with Jonestown, prior to the massacre. People couldn't see what Jim Jones was, but he presages more than Paddock, the Vegas shooter, just as the OJ Simpson trial is more than "the monkey is still a monkey" and got away with it, in the paraphrase of a cold attorney named Lydia Nayo. These two signature events anticipate the sense of crisis in our current populist era, a crisis that transcends Trump's narcissism, which, as a spastic woman with brain lesions of her own, I believe I intuit better than most. That a polemicist like Tom Nichols still uses the participle phrase "drink the Kool Aid" in reference to his lackluster senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders, illustrates how much of an impact the events of Jonestown had on the American psyche, our inability to process that humanity creates its own self-destructive carnage.


So nefarious, at least until we start thinking about physics, gravitational pulls, the remarkable coincidence of Earth, and how Salvation subverts the expectations of the asteroid catastrophe genre. If I could just return to a pitch a week. A pitch a week, that would be remarkable, in my shriveling beneath the weight of modern African tribalism.

Antenna

"You think I'm having fun?"-- Cate Blanchett

My aunt called me Tuesday afternoon from the hospital where she took my father's brother because she is angry at my father because I inadvertently revealed something my sister told me which my father wanted kept quiet. My care giver is a momma's boy, Marie wants to be paid attention to, and now I have to be the rock of Gibraltar despite the fact I believe my father's brother should cease medical treatment and be given palliative care, and I'd gladly stick Galahad on a pike and inform JEVS that I make Bill Cosby's bigot from 1969 look like Caesar, and made all of my second pitch since this catastrophe and incapacitation began, killing my building manager in a quantum of neuron estuaries, an arrow through the neck, impairing her vocal chords, her blood gurgling up through her tongue, high hate for a rather characterless chocolate woman allegedly afflicted with lupus. She looks like an afflicted from lupus, with her owl's black rimmed glasses, fearing me like the devil's spawn. Erik, the transsexual, is afflicted with symptoms similar to lupus, and I missed all the fun when he lit his face on fire in the last days of winter 2019 with a tobacco cigarette. I had nothing to do with it, but you can feel free to envision the relish of enmity.
I never set out to be an ambitious journalist writing for The National Review like David French, here exposing the fissures between libertarians and traditional conservatives that the once living Charles Krauthammer expounded on with a rhetorical shrug
 

A fragile nation suffers from deep partisan polarization, mistrust of institutions, and a media in crisis . . . And you throw that garbage hot take into the stew? Have you no decency, sir? At long last, have you no decency?

— David French (@DavidAFrench) March 25, 2019

I just turned to the profession to make a living. I know NRO doesn't accept freelance queries. I know they have internships. All I'd like to know is how do I send them a fucking resume? I did ask them, without the gerund as adjective.

Homeostasis

"We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun, but the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time.--if you ask yourself did the recording industry propel sentimental crap like this, the answer is yes.

I do not always follow the topic of the day, and in concurrence with Philadelphia sage Dick Polman, who has only corralled 3,279 social media accounts, which might be an indicator of public broadcasting malaise, and a very talented writer never quite making it to the top of the heap, which means that I learned something from him within his deconstruction of the now caramelized cultural shock of Psycho, it speaks to something beneficial to veer off topicality, resist the flash points, though at best sometimes all we can do is recycle and echo each other. Where David French would use the phrase “high voltage outrage” to designate Tucker Carlson’s segmented air time within the Fox News pantheon, the dowager would write “blockhead,” and at her most charitable, simply say the little big man anchor is a well defined Neanderthal who puts beefsteak in a three piece suit. Fuck him. Out of near death curiosity I had to stream the interview which led to Durden’s termination and feel Emory was wrong to terminate Durden solely on the basis of a blowout out with a redneck, but he’s our redneck, not some foreign invader like Llhan Omar. Viewers still have the ability not to watch what’s fed into the camera, but this medieval regression seems to be what we prefer, terrorizing wife and children rather than formulating well thought out refutation. Even thoughtful conservatives like Scott Walker cannot do what is necessary for longer term viability: shrink the damn regulatory paradigm and its wilding out growth. He may have succeeded in making us question the wisdom of public sector state employee unions, but pension funds do indeed have to be examined. I can tell you here from the bottom, that Medicaid funding is a sprawling exercise in futility, in my erroneous belief that I could have a normal life, wrong word, a presumption that I could move out of my caste, but  it's more accurate to have supposed a fulfilling one. Krauthammer could do it because his paraplegia was a tragic mishap. He was still dispassionate enough to transfer his skill set from clinical psychiatry to the science of policy. Poor Joanne wanted to excise Norman Bates' mother for Janet Leigh's poise, and wound up far more paralyzed in niggerland than John's boot camp visits entertained in our graduate years.