Highlight two or three keywords in yellow-- a Kenyan
Other than for obvious reasons, such as development of cult followings, I do not know why the 09 wrap up episode of Dead Like Me had to be made. The substitution of Wynter for Harris was poor form, and while the replacement of Mandy Patinkin as the preserver of tradition with a hedge fund manager may signal the obvious about our times, the last episode in 2003 was open ended enough to make this closure, six years on the drawing board, a bit redundant, even if it is about disruptions to the status quo. We can infer, because little sister Reggie decides to let go, that Georgia's reaps end with the comatose quarterback in the hell of his body, but I remain uncertain as to what the team revolt against Cameron signifies, unless it's just that some conditions always revert back to form-- which may mean I am going to be incarcerated regardless of what I do, but I cannot stay at Riverside any longer. So Kwale's observation that I have enough time on my hands to write positive posts about his equatorial continent isn't entirely accurate, as I have to find a way to bully myself out of the city in the time I myself have left on the clock. My personal sanity is at stake.
I have been brutal to Trudy, nigger nanny extraordinaire, I won't mince words about it, but the bitch is a conniving weasel who strikes behind my back. Why? Section 202 housing is as authoritarian as any Moscow dormitory for native Africans which only winds up burning down due to shoddy maintenance. I have to go. I won't get far, with my resources, but I have to. I cannot take it anymore. So she wins, in that primal cunning of our original model, lifestyle evolved to combat pervasive conditions brought about by malaria. Thousand word posts, with keywords. It makes the 3k I earned under contract look like a small fortune. Grunts.
"I work hard."-- Patricia Idlette
In the third or fourth to last episode of Dead Like Me, S2, the British punker Mason, played by Callum Blue, gets into serious trouble with Kiffany the thickset black waitress, when he attempts to palm the tips at der Waffle House, and before the character is forgiven for his sleazy opportunism, Kiffany gives him a long spiel about rationed, collective distribution among low skilled laborers. This is Vancouver's voice, North Hollywood, letting the Canadian argument for liberal free society socialism hold its sway in virtually ecumenical reverence. How can libertarian ideas possibly push back against this mass pressure, decrying caste and economic inequality? There are no positively drawn capitalists in this Bryan Fuller vehicle, with the exception of the newspaper magnate's heir who deflowered Millie, Georgia's alter ego, in an earlier episode.
The rich, whether business class or blue blood, are satirized mercilessly in this Showtime pork roll concession to the Common Man. Beneath the surface, it is the blue collar stiff and fundamental fairness being elevated, since no one truly knows when they've taken the last step to heaven. Kantian universalism carries through every episode. The importance of regulation and order drilled into our craniums.
A rather strong refutation of Kiffany's point comes from an unlikely source: Google's automated, efficient, metadata model, which, ever so painfully, in gradated steps, created Medium, which is universal, but cannot generate profit, and collaborative models like Niume. The developers who run Niume are probably little wealthier than the pensioners and (some) marginalized account users who post to it, and to its credit, Niume is not pay for play, like Blogger Adsense. But what writer, whatever form is their strongest, cares to pursue excellence in an environment like this? It is as mediocre as the collective median of the online crowd, which some intellects need to shun.
Forget about me. 32 years of taking inner city beat downs have made me an illegal anarchist, and Google is within its rights, as is my internet provider, to suspend me at whim. Given means, method, and opportunity, I've become overzealous, and I'll leave that there-- but the only individuals who can get away with incitement in the name of an agenda are fairly protected power mongers like Milo, or in France, Le Pen. The Silicon Valley, which is Twitter, Facebook, and its derivative models, have already made Huxley's Brave New World a reality.
It is not even a question of whether Joanne Marinelli stays or goes. I'm likely to vanish simply by getting barred from access to my apartment. And whether or not I'm still writing in three years, mind intact, is one for the devil's bookie. No, what I see is an alarming loss of independence of thought, and increasing difficulty toward incentivizing in this still fragile, digital world. This is why I support libertarian models, however much they contravene primate group dynamics.
"How was your Thanksgiving?"-- my former client Joe, who endorses Wheelchair Taxi
The implication by the radical left that the electors are proactive agents is not borne out by the historical evidence. The 20 electors disputed in the Hayes Tilden battle also resulted in protracted litigation, legislative action. I do no see, as Lessig, or Parker does, a College which actively thwarted a popular vote winner. Bush v Gore simply declared the Florida recount unconstitutional, and with a dwindling set of options, Gore finally conceded in 2000, unfortunately, as the 43 president was a disaster. Just because spastic grows reactive, this does not mean she is a lock step Republican. At heart, she is a terrorist, willing to sow destruction on corrupt human methodologies, but much as Doris Lessing explores in her strange, but real world novel, The Good Terrorist, spastic has an honor code, and a cruel minority manager may deserve what she gets, and section 202 tenants are the residual business of poverty, but the young computer engineering geniuses over 20 are useful to the generations beyond the boomers. I am not sure why my road runner failed reply to Lessig is important to me, but I agree with Fee it needs a fix, and maybe I should turn it into a longer back essay. The left is simply wrong, like the very fact of housing classifications. Section 202. Section 3. Section 811. Our societies learn nothing from the masters, those who have seen the nightmare of collective systems.
Despite missing the first two of the last four episodes of Dead Like Me, it is over, thank goodness. Spastic is free of Vancouver pedestrian gentility. My Comet affiliate is still running the series, and I may review and refresh, but I am off the leash. This may not sound like enthusiasm, but my favorite segments were Callum Blue and the old woman who collapsed with her sugar bowel, and Laura Harris in her Catholic inducements arc. A real Catholic priest, if entering the gateway to reunification with the divine, would not say, "I am as curious as you are Daisy." This is a generic writer's evasion. None of us know anything, but at least a popular horrorist like Anne Rice applied her beliefs about the afterlife in some of her works.
I confirmed to the local libertarians that I will attend their party at Gunner's Run, and I'd like very much to attend, but my budget is scraping the lard barrel, so as of this morning, I'm waffling, and entering a danger stress zone-- first winter storm approaching and I've little funds to stockpile even the basic grains available to the poor. I have a small window, but not much, to make up my mind. I also never meant to imply that local libertarians have to bond with me, it is simply that I have no people in my orbit who please me, who I enjoy, and Black Adder's regulars, and visiting graduates, are the best I can do, even if my obvious depression is an insulator.
The Sunlight Aria: Diaper Rash and other irritants 11/28/16
(56)
It did not take me long to lose my battle with the last of my relatively fresh credit line from Capital One to upgrade to the Vuse Vibe tank, which comes as close to poisoning myself to death as can be imagined, in my masochistic kinks for cherry diddles, the poignancy of Ken Wahl's Reagan era physique aside, why him, why it hurt to view him in a show for which I never cared, why he responded, why I want to fuck him to prove my irregular clitoris can still respond to masculine intercourse? Intrinsically, what I've blogged is the truth, I do not desire a lesbian partnership, but climaxing past the raw sewage of my trauma, past ugly women deviation, this is increasing in difficulty, not that it matters with my urine sore cunt.
Fifty three was my break year, no doubt there, no rejuvenation, I simply couldn't get myself out of here in time; I'm sinking, whatever my newly wounded friction with Joan Tarshis, not even entirely sure what happened, why I even sounded off in the first place, two old and broken women, destroyed progressives, one a rabid animal, the other keeping faith, both milkweed Caucasians, soured milk, after a fashion. The link between us, however tenuous through social media, mattered to me, whether or not Cosby was violating her when I was six, being internalized as a childhood hate crime. It is her fault, in part, that she wasn't wise enough to utilize a chaperone. This was the sixties, and celebrities of his stature had inflated egos, much as my obstinacy resulted in essentially surviving a muted genocide, with now so little to show for it. Pain, raw sewage, mitigating with liquid nicotine vapor. I don't know what her mechanisms are, other than classic liberal discernment, akin to my faux relationships, adopting Stiles as my little brother. If I scrounged up bus fare to seek him out in Nebraska the poor fellow would probably shit himself, as this indicates the degree of how much I in turn have absorbed affectation: Look at what I'm writing about, in the dead zone of my section 202 decline, the headaches from inhaling? From poor nutrition coffee diet, the weight of my fatigue, pushing myself to write through it and amazed I've gotten this far.
I opened Jawbone, to take a break from the rest, for a bit. I don't know how long, maybe a week, maybe less. I have to really focus later and put the housing grievance against Presby together, however much more it is going to shrink the willpower I have left, but willpower for what?
I have nothing in my life, none of the things people live for, even the disabled, which is why Bryan Fuller's ideas about dead alive are so telling, in a strange way, though he keeps failing, but failing with a difference, since he understands a medium to which I'm inherently hostile, to say the least.
1:33 AM, Monday
"They said 'nigger go home!'"-- Charlayne Hunter Gault, challenging on air composure.
It was just coincidence that my local affiliate aired the Dead Like Me VIP episode an odd 26 hours after Gwen passed away. What that last tweet refers to is unknown, and what twitter does with dead letter accounts such as these is curious, like Nimoy. The dowager used his COPD for a penny article and felt horrible. It was just a penny article. The man had universal recognition, and it was not as if the dowager landed a scoop to kill the fellow, or her cultural resentment had anything to do with Ifill's stricken state.
She was not a very penetrating anchor. Personable. Charming, more weight to her thought processes within that "happy black" demeanor than Oprah, but on air she folded to easily when challenging sources. The knowledge that MacNeil/Lehrer productions would make her chief co anchor was a given, but could not shield the lowly from astonishment of such a reversal. (I would have gladly sacrificed Trudy Richardson in her place, however.) She had power, and while not uber wealthy, she had economic security, and yet could not do anything but confirm that minorities have poor health outcomes. Spastic is too old for shock, but having her resentment challenged, that has almost a youthful vigor to it. Sometimes we zig, following the crowd, truly disconcerted, even as she was mocked, mostly in silence. Gault and spastic would understand each other as enemies more readily, in the traditional sense. Uppity black liberation liberal versus angry cripple who needs to relearn some manner. Gault, however, is granted a concession. She went back to, and reports on Africa. That is proper, and spastic wants nothing to do with it, with exceptions made for Egyptians. Gwen would have simply been hurt or saddened by my hostility, though I was of course perfectly civil to her online. She would not have remembered.
Yet, as Ellen Muth's Georgia narrates in conspiratorial overtones, mourning celebrity is a unique American byproduct, especially if we're in the dark about terminal conditions. I did not know Miss Ifill got it through the uterus. Being in this age group, I get nervous. If the system failed her, assisted euthanasia seems humane to poverty constricture. This is not aggrandizing, or trying to make it seem romantic. Charlayne sees racial epithets as dehumanizing, and what she may have seen in Liberian slums may top anything I'd suffer, even if I put myself on the street to avoid taking Trudy apart with my bare hands, as she isn't worth institutional imprisonment, but Gault cannot enter into disability in real world terms. In the Congo, we're still demons, and West African superstition is alive and very well in the inner city. Dehumanizing slurs are nothing Charlayne. Dismissed. Generationally, Koppel was the best anchor on air. Not particularly kind, he pushed his sources, and we're beginning to lose that. I will push some strands from this a little further later. And if you really want to help Haitians, then repatriate them and give their half of a barely livable island back to the Dominican Republic. Think a little larger.
"I did it; I beat the system."-- Ellen Muth
Beneath its supernatural elements, (I don't like the term mythology, which Wiki uses) Dead Like Me is slightly too courageous, too honest, about the perplexing transitory nature of being alive and dead alive, and our lust for experience, with certain contingencies outside of that, oddball clubs of all sorts, like Trek conventions. It was always disconcerting to me that Roddenberry arguably created a cult as well as science fiction for television. One may enjoy the adventures of the Enterprise, or guffaw, but people who dress up as Klingons no doubt fantasize about the permanent removal of pubic hair through electrolysis, and need a life, though this is how they get it, thinking of bizarre formulas, or rather, appreciating that people like Fuller make them work, and yet, some of the reaping episodes, particularly Callum's, are poorly directed, maudlin, and at the same time, the most disconcerting (what the fuck was that with the gay couple, jesus, one aspirates) I obviously didn't like that scene, though I'm not sure what got edited after Showtime leased its rights for public syndication. Mason always is on the receiving end of the take down; no wonder he zones it out. The birthday party father was particularly risible, and if his scorn was meant to be affecting, it worked. I would have stolen a quarter pint of Jack Daniels from a drunkard too, forcing myself to pay attention, as I may never get near this level of quality in the near term, and it's almost over, as we're in season two, past the pet reaper.
Take out the Protestant elements, overlooking the constraints of my palsy and the abuse I and my sister sustained (she got the brunt of it physically from my mother's post-divorce trash, and I carry guilt I couldn't protect Stephanie. I already know what her therapy sessions amount to even if I scoffed at what she hinted), I was Ellen's Georgia coming of age, and not getting to do what normal 18 year olds do, always on the outside, manipulating teachers. I might have had more courage after a certain point. You'd like it if I was more life affirming. I did strike out on my own, brave, stupid, obstinate girl, worked, traveled, secretly pissed on hotel carpeting in Hershey, survived date rape, fucked drug addicts and conflicted, wounded married men who fought my mockery and kept coming back until they won, and I still lost, penniless poet whose transfer skills turn inward to fear of irreversible injury. In the modern era, losing children is a microcosm of survivor's guilt, very much part of my father's retreat. I never had his love, try as hard as I might, particularly after he lost his son, the psycho boy he fought so hard to save. It is the closest entry I have into the insulating grief of the Khans, their coping mechanism being a scorched earth policy towards the lightning rod that Trump is. I stayed away from the brawl, partially due to my lack of comprehension as to why it gained such a high profile, and who started it-- but if you're a Muslim American going into the front lines of an irrational ideologically driven Iraqi war to show what a patriot you are in the face of a corrupted jihad, then you can expect to lose your progeny; to then use the media to lick your wounds is unseemly, even if Donald is a juvenile delinquent who has elevated narcissism as deserving of executive authority. If, on the seventh, I drive downstairs and wait in line to vote in the social services room on the ground floor, I may throw that vote away on Harambe, who became a manufactured news item: dead apes don't poll five percent on their own initiative. Someone put the gorrilla in the question-- then split the ticket to keep Toomey ensconced in incumbency, or throw it away to a slightly more deserving Johnson. Samuelson, Wapo's economic columnist, once suggested the US is increasingly more like Europe. I'd say Mexico, instead.
something in the wind that knows my name-- karen carpenter
I do not want my readers to infer I had an adversarial relationship with Terri Way during her three year employment with Presby. I didn't. We weren't exactly friends, but friendly, in contrast to relations with Trudy Richardson, who trills like a capon with a broken neck, frantically running around the chicken coup, cunning, but vapid, nonetheless morally despicable. Terri was more astute, more adept, and while I am not going to say she was traumatized by the fact that I was attacked by the grandson of a monosyllabic woman of Martin Luther King's era, she was impacted, and transferred out of Diamond Park in 1993, due to how bad it was. Both of us working, I treated her to a beer off City Line while we were both on the clock, regretted it, leaning toward the florid, even back then. I saw her on television for a Blue Cross Blue Shield commercial with Dick Vermeil, subsequent to her departure. That was that, but I let the girl hoodwink me. I know adjudicating Presby for negligence after I was assaulted, while not a mental health panacea, would have given me justice . Tenants of rapes sue their rental agents in civil courts and usually get awarded settlements. What have I gotten? Blatant and hostile discrimination, attacked relentlessly since Trudy was hired, and ableism wonders why it fears my livid bulimic anger, however much caught in a time capsule, like Ryan O'Neal.
O'Neal hasn't responded to my inquiries about The Driver. No reason why he should, and he may not have even seen them. I also promised to go through proper channels, and had best get to his publicist before the embittered actor up and croaks, but if he knew where my analysis of his work with Walter Hill was going, he'd probably be perplexed. Hill was simply positing western values in the burgeoning analogue age of the Me decade, and if references I've read hold, O'Neal wasn't the first casting choice, and yet, this enigmatic fable, distributed in the dawn of Jimmy Carter's measly leadership, is a rebuke to boomers, just as Bryan Fuller rebukes the passive indifference of Muth's generation. Dead Like Me, though it is the most intriguing free broadcast available to me, has its own time capsule quality, endearing, but flawed. Aside from its latter day production problems, one of the reasons Showtime may have cancelled it was its occasional weightiness on modern alienation. It takes a certain amount of bravado, which Mandy Patinkin has in his scene boiling penne, to invite your superior to dinner, and have the gesture all but vanish in a vacuum. Like Muth's Georgia, the only mitigating social extensions I ever had were from my career, and those were wrenched from me. Spending some of my money on the Rosenbach made me feel like an appendage. I grafted more cheaply onto local libertarians and like that better, which illustrates brawn and pretensions mix with volatility, but it's not enough.
When I give my notice to Riverside, I'm rolling away. I'm not coming back, even at the cost of abandoning kimmy, my library, my soiled linens. It will not change my indifference to domestic cleanliness, nor my aging limits, my unfairness to my father. I'll regret it, and maybe I am damning myself, but Richardson's evil is too much for me to carry without it becoming a criminal liability. I have no supports I can count on, and know better than to expect intervention. I'd in fact be astonished, but once I'm on the bus, I'm not turning around.
"You better mean it!" the widow Chaz to Charlie Rose
How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.
Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.
Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.
