Human Singularity

Other futurists have long argued that we are heading instead towards a global economic and ecological collapse.-- Eden, Steinhart, Pearce, Moor, Singularity Hypotheses, p2

Bill Bixby was no doubt resented by countless fathers during the run of this quiet and unassuming series. I certainly saw padre in the projection of the actor as the suave cosmopolitan patriarch who had to negotiate the cracked terrain of the me decade. I had no idea he succumbed to prostate cancer after doing the earlier switcheroo version with Ferrigno, and the only clever thing about the 03 Hulk was giving the body builder the cameo in the opening. The film wants to be liked, wants relevance, and in the ghost of Ebert's tumorous glands, bollo uncle Roger focuses on Elliot's graphic performance as a worthy conformity to the genre. Yes. Connelly and Elliot redo Beautiful Mind with more exaggerated gravity, but Hulk is not terribly interesting. Schwarzenegger trying to psyche Ferrigno out in their early competitive days is more so, in terms of the psychology of bullshit and bravado. Should I bother comparing 08 and 12?

Wait for pins to drop? The 12 variation looks more like Lou. To summarize: the 03 version is the weakest of the resurgent Marvel films. Enjoyed less with each viewing. The continuity rolls like a rushed three penny opera, and the best I can say about Nolte is he seems to be channeling Katherine Hepburn; it does not absorb into the character.

I have to stroll out in a bit. The female throws house cat tantrums when her dry food vanishes, so hopefully CVS is open and I will be able to get into my branch. This year I am not looking to gather with exuberant students of my defeated hopes. I can only speculate that some of you aren't that stupid and do not like the implications of my festering temper, but people like Fern Markowitz, within her secular indulgences, and narrow minded bitch slappers like Debra Horne, manufacture the kind of aggression driving against liberal eradication. Debra has threatened me, more than once, and I do not like shallow paint by numbers organizers with that kind of power. 28 years is enough, even if compassionate capitalism might turn out to leave me worse for wear.

What do we do with poignancy for fallen father figure archetypes? 

Risorgimento

I can only theorize who was tracking my address on probtheme, and have several of those, the minute conveniences we utilize, theories. LBGT activists can be a militant lot, but no, I do not waste my energies stalking strangers online merely to harass, and I am not hounding their chief operating officer either. Counterproductive, which does not mean, once I am finished going my legal circuit, that I will not engage their board of directors. I intend to exhaust all my options before deciding my next step, whatever that may be, in declining health, but whoever you were, obviously, you wasted your time. I learned my lessons about foaming the head on the beer glass, and actively trolling doesn't earn money, does it? Your SB event sounds like fun, DW, reasonably priced, but I think I am staying home, passing up any possible sexual overkill with a pot belly.

I spent over $470 on the James Joyce reading group, and unhappily realized I did not need another undergraduate audit, and I am not enjoying myself, lagging in my studies, in my reading. Do I drop it, and just go in for research on my stronger days? I like Lance, told him as much, and reluctantly tapped him as a resource for, yes ssis, academic support, but I feel like an alien at the table, whether or not my perception is accurate, and have not made friends, (though the question remains, whom I would like to adopt, and that would not be the instructor, since I see myself as an imposition on his youthful volubility) and regret not waiting for a really motivating study choice. I have not made any decisions, one way or the other. Five sessions to go, while the weather is warm today, but bad for me to engage. Winds, with storms coming. How do I get out of this city, keeping my humanity intact?

I cannot handle full time career pressures to the extent that you can, not anymore.

The Schema: It's not about me.

Mr. Deasy chases after him to deliver a final vulgar sally against the Jews. Ireland has a clean sheet in the matter of persecuting them because, wisely, 'she never let them in.' The New Bloomsday Book, p 10, kindle paperwhite.

The curse of naivete and sensory loss, a jingle of smirks, jibes, I had no idea Leopold was a Europeanized Semitic until Blamires cued me in, and I should have caught this earlier, even if I have difficulty hearing the summaries and questions of young Lance. My neighbor in the 14 above, David, is running his garbage disposal; the odor from his apartment during the renovations that started in 2007 freaked everyone out, everyone. I do not like him, but never complained, because I understood he was trying to do as much as he could for himself, and not attempting to victimize the octogenarian Nego league, but his apartment was so bad that Trudy's pressure may have borne fruit had he not complied, and he is a bad power chair driver, breaking his plumbing line and caving in my ceiling beneath his commode, a product and casualty of the inner city, he begs for change every so often, and this is another aspect of disability culture dirty laundry. In the interplay of progressive dialogue, a historian out of Harvard in the guise of Dr. Gordon-Reed has more to say to me than my neighbor above, solely a product of his environment, and a disruption therein. Do I have a right to judge David against the brutality of my own urban failure? Maybe not, but I should not have to have his lifestyle imposed upon my own standards of conduct.
 
For being drunk this morning, I did pretty well getting in, wailing to the guard I was a monster--"I am on the phone!" I managed, by three in the morning, to feed the children, undress, curse my father's voicemail, post here, rinse out my pants, and then, get into bed even with the shakes, soldier on with Ulysses because I was sick to my stomach, and then finally listened to kimmy's teeth, and got up, living on tea and mint, I may not be dead yet, but I know I am finished, and will never get to live in a spacious art studio, with a patron mindful of my demands and my autonomy both. The living death of Presby will ultimately be victorious, even if I fight like a wildcat, and sue Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging.

Did I really believe I was going to incite rebellion in a bar where I rolled in like the ghost of Bukowski? Still, thanks to Drinker's West. You are an accommodating establishment, and if I was a non competitive incongruity, the able and better made up women were nice, and I was happily multicultural and was cool. Why? Because I was able to make my own choices. Your establishment will be relieved to know I shall not become a regular fly on the tap, cannot afford it, but every now and then, since you have enough space, I'll make an occasional invasion. Rachel, little J-man believer sweetie, sorry if I stuck my foot in it, but I was in serious buzz land by the ball drop. I only saw one older man even remotely sexually exciting, and wonder if this is an evolutionary downgrade strategy, but I had a nice night, thank you.

The historian Annette Gordon Reed , who I mention above in terms of her comparative cast, her appearance on the newshour, is something I'd like to get to when my analytical penetration resumes online functioning. My title is a paraphrase of Gretchen's last rebuff. I was wrong not to accept my slaying by the Speakeasy community, as I have admitted, but by the same token, I cared about my 2002 regulars, and these loss of sustained connections do matter as we age, discarded.

Forever In Bluejeans

"Where do I find the cones?"


This was Frank, telephoning me Christmas day, since it is the time of year that he makes his Spanish coffee. You will consider it an improvement that I have stopped peppering his hideously deformed epidermis with invective, and that because I no longer care, whether you consider this a good, or bad thing. I wanted to love a variation of my father, burnished by a humanist polish, and wound up living my grandmother Pauline's life with Big Lou, the more favorable comparison going to the fruit picker and WW2 laundry driver, my grandfather, and so what, so say, I may be an alpha next to you spastic, but I have inane conversations with my husband, lover, or dildo. Every compensation we make is a mechanism for coping with the truth.

I dance on the grave of my failed marriage to this man, laugh starkly that even here I invested so much in trying to ignore the fact that our sexual intimacy was an exchange: his obedience for using my vagina breasts and anus for his gratification, which ties in to the distortion of aesthetics in the human body throughout the known history of our civilizations, their history of using form for the mythos of their own manifest destiny; my link is not the series I am recalling, however. [I remembered the series after log off and will pick up on it later.]

My agitation increases significantly with bowel impaction, and it would bode well for me to remember it the next time my monologues threaten to rival Jamie Foxx performing race related schizophrenia, except that I do not delude, only feel like a rat in a cage waiting for Debra Horne's checklist to finish me off, more Sancho than Beowulf to my draconian cleverness. Why don't I just put this woman out of my mind? Why does it frighten me so much that an idiot makes me feel less than human? I have dealt with her type all of my life, and I would like to stop matching wits with them. This wish shall never be granted to me-- unless.

That I am damned runs at this point, mmm, 93 percent to 7 for unless? As far as I can ascertain, I am not failing, but do exhibit some death stage symptoms, interestingly enough, and to take a clunker trope from The Collector, where the photographer connected to the journalist who has the autistic son who can discern the intent of the devil, how is hope still possible for someone like myself? My relations with my brother and sister are damaged, forever. Easy enough for them to exploit my sense of obligation as a barren elder, but quite another matter to offer me social equality, visit me despite where I live, I am facing the total abandonment prevalent among both the elderly and disabled populations. Must I forever be a victim to some mechanism of injustice?

Time to feed the pet children. Partially ready for Drinker's West, not going to Arch street in this deserted city morning, my dark blue slacks deodorized in the bathroom, a notation that I will be mocked for my sneakers and my cap, if I wear either. I like my cap, makes me look like a golfing troll. Wink. My father's brother is dying, by the way, and I feel guilty for my not so subtle realization that my senile uncle has been useless for a long time. Marie would kill me, literally, if she knew what I tell you. And just in case I do not have the time tomorrow, happy new year, a phrase so innocuous I should not write it. Medicare has spent thousands and thousands on my uncle's poor quality of life, and inversely destroyed my own by making it impossible to get technology I need to be healthy, happy, which equally suggests I may not be manic, only being driven to it.

Penndot sez

I am determined to survive long enough for the gift of a NYE party, Drinker's West never fear, but I know if I set my alarm Sunday and drive to Arch Street early and then drive home and rest until sevenish, that the website is fooling me and the branch will be locked, despite Photo Center claim; no biggy, can't drink like I used to and maybe the bar will accept my explanation, but spastic want a one night of fun before she resumes her internal John Grisham movie against the entire city, if necessary.

Why must I be Don Quixote in tits? Just get exploited long enough, and cross your fingers that I can finally do this update, and if not, that my Medicare card will work. Barring a traffic accident, blizzard, or sudden death, I'll be there.

Party Time

If any of you doing the local rounds would like to meet me before I go into cardiac arrest, I am in the process of targeting Drinker's West for NYE, and if you would give me a hand, should I get in to the bar, and send your cell phone pictures of me in my old age contortions to my email so I can upload a profile, hey.

I give YOU a free pass to humiliate me. You're young people, a virtual sub species.

That was easy enough. Wish I could have done this last year.