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.
"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.
"The lady was ugly!"-- Wilkie Collins
Ms. Ellen Muth is not so insulated in the problems of celebrity that she couldn't reach back out, which she did, liking my tweet in my praise of her character. One small pleasure in a crippled writer's twilight. I quite unwittingly sent an anti-lesbian poem-- one which was once much larger and ambitious in scope, to a Peter Pan pixie faggot in a no nothing literary journal I decided to briefly grace with my attention. Old august potentates do that. Allen Ginsberg, a more mercurial fruit in his time, appears with me in Big Scream, which was also nothing, lithographed pages in a binder. [I could have met the celebrated beatnik with Jerry, and very conscientiously passed on the opportunity.] What game am I playing?
In the mechanism of not paying attention, just keeping busy, and if I accidentally blow torch a progressive anus along the way, provocative victory is salivating, as I am starving and desperately in need of an inhale, I am taking a risk, partially charged, running to the bank early, hoping the entitlement is there. Ravenous seems to induce hyper sexual restoration. Don't ask, but in thinking of Nick Denton doing what I didn't, I am fairly confident Michael Washington would have slept with me. I was burning; he knew it, and if I had kept a lid on it and he had fraternized with me over a drink, I would have become a human stain. Padre would have killed me while I was even in the process of drilling the mixed race fetus out of my vaginal cavity. The fuck of the century would have ruined my life.
But while I am here, a 19th century literature reader defended Collins as a sympathetic advocate of the impaired. It was a defense to my liking, made me reconsider Collins stature against Dickens. I hear the censorious roar of protest in my ears, but I simply cannot stomach Dickens, prefer his less illustrious contemporaries, and understand why Henry James made valiant efforts to undermine the prodigious Victorian novelist of Great Expectations, (The only Dickens work I like, though my Signet edition is misplaced).
"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.
