Hail the Hinderland

"She was tied to a tree and shot in the head."-- a forensic entomologist whose expertise is fascinating in a repulsive, macabre gawk

If I simply iterate racial slurs with repetitive vehemence like a raptor species, say a bald eagle, lacking capacity to embrace veterinary rehabilitation of its injuries, then I am just a shade closer to the finality of derangement which takes all our strength, debating plagiarizing myself, but that is double the effort in my end game of extraordinary duress, as if the curation team under Ev Williams will allow the grim reverberations of despair. Galahad doesn't realize the depth of my rage, my sheer relief at visualizing weaponizing this punishing machine, the worst fucking chair I ever had, against that stupid old bitch bellowing like a calving whale. Trying in vain to preserve what hearing I still have, the force of her screams set off my tinnitus, and I can't keep fighting my now crystallized hatred forever. I don't glorify in it, that this uncouth old woman contributes nothing to the world, and if someone likes me uses machine power to break her fucking legs, she deserves it; she isn't worth it, but any progressive who dares to tell me minorities who engage in such aberrant behaviors on a daily basis is my equal hasn't the slightest idea of what they are talking about. Common courtesy? She did not stop to think that many people here are ill, and don't need such volume in building front vocalizations. Vivian, another long term dead resident, told me I spoke too loudly with a great deal of frequency. That was just in terms of outside portico conversation. I no longer doubt that primal fictions like The Purge

have already seeded a reality we're starting to face, and it's the price of progressive totalitarianism. I'd sell my soul to see governmental contractors, led by the nose by the avarice driven Presbyterians, annihilated, all because I made lust driven, obstinate choices. If I run, even the idea of running, it is just too late, and I live in the greatest republic on earth. And yet, it's true, I wept for Morrison, more courageously sordid than I ever could be. She certainly would have been deplatformed for her "black bitch" of her first novel, driven insane by an incestuous rape.

Incredibly Edible

Brazen, liberating, cathartic for the torturous glee that immolation foments, then polarizes toward a devastating regret, this image from Maj Toure, in its unbridled enthusiasm for ammunition stockpiles hurts Libertarian attempts to free those of African descent from the interlocking mesh of collective responsibility, a responsibly which nevertheless has mixed results in reigning the parasitic disease of inner city violence.

And now ALL of our @blkgunsmattr range classes have an ammo sponsor.
How are we gona support the folks that support our work?
BY SUPPORTING THEM.
Handgun? @FenixAmmunition
Rifle? @FenixAmmunition
Any kinda ammo? @FenixAmmunition
Follow em and show LOVE! #BlackGunsMatter pic.twitter.com/CW9CzOTSyB

— Maj Toure (@MAJTOURE) July 8, 2019

Toure's candidacy won't change the endemic manufacture of a permanent American underclass through title deed grants issued to realtors who contract with housing authorities to subsidize their building ownership to warehouse people who've become useless through affect, the onset of dementia, and disease.

Jeffrey Tucker asserts with nearly pristine admiration that property ownership was the great capitalist innovation, but this innovation is increasingly bundled into tranches which few of us, even if educated, can penetrate with any degree of contemporary literacy. Philadelphia Corporation For The Aging is not, in fact, incorporated like the Home Depot founded by Bernie Marcus. PCA actually evaluates the extermination value of a designated class, humans over 50 who aren't legitimized members of the establishment hierarchy. Do you think Paul Ryan, or VP Biden, are constantly getting assessed for needs determination, as I've been subjected to since my resignation from my grant funded advocacy? My eighty year old aunt, a third of her gut missing in her triage field battle against cancer, defies PCA's asset forfeiture processes through the tyranny of running a wrecking ball through her sons' lives, both of them over 50, to keep her younger brother free of medical incarceration, beyond being anchored by a penile catheter pissing his own blood, a hernia tube in his stomach. Does my uncle enjoy his constant emergency transports in and out of hospital? Is it any wonder virile niggers jack on projectile power?

Green Room Dialogues Toward Cultural Relevance

But there are questions about Foster, now, that any reasonable person-- much less any reasonable employer-- should want to have answered.-- The Ringer, in a voluble chorus against a franchise over-valuing marketing skills against trauma we never used to discuss.

Ross Douthat’s appearance on Rose was the first that I became aware of him as a vivacious, enthusiastic analyst with an optimistic outlook. The link I selected for my viewers to stream is arbitrary as opposed to the actual segment with its few sentences I recall, the show where Ross deconstructs Harvard as a pulsating progressive mass with a model libertarian overlay. It was not so much what Ross said during the interview, as much as his engagement with his answer. It caught my attention, and that was it. It was not enough for me to rush to Amazon to purchase his book, or resubscribe to The New York Times. I am more interested in The Wall Street Journal at present, but that his tweet about Michel Houelleberg's byline, his underwhelming column about the ruling elite of yesteryear, his brazen assertion on Twitter about membership within that elite not being all that privileged as it’s cracked up to be, led me to do some background research on his biography. Ross Douthat and Niall Ferguson, in combination, with a little Sullivan in the mix, as you gasp that my virulence against homosexual identity momentarily makes allowances for this argument, represents a reasonable approximation of a writer’s life I thought I could sustain. All of them have scheduled appearances on television, and this is something I’ve no idea how to do, nor have the work product to make the effort feasible. Is this an agent’s responsibility? A publicist’s? Arcane details within the supposition that knowledge acquisition on camera doesn’t lend itself easily to mnemonic retention. I have been on television, purely for gawker purposes, but never as an analyst with access, to serve as a conduit, or to engage as an equal. Krauthammer, although he is no longer around to ask, presumably needed assistance in his daily living activities and was still able to manage. I no longer know now if the biggest joke is that which I have played on myself. Still, one receives the sense that Houelleberg is disingenuous in his appreciation of our Trump transformation. The president has thoroughly exhausted me and everyone else, and under Douthat’s playful assertion that we’re living a libertarian West Wing in realtime these days, I rather interjected that it is unfair that I can barely keep myself afloat within the labyrinth of a punitive public housing system while he almost had his career handed to him on a silver platter. This is not the “fusion” I envisioned in being able to go toe to toe with someone like Kathleen Parker. This is why I created this account in the first place, to reach across the divide, whether to a conventional moderate such as Parker, or Ross as her slightly more contrarian alter ego. The opposition to his Wasp nostalgia on social media was misguided, although that opposition to his prominence is the only battlefield Ross engages for his salary, but that doesn’t mean he defined his parameters all too clearly: JFK certainly emulated what being part and parcel of American royalty entails. His Catholicism was virtually an afterthought, and Truman, as the heir to Roosevelt’s deified mantle, didn’t ascend upwards in national politics with a silver spoon in his mouth, and the historical lens through which we view LBJ isn’t necessarily urbane, polished. Johnson was a local color Texan who played the ends against the means, cementing the Medicare disaster we live with today.

Dead to The World

but boys aren't into spina bifida -- a truism from a child recur to a pretty boy ensemble

It is a rare event I wake with him standing over me at the foot of the bed, but I was that oblivious Friday morning, neither hearing the phone nor his entry as he moved to my left, tapping me tentatively, warning me about the necessity of tactile contact, something he believes in rather too literally. While speaking with the case manager about supplies, he forgot himself and caressed my stomach, bare of my aunt’s 1960’s rayon blue evening blouse, in an erotic and rather intimate gesture which leaves little to the imagination, and caught himself while looking at the victorious smile on my face. I won. This is our most vulnerable congruence with each other, that phrase about fucking me to death not beyond the realm of possibility. Any other woman would have seized this opportunity, particularly in light of the battle we waged with each other toward the beginning of May about the physical boundaries already transgressed, but the work week had been wearying, holding well over a cup of urine in my bladder which would have gushed in a not easily removed transference, so I kept the irony to myself, merely chortling you are going to meet mio padre sooner than anticipated. And a part of inner conscious cynicism  says okay so what? You’ve proven black men do have different standards, according to the norms of social intelligence on such issues, your cousin was right. He cares about you. Possibly you don’t care any more after ten weeks of ying yang.But I do care, to the extent humanly possible beyond my scar tissue, and in such moments as these, his masculinity is desirable, the major stumbling block being that we’re caught in a Christian allegory of unintended lust restrained by the virtue of economics. He may be mine, as long as the welfare noose remains inviolate. Is there anything beneath the surface of this state funded contract, should it be removed? Does everything have to be recast as a rhetorical construct? (Yes)

There is, as well, the simple aspect of a woman’s wistfulness to have to learn what its like to be desirable as a woman first to an ambulatory male, her last cognitive worthwhile years on the wane. My marital affairs don’t count here, as these were simply the dowager’s circumventing life-long rejections, the same rejections the daughter of the black alpha surgeon in Code Black understands, playing a character afflicted with spina bifida. I never had these peer experiences on serial television when I was coming of age. Ironside, just as my martial affairs, doesn’t count. Burr deployed a gimmick to extend his viability as Perry Mason.

From Here to The Eternal Plague

Alessandro Manzoni’s seminal work is on my mind because of Renzo’s forced migratory path in Milan. My history with The Betrothed is somewhat quixotic: I started reading the text at a free access site, perhaps Harvard classics, or John Hopkins. I then paid ten dollars and change for a kindle academic edition, started the novel once again, and left Manzoni’s besieged youth at the inn, slightly imbibed. I also purchased an academic study of Manzoni which I had also just started, it was expensive, and I engaged briefly with the Italian literature instructor about it, and it is hopefully undamaged in one of my boxes, but maybe this gives my audience another perspective on my vehemence about public housing. It refuses to cease disrupting my ambition, and it I really do go down in a criminal flare of rage, don’t be surprised. I have barely been able to live a semblance of my former life since October, one that was already too constricted, and the VNA keeps saying they will “bring me back.” They have made this assertion since November while I am struggling in Mike’s power chair with no desk arms on a two inch cushion which leaves me dangling. I am no stranger to temporary loan chairs, but this thing, for me, is a health hazard. I keep trying to divorce VNA, and the Jewish crones want to continue on with this love fest of ineptitude. They will not continue on for long, because I have to bring myself back, and I am starting to rebel. As soon as the Muslim is exchanged for another brow beaten fatalist of the underclass, I’ll push back more, though I considered dousing my scalp tonight, and shelved it, despite my knowledge that I’d feel better if I did, Saran’s ever constant accented protests ringing in my ear.

I have little idea why she was allowed to emigrate to the US, under the Clinton Administration. She is 53, certainly not moving on up, in the lingo of Norman Lear’s aspiration when The Jeffersons had cultural relevance. She misses Africa, her religious absolutions interfere with things I need to do, and though I have been through worse, her prayer activity is unprofessional. No one confronts her, not the health care Jewish league I’m arm wrestling, not the intake coordinators, nor I. If I get too confrontational before my switch, she could drop me, and yes, she stays where others would have quit, until I solve the toiletry issue, or I don’t, well aware I could die from this. I may not be comfortable with her, but I feel horrible about what she does for me. It is too much, for me, her, anyone, but like Renzo, miraculously untouched by buboes as he walks the length of Italy under Austrian rule, a journey of displacement, nevertheless one I envy so much. I am not entirely untraveled, but remain impressed that Jason Dorwart has transversed the heartland, while I remain in stasis, weakening in the city of my birth. I had a small exchange with Jason about his material needs, and do not know how to accommodate him at this time.

In my archives, I have written before I am diffident about performance and empowerment in disability culture, but I also do not have much access to it, so this is problematic, especially as not all of us have Dinkage’s cross over appeal, so recently off the lone hip Superbowl commercial. Doing an analysis from a YouTube viewing, even if it was pertinent to his theatrical periodical, might not be entirely fair to the troupe, but yes, I am glad he found me, peer to peer. One can’t always get away from identity politics, or autocratic injustice. Manzoni ranks highly with me, however, nearly Stendhal’s equal at psychological penetration. Will I live long enough to read him in dialect? I’d like to.

Kaepernick’s Kneepad Cushions Humility

He felt a sharp stab to make someone pay.-- Henry James

I only rarely pay attention to sports on this account, although gaming offers its own aesthetic criteria. I aggregated an opinion piece on Oscar Pistorius for Examiner before Clarity Media folded its far too obvious tinsel imitation of a Huffington Post style a la carte. AXS Media, into which I was briefly merged, doesn’t seem that much better off, and I am wobbling the seesaw: Is it time? Should I give up? Or simply go find my Mucinex? My lapse of attention to the season had little to do with the art deco of “take a knee,” and much more to do with near total loss of control—perhaps not as graphic as what Pistorius is living (wondering what he’d make of my racism on the fable of apartheid’s coffin). I understand why those who truly love football stand in awe of Belichick and Brady. In my youth, Dallas had a similar dynasty, but I am too careworn for the animus of rivalry other than to say Brady’s precision, relentless as it is, begins to glaze my occasional enthusiasm for a game. I cannot fake joy over the Eagles either, because I’m suffering, that dreaded, dreaded word, despite the concerted activity about my person, and my façade of endearment to the new attendants (I do actually like the weekend girl), my physical pain and lunging mental desperation coincides with dismay. XLVI was suspenseful, historic, but more and more of American football is much like what went down during the NFC Championship. Despite what it took to survive the playoffs, despite 11 – 1 records, one team wilts. Fox could have saved Philadelphia its mini-holiday and aired The Resident at halftime. The contest between my home franchise (is it really locally seeded anymore?) and the Vikings was finished at 14 to 7. The rest was icing for old east coast urbanism. I would like to have killed the architect who created row homes. While my father waltzed off with his dead son to Phoenix, in the classic flight from jurisdiction, I defecated in a bucket commode with his sister, in that modest little house keeping her alive, waiting for that soon to be violent section 811, Diamond Park, to be ready, and now I am 56, my spiral hoovering over the garbage disposal, 15 minutes away from the intersection at Broad Street which would bring me right back to ground zero.

Mary, my mother’s sister, is a PhD. She teaches too, like my former mentors. Career wise I probably wasn’t cut out to be an instructor. I do like certain aspects of journalism and breaking stories, but that was hard enough stable to be competitive. This life long battle with the sheer brutality of medical model rehabilitation, it is like the relentless persistence needed to play Tam O’Shanter, a difficult and simple card solitaire. I beat it once, I believe in Ridley Park. My favorites, which buying Warfield’s Pretty Good Solitaire restored, are some of the hardest.

St. Helena

Streets and Alleys (which sometimes ends faster than the layout takes to deal).

Auld Lang Syne

I found Thomas because I missed going up against terribly long odds, poor spastic and her aspirations. I did not want to live under the Philadelphia Housing Authority all of my life, to essentially be killed by it. I truly thought, like Vassar Miller, a generation before me, that I could do something more. One of my staunchest advocates for holding on is a woman named Nancy Loss, but again, she only sees me as a compliance paradigm. Stay at Riverside, or go to a home, where Mary and her children think I belong. For me, it isn’t either or. I don’t want to live like this. The character Dreyfuss played in a television movie sued for the right to die because quadriplegia was intolerable. He won.

Speed of light

See how fast I am moving? I put Septa in my phone, despite the fact it would be easier to take wheelchair taxi. Victims learn the hard way about the difference between rule of law and justice, and I know I am never going to get a lawyer to care about the fact that Terri Way, once my contemporary equal, talked me out of a lawsuit against Presby, but I am unreasonable, menacing, in exact proportion to cause I have against this religious based socialist plague on the body politic. The rise of the feminine collective easily enough besmirches male stature, whether it's Cosby or Harvey Weinstein, but the spokes barely turn for me, a nine year old girl vaginally penetrated by two African Americans in a home for children, medically brutalized thereafter, pursued sexually by her mother's addicts, an aggravated assault victim under the management of Presby, and Presby's answer is to threaten me with regimentation, and disability activism, whatever its former shielding, has swept me aside, because abuses continued with paraprofessionals, and I no longer want to play, no, under rule of law, Trudy Richardson can terrorize, browbeat, accentuate my anxiety at whim. Marie, my long time dying aunt, says I have to do it myself. Find a new habitat, persuade the oversaturated legal market to help me on my own, although I know all about impatient law firm brutality in the name of billing hours, though Silver & Silver was polite, and that, I appreciate. You're not living here at Riverside.
I am not going to go back and forth with you. 
Lahnisha call the police.
We're done.

This is ten years of a nigger nanny battering ram. Ten years, except it's never done, because the Commonwealth, you, everyone, wants Medicare care money by methodically torturing me into my grave. Cousin Richard may be annoyed with me for saying this, but neither he nor Billy would subject their mother, Marie, to what I've had to endure, simply to survive, and no one will, or can, lift a finger. Toomey wouldn't dare reexamine section 202 abuses, and liberals, hell, this is fascist heaven. Wonderful humanity.

Angry Savant

I recovered one of my newer non fiction revisions from Submittable, and if I'm able to do that, I must be doing something obviously dense with the files Tom took off my hard drive. Now, particularly, I do not have the funds to spare to show up my illiteracy with code. Maybe if I struggle with conversion online this will solve the problem. Yes, I am terrified. Technically, as a legal matter, I can be homeless, but not functionally, and last week, I nearly had a stroke, close to following Petty, whose hoarse baritone recalls itself, but the writer in me has risen back up, because what and how Debra Horne is threatening me with is ridiculous. I want to be clear, a landlord has the right to kick me out for bad hygiene. But they do not. They want to put me away for saying no, for being angry, crucified by the liberal left. I have to die like anyone, except Peter Thiel, he man faggot, but I will decide what those terms are, not HHS or some half witted crisis manager from the corporate office in Montgomery County. We have to stop doing this. Please. Heed me.

Mating Calls

I used to call this Hewlett Packard the old queen, and remain amazed it still works, and that I am not quite insane, but suppose we're getting there, aren't we? All my time, productivity, but I guess it does not matter. I could have worked some, on my Smith Corona. The disk drive for it failed a long time ago, but it still works in both draft mode, with small DOS screen, and as a typewriter, but I didn't move a muscle, barely read, and have to reinstall office, and then see what this latest fuckwit managed to save from the Toshiba, but I cannot win, can I? Just this much ahead on my debt, and I had to waste what little credit I have on a pc tech who has his own ass in arrears. It doesn't take much for many of us to become nothing once again, that quickly, not being savvy enough, like all off you, to just download office for free. 

I am being abused by a relatively new tenant named Dominic. I think he is Italian. He is stupid and belligerent, and I am going to have to file a harassment complaint, which will get me a transfer, but I do not know how much worse despair can get: I am near the end of what little functional independence I have, and the story of my adult life, from the age of 23 forward, is abuse in buildings managed by this senior living corporation. I feel perfectly justified in engaging in terroristic violence against Presbyterian Homes. Can I? No. Would I? Yes, so by all means, report me if you wish, but their contract with HUD needs to be severed.

33 years of my life, and no, I can not fault traditional academic instructors, even though Jerry was right. I should have never transferred to the city. But I had no idea Philadelphia was going to pulverize me to the extent it has. Dominic's issue? Who knows. He is sick, uncouth, thinks he is more street wise than he is, and singled me out, I can only surmise, because the word on me is that I am a skeevy loudmouth. He looks like my Uncle Thomas's more brutish younger brother, bald with a black grey  ring of hair just above the ear. I do not care that he doesn't like me. It is the public aggression he displays. Taking it from niggers is one thing, but a Broad Street bully is another, and the company is going to get waves because he is interfering in my ability to do normal things in public. Talk on the phone, or with the technician. It is impossible for him to ignore me, I mean impossible, and if I drag the police into it, what can they do? A restraining order isn't going to get a mentally ill cancer patient to cease and desist. 33 years, and I still believe I can be competitive in the marketplace.

I am literally ready to roll out the damn door and find a place to die, and surely, I have the strength I have to carry like Swarzenegger, to pull myself up despite a neutron star barbel on my sternum. I am not far away from threatening this bastard's life. It is a little more than that. Online access vulnerability is nearly as crippling as my brain damage. Since I sustain few true friendships, let alone able to consider myself salable to Viagra men, I have no idea what keeps me alive. Curiously, however, my commode transfers are more confident, as if I'm actually returning to work.

Mouse Cadaver Double Bound

The human body is very dirty. -- Arthur Hill

I allowed myself to get wrapped up in the plot of Salvation without applying any critical rigor to the performances, and now that well know speculative futurist actors are involved in the coming denouement, the intensity of the dystopian aspect wanes: at first, I thought the screen writers guild were going to spin an ironic manipulation of the deep state conspiracies made so prevalent in the digital age-- and to clear something up, taking the JFK, RFK, and MLK assassinations in sequence, it is difficult not to see these killings as a low grade coup. It is the reasoning behind it which is elusive, but fortunately, I do not have the energy to delve into bootlegger class graft and a America's preeminent, partially fraudulent, minority saint. Salvation comes off as a pre-processed microwaveable dinner. Finnigan, at least initially, was taxed with the most complex delivery, but this has since radiated outward among the ensemble. Do I appreciate Cabrera, Rowe and Dale?

I haven't penetrated that deeply, while the pacing ensures mainly irrelevant plaudits, like a gay Secretary of State on the run. I missed the Russian Federation on "alert" episode, but caught enough in play back to piece together the subsequent stand down. What interests me is the antecedents, the analogue era posited doom of The Satan Bug, where Dana Andrews, the wooden war era bean counter, was perfectly cast, and The Andromeda Strain, which is one of my favorite science fiction films of all time, precisely due to its rigorous realism. The Andromeda Strain doesn't condescend to its audience, uses real science, and if it didn't predict AIDS paranoia in the black community, it certainly anticipated the fact that MRSA will one day make the achievements of western medicine insignificant, because it will wipe us out, centralized hospital model or the strategic mobility of doctors without borders notwithstanding. Uber-wealth will of course hang on, as it always does, but we are too many not to hit an alarming new mortality rate. I am not faulting any system or ideology, just acknowledging reality. Collectivism and self interest, in our species, never quite balances without calamity.

The only tranquil moments I had under Presby's management-- which, for those of you who do not know, has been my life long rental agent, was when I was still matriculated as a student. In those days, I did not believe that I was going to undergo a lifetime of conflict, persecution, but now, having gone through mortal combat, biology is picking up where the paradigm left off, and I am beginning to feel grim. Poetry, non-fiction, and half-glazed deadlines aren't enough for me, and I know the institutional hell I will face, unlike you. Work, stop complaining. I know, but I cannot be amicable burning my cell phone battery begging for legal representation feeling like this, my bad hip like embossed root canal. I printed up the forms I need to file with the Human Relations Commission, but I am not so sanguine, whether Earle's title with them is now more honorary than active. Kimmy hunted around the trash bag, looking for her prize. It is not pleasant, using broken reachers to carefully dispose of these little templates. Remarkable, from mice came the very carnivores who dispense of them like gumballs. Crichton's death did have a quality of suddenness. Unfortunate, because his rebuttals had the force to make progressives back down.

Coffee and Continence: Two

I often have to pause my life for a minute — whether that’s driving down the sidewalk, using my laptop, or eating a meal--my alma mater.

Whenever a writer prefers to sit around and pontificate, instead of working, it signifies sirens of calamity in the background, which actually aren't that dire: I wrote a response to George Will's rather ingenious attack on Trump's willful ignorance, forced myself to find a conclusion, hit the ground with six hundred words, and no one is happy. I have to retool it for other markets I've looked at, fairly certain of ones that would spit in my face, aware of the timelessness issue, and would like to turn the crusty baseball enthusiast upside his head and shake his premium express credit cards out of his pockets, also aware, that if I take these insider dirty laundry issues too far, I possibly wind up black balled. To a certain extent, I am already there, of course. Josie Byzek may not have closed her twitter account because of how often she is cited in Disability in Entertainment Arts, but it is safe to say, I'll never go home again. All I want to know is why I was frozen out of New Mobility. My feature, with intimations of Damore's fate, was controversial, but Tim Gilmer still included me on his contributors. The fat lady hadn't sung, as yet. By the same token, the periodical is very limited, insular in scope, and of little help to me. The only thing I can force upon the United Spinal Association is trouble, but I have larger behemoths in the scope, hence, I have to live with the rancor, or push a point with no real justifiable outcome, but what I want Josie to see is her rationalizations about ambulatory male ignorance in no way protected me, despite regulatory schematics, from paraprofessional abuse, from section 202's regimented discrimination. Does she like it, being a lesbian, that in the dark net of attendant care, so many helpless to defend themselves become enslaved to predatory control? I cannot shield myself from its likely recurrence forever. This, supposedly, was the point of Precious's author, this nothing we can do attitude, despite all our industrious legal generation.

Bambauer cleared up a contextual issue for me, in part, and this is how it works, but not really. Google Blogger should suspend me. Twitter too, and authority should force me into compliance, and I suffer say another eight years, until terminal issue discloses itself, or I can take up my little plan and try beating the odds, or go on, wrangle the system for the joy juice that will not force a lethal reaction. Difficult to do with cerebral palsy.


Drexel University is not that well known to me, but well known enough to be intuited that it's little league academics, a bit spartan, perhaps afflicted with uncertainty, and in the larger societal context, George may have survived employee termination, where Lisa did not, because he was white, angry leftist. In contrast, viewers saw Tucker at war with a paranoid minority in Durden, and echoes of the Black Panthers may have resonated. In real time, these issues are about group dynamics, and less about theory, like claims liberty. This is a contextual issue, our faith in an institutional judiciary. It punished Brandon Phillips, my assaulter, but this did nothing for me. It also pushed back against an unscrupulous landlord, one which thrives on a socialist subsidized federalism, dear libertarian friends, but I live in terror, nonetheless, after years of conflict. Yes, I have a choice: go homeless, bully the same old intake system into emergency relocation, but a real genuine legal fight is probably going to take 24 months. For what? Do I presume more affluence? Support him or not, (I am in the middle, hoping he will hurt progressives who failed me), Trump is a symptom; he is not a proximate cause. Some of my longest online associates have made me diffident because of well worn beatnik cosmetic protests that really cannot unravel poverty entrapment.

Yul Brynner Rides The Hearse

We know it hurts.-- Subprimal's editors

No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation?

If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.

Teat of the Roman Legion

Saudi Arabia and three other nations broke diplomatic relations with Gulf Arab state Qatar on Monday, pointing to Doha's ties to terrorism and the need to maintain national security.-- not enough

I am working on a fantasy short story instead of my non-paying jobber, but this is fine. I am beating the jobber in the back of my head while my colon writhes-- which reminds me. I started a bit of a fracas on a Washington Times story slanted against right to die laws, and a progressive took my right to die stance as a liberal position. I may quote the progressive and tell them to go fuck themselves at a future time; another respondent replied "False! If you really wanted to die (yada...) and I may also quote that and tell them to go fuck themselves. My point had nothing to do with suicides per see. My point was no one ever asks is quadriplegia tolerable to the quadriplegic, and we too, just as terminally ill patients in Portland, should have the right to go to sleep and not wake up. I part company, as an atheistic Catholic defender, with the Church on the matter, as most American Catholics disagree with the Church on something. I am closing in on my 56 year, destitute, living on 624 a month and family graft, ready to go to prison for assaulting, harming, after explosively denigrating my building manager who has humiliated me for the ten years she has been on the job, and in order to avoid a jacket for attempting to split the skull of southern descendants of subsistence farmers, I am letting go where I live; no small dilemma. If a once male friend with spina bifida once told me "there are hundreds of Linda's," such as my former manager, there are thousands of Trudy's who'd gladly continue to trample the soul of a superior ability. It is the way of humanity. I am barely able to scarf for penny posts, shouldn't have to; I also cannot beat my biological clock, even if I cannot afford to retire, and the longer I linger and weaken, the greater the chance of more abuse, and I'm chewing grass over a fantasy genre which may go up as a kindle single, merely as an experiment with my first attempt at digital vanity: yes Twitter hawks, you've advised me wonderfully, thank you. I do not like fantasy mainly, yet this took off, and I have alternate endings for it, know what I want to happen, and queried merely one non-responding editor, which was fine. It wasn't ready and may take me another month: I am not an expert on our Bush family Iraq wars, and think the 43rd president had his head stuck up his ass. Our real enemy is Saudi Arabia. It is responsible for Al Qaida, not the Ba'ath of Hussein, and Nato simply doesn't have the balls to propose to Putin and Xi that the House of Saud be deposed, and the charming desert kingdom of Lawrence be partitioned between the three global powers. I have the balls. It is time to hold Mecca hostage, and I will continue to beat this drum, taking a page from Flynn's sensibility to reorient the battleship. The only way to stop Islamic radicalism is to sever its head, and once Arabia is under occupation, threaten Iran. Persia would fold like piss.

alt.right sweeps

I interpreted Dylan Allman's follow as a gesture of allegiance rather than a numbers pick up, and debated staying with him in about as brief a span. I am stressed, stricken with allergies, and may soon be barred entry from my building in far swifter retaliation than any legal eviction process, and this quadriplegic needs a dose of nobelesse oblige as much as those with an agenda want her to add to their base. 

The poet Robert Thomas, to paraphrase, messaged that he hoped I wasn't a racist. He's obviously not reading my twitter links; I am intending to launch a war with my rental agent, win or lose. I need another environment to live in, now, my poverty notwithstanding. (Large or small, I also like to keep my follow to followers ratio in proportion.)

Carnivorous Torsion

Sleep with the fishes

With the possible exception of the homosexual class, what I despise the most in our human endeavor is stupidity and convention shielded by collectivism. It is a great deal to say I've bottled so much of my malevolent contempt, in relation to this, with a cork because of brotherly kinship for the absent libertarian Tony Stiles, but there is a grain of truth in it, because I must have been a Roman henchman in another life for a prominent family, and if I really let my hair down, I mean really, I'd blow more than one server on Blogger and really pose a problem for my local precinct. 

Lest you think my hatred is merely aimed at the disposal of disadvantaged human wasted space, for which American 202 public housing was designed, let's take Michael Pera. He is either Italian or Polish, as in "stupid Pollack," an affable custodian, but also one of the dumbest morons I have ever encountered. When I bellowed out loud and clear you can go fuck yourself to Trudy on Friday, pulling my phone out of pocket, Mike looked like a frightened bug eyed beagle. It is 6 against 1 here at Riverside, no more than a gang of 4 or 5 at any one time, and they are scared to death of a cripple with 1/3 normal mobility; I was perfectly civil to the patrol officer they summoned to my unit, and have no idea what the young man told them, as this is sort of aggrandized domestic violence, but they all the sudden folded. Michael Pera makes my dead ex seem clever, and he makes Trudy Richardson's managerial conniving seem nearly prosaic.

What am I not hearing in Trudy's and my sister's and my family's argument? That going through another 25 to 50 paraprofessionals would assist my grooming and cleanliness and ease my housekeeping stress and at least get me food when this Jazzy goes down for good? I have already been through nine years of this; the afternoon in 07 I accidentally flipped, I had an aide scheduled who never showed, and Trudy launched her first attack, assigning blame, to me, because the system has such huge craters that I had to wait nearly a year for a fucking power chair because I earned an unexpected insurance payout, and the fucking assessment team asked me if I was suicidal, in public, after being molested by an Unlimited Staffer. It is all of you who are deaf, and whatever my belligerence, these fraternal government partnerships breed ineptitude. I am going to see to it that at least one minority's career in gerontology impoverishment comes to an end. Watch me roar.

Perverse Relief at Stella's Pounding

The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get 22.-- shamelessly culled from the now entrenched

Beneath the surface of its spoof, Trial and Error takes aim at the new exceptionalism: the excuse of the chronic condition for ineptitude, particularly, but carefully embodied in Sherri Shepherd's "blackish" magnification of matriarchal racial dysfunction, though ethnicity is also carefully obfuscated, redirected into our stereotypes of white trash southern ruralism, which D'Agosto has to navigate as the green shoot urbanite. Were the two episodes NBC aired funny? No. Lithgow cannot carry this comedy as the American Don Quixote, but the dowager will credit the writers this much: they remind us that shit happens, and veracity is not always balanced by Manichaean duality as exemplified by Daschiell Hammett's great noir sagas.

What did Goodreads ever do to me? Nothing, but I detest crowd funding banality! Even while, in my intrepid fashion, I'm hoping to get onto 23rd street tomorrow evening. After a storm, functional powerchair users combat automobiles by taking the street. The Quantum has stopped shorting, probably due to sacrifices made with personal hygiene, minimizing water vapor exposure. 

My certification looms. Stella has knocked my schedule and I am at war. I want to roll away before I commit a crime against ignorant persons I despise. I could also turn it into a referendum, dragging City Council and Toomey into it, Christ knows whom else. I have a few favored Pakistani store clerks, but I've told you already, I have a thing for the Asian male of the species.

How Trudy Richardson Made Me A Racist

I got it done, and this is why I'll go to prison if necessary:

1. Do you deny or affirm that Diamond Park was under Presby's corporate management from 1986 through August 1994 when I was a tenant there?

2. Do you deny or affirm that Ellen Hovey was the supervisory agent for both the Diamond Park and Riverside buildings until her retirement prior to 2005?

3. Do you deny or affirm that Mrs. Phillips was a tenant at Diamond Park during my eight year residence?

4. Do you deny or affirm that on my second to last day at work for Liberty Resources in February 1993, Brandon Phillips had full access to Diamond Park, with no security, and targeted me for a home invasion, where upon, he was arrested, serving two years for aggravated assault, attempting to strangle me to death?

5. Do you deny or affirm that Terri Way was manager of Diamond Park at the time of my assault, and that she prevaricated with my trauma to dissuade me from litigating Presby for gross negligence? That she deceived me into moving into Riverside's hostile environment as a section 202 unit?

6. Do you deny or affirm that through 2005, I was under constant duress from Riverside's senior community?

7. Do you deny or affirm that I sought, and received the intervention of a disability attorney for blatant abuse of authority in forcing me to pay for dining services I did not want in the first place and being banned from the community room?

8. Do you deny or affirm that after being molested by a paraprofessional, you deliberately intimidated me with a minority assessment team? This after nine months of waiting for a new power chair, that you made the following observations: 1. that "it was taking a long time" for my power chair to be delivered? 2. That you "violated my privacy"?

9. Do you deny or affirm that Debra Horne offered me housekeeping assistance during that violation of privacy? That this in kind support never materialized?

10. Do you deny or affirm that one of the assessment team males told me to call Liberty Resources without the realization that I have contractual breach of contract and ethical issues with the CIL, which you yourself witnessed in Brian Coleman's behavior? 

11. Do you deny or affirm that Erik Von Schmetterling and partner Jimmi Shrode were investigated for said issues in 10 above, before Schmetterling's health broke, and these two serve as a constant reminder of my lack of economic security, and that this is therefore not an optimal environment for me emotionally?

12. Do you deny or affirm that aside from the molestation, three paraprofessionals attempted 
a) to steal my article commission paychecks, swindled me out of three hundred dollars, and tried to steal my assets after my mother's death in 2005, and that I told my bankruptcy attorney, who said the paraprofessional from Germantown was engaging in illegal behavior opening my mail to look for a will?

13. Do you deny or affirm that this is the system you are trying to force me to return to through attacking me with Health and Human Services agents in 2014, and that once again, your then supervisory agent Ken Cantrell engaged in sexually intimidating behavior with these agents, preventing me from dressing?


14. At what point in our conversation about Erik's attendant harassing me did you receive permission to threaten me through my terminally ill emergency contact? This is the only open ended question I will ask, and in view of the fact that you are an ignorant hate crime who feels section 202 is a police state, I hereby refuse to recognize your authority until I receive punitive damages for the significant liabilities I have on your employer, yourself, and Debra Horne.

Longing By Proxy

"he is such a tool!"-- dated slang, isn't it?

To the extent the three commercial networks are still relevant, ABC caters to our high school sensibilities, through shows as divergent as Ugly Betty, American Crime, and How To Get Away With Murder. I can respect Viola Davis even if African American pathology has scored on me once too often. She wears world weariness just like a stocky David Morse with breasts, moral guilt transcribed on their countenances. I only saw the season finale of _Murder_, and to the extent these legal dramas have changed, embodied in The Good Wife, they feed our cynicism, confirming sleaze tactics of the powerful. Davis may be a good actress, and I may even agree with Ebert that she elevated Doubt, as a movie, which was supposed to have more moral ambiguity embedded in it, something theater may do better than celluloid, but I haven't missed anything through lack of interest in her serial. The diarrhea scene in the Norwegian Half Brother was worth a million minutes of US air time, though the kinetic motion of this European serial didn't seize me either. CBS either deliberately or through inability, cannot evade a made for television look, and NBC clings to Dick Wolf.

Taken was a nice pilot, suitable for the Trump era, however brief, or otherwise entrenched the Trump administration may be, but the sneak peak makes it little more than a tactical Criminal Minds, with its work wife hills and dales between the ensemble. Fuck the profile. It is the sniper training that counts, and became instantly anti-climatic thereby.

I am very depressed. If I could, I'd roll away from Riverside Presbyterian tomorrow, with chump change in my checking account, a fecal stained foam cushion under my dry buttock with its rectal hidden pressure sore. I do not believe human compassion, human pity, will help me, but the lance of fury beneath my ribs cannot withstand it much longer. Exactly how do I think I'm going to avoid medical incarceration? Magic? Someone on social media will loan me a garage? I have not acted, yet, with my jabs at HUD (fuck them) and the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission. Tom Earle, their chair, met with me in 01 and did nothing, absolutely nothing, to investigate the trauma Liberty Resources practiced on my ensuing calamity, which their case management team plied with compounded interest through 06. I keep telling myself to wait, put the dossier together, find some legal help. I am not going to make it. What I've had to carry has a time limit; too much to endure.

Humanist Bound

I figure, if I am getting blocked without being able to pinpoint either the user or the rationale, it must be because I put too much heart in saying "look, here is the end of the road!" I have little to no idea how Carson will change section 202 policies by the beginning of April, but by any reasonable standard, I am non-complaint, and my interior is not orderly, nor clean. Eight year old carpet needs section replacement, etcetera, yet shame is the least of my concerns, as I sat here attempting a minor note of eloquence to Sheldon Novick, his a learned mind of wonderfully constructed explanations of our best achievements. Henry James as a collector of social culture. Legal theory that turned constitutional law into the progressive victory whose zenith culminated, and started its process of erosion, under Lyndon Johnson, and I, in my worst moments, the stoking troll with charcoal eyes whose rage, when she is really tired, really tired, is beyond reason in its destructive cruelty. His social media metrics are sterile, Sheldon's, though I alternate with my distance of address from him, one one formal, "Dr Novick," which feels pretentious. He is neither colleague nor instructor, we are not socially familiar, and my numbers, not huge by any margin, yet more dynamic than his, My private message failed because the Toshiba cursor bounces and I lost the window. Sheldon would not care and I'll try another day. He's been extremely generous with me, and I feel traces of guilt. How can I froth with genocidal pathology and appreciate his scholarly arguments in the same brain mind dualism? There are ways to defend libertarian freedom and deplore Donald Trump simultaneously. I'm getting there but I'm not superhuman, and if I give this building manager her victory, go out into a cruel world into an environment where many people my age are strapped, I at the very least, need a destination. At the same time, I am too overwrought. But I am not doing what I plan to because of libertarian theory. Last time I checked, we all live once, and I need to get the fuck out of here, and the wreckage of my past in the gait of Jimmi Shrode's indignation, his partner's virtually zombie dead body with catheter tubes. Erik is a literal figure out of Shakespeare's supernatural.

Rare Winter Trots

"Is it that bad?" Stephen Dixon

It would have been nice to crawl on the belly of Mr. Morales, taking a rare proactive step of inserting him in my shaggy wolverine public hair, breathing freely. He made a marked impression on me, with his romantic force of mind. Is he dead? Retired? If my sole literary colleague on the face of the earth is still among us, it may be reasonable to assume a pompous trade journalist with avuncular smile, dimpled cheeks, black rimmed glasses, might still linger, if not in DC, then somewhere. I evidently cannot find a fucking soul on Facebook, not in terms of people I actually once knew, which means my paranoia on utilizing FB is overblown. I have no damn idea how to use the site to my benefit, embittered writer, lonely woman, whichever bovine Pulcinella I rake in the mulch toward the blades of April.

Why is the poet Robert Thomas my friend? Me drooling dowager retart toldshim between us I would not stir this up, but it boils down to a few simple things: He does not attract me, no slight to his wife intended. I am, in point of fact, fond of the image I hold of Robert's spouse, and regret I actually couldn't adopt her as a new chick clique to chew the fat-- that is another issue. Secondly, my contemporary colleague wisely never bestowed to my phone his number. Even if he had, it is too expensive to behave like my mother in domineering twenty minute conversations between me/they in Oakland. Thirdly, though I've no idea what he may have said behind the scenes, if anything, I do not blame him for my ban from Speakeasy, and I doubt he would have tolerated me this long if he sided with the ban camp. Fourth, and most importantly, I respect his craft. It is fine. It is polished, worthy of American celebrity certainly not disposed on any of us.

Then stop running your mouth and work. Yes, of course. Well, I do, but I have a lot going on, and cannot sit back quietly let Presby destroy what's left of my spirit. I'm working too, a rebuttal on libertarian dark sides, if you will. As to Cecil, whatever happened to him, I did not mean for my adamant stance to make him feel threatened. That was the extent to which Josie Byzek wounded me. I never tried again, after what she did, to take a chance with ambulatory accommodation with who I am. I wish she was dead, Josie, but know that in itself, wouldn't change my scars, this infantile hit list of mine. I even know doing things to fuck up Josie's domestic tranquility wouldn't affect much, but feel it is a legitimate issue to stop her from adopting or fostering third world Asian children. After more research, I may press that.